AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Warning ahead for potential spoilers for Gears of War 2. Don't read if you've been waiting to play the game.
Alternatively, if you are interested, this is basically my take on the 3rd installment of the game. And to give credit where credit is due, some of the plot points are loosely based off some "potentially" leaked information from the game. I have altered it significantly to suit my speculations on where the locusts rose from, Marcus' dad's role in this whole business, etc. The plot is also based off of the journal entries picked up while playing Gears of War 2.
I am no expert when it comes to chronology in the Gears universe. I don't know how their calendars are chronicled, so I have simply put in fictitious years in this chapter. I am mostly aware of part of the timeline: how Dr. Cooper perfected lightmass processing, the hoarding of imulsion leading to the Pendulum Wars and finally Emergence Day. But please feel free to correct me if I am wrong.
With that, I do hope you enjoy the first chapter - I know I enjoyed writing it.
Circa 3010
Pendulum Wars
Kubrick Clinics and Laboratories
"Dr. Wright? Dr. Wright?" called out the woman from the doorway.
She grabbed attention from the middle-aged man at his desk; his head turning towards her. Jesus, he looked older than she remembered, she thought. And given that the hiatus lasted a mere month – that was saying something. But it wasn't simply his hair that had aged – that was the one constant that had remained since the beginning of the project – the gray replacing the black had noticeably spread; akin to a web of silvery roots growing and expanding along his head. His eyes appeared listless, and his cheeks; sunken in and hollow.
"It's not as all bad as that, is it?" chirped the man, slightly irked that she found him so adversely noticeable. He couldn't quite label her steady gaze as impertinence, but her wordless insinuations were sufficient to warrant annoyance – at least on his part.
She shook her head – glasses nearly falling off the bridge of her nose – flustered and embarrassed. "Oh...no, sir. Of course not."
"You couldn't lie to save your life, Eliza."
She shut her eyes, abashed and a trifle mortified. Dr. Wright waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Never mind, never mind. I've just been more preoccupied lately. Too much to worry about without having to think about good looks and all."
"I'm sorry to hear about your wife, doctor." said Eliza; extending an invisible olive branch to appease her superior's temper. "I – well, I never thought they would re-take Hyrme. The city had some pretty good defenses."
"Apparently they weren't good enough."
"Yes sir – of course. But I am sorry nonetheless."
Dr. Wright grinded his teeth. He had no reason to be agitated by her words, but he felt particularly cantankerous today. A nasty little habit he was seeping himself in as time wore on. He nodded – the only acknowledgement he could think of to give the discomposed woman. Sympathies aside, there were other matters to attend to. "Why are you here?"
"I've finished the sequence analysis and comparisons."
"On what? The rat cell lines? I told you to have it analyzed in the embryonic tissue – didn't I?"
"Yes, sir. I managed to get the homologous sequences together – they lined up quite well."
"And the gene insertions?" questioned Wright. "Was there any evidence of uptake? Did they reject them?"
"Yes, sir. I mean – no. We're saw cell differentiation, proliferation. Basically, the samples exhibited the same processes as the control blastocysts. The cell lines developed normally."
At this, a gleam of hope, curiousity and interest played across Wright's eyes. The same eagerness carried through to his voice as well. "And what about the live samples? The rats?"
Eliza smiled, pleased and relieved to see him happy – if only for a brief moment. "All grown into adulthood without any marked genetic defects, except for – "
"– except for what?" interrupted Wright, unable to contain himself.
"They are especially aggressive. We can't keep the males in the same cage. We first thought that they were in heat or something, but not anymore. The females aren't as docile either – but they're not nearly as bad as the males. We also observed rapid hair growth. Basically everything that is keratin-based; the hair, claws...show a remarkable rate of development."
"You don't say..." murmured Wright, grinning. He had anticipated such an outcome, but was obviously pleased at its nature.
"Well, the reason I came down here, sir...and mind you, I didn't want to have disturb you in the middle of your work, but it couldn't be helped. You didn't respond to our messages and calls, so we had to pause before we proceed to stage three. We need you to give us the go-ahead."
"Human trials," muttered Wright. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Ten years ago – this kind of trial would never have been possible. There would be protests among the ethicists in the scientific community, organizations of repute would have withdrawn any funding for the project – and it would have come to a deadening halt. All their speculations and plans would be for naught; his unfinished work would have left him hanging – with what-if scenarios plaguing him for the rest of his natural life.
But the Pendulum Wars had changed all of that.
Their victory-starved military were desperate. And, like all desperate men, they would try just about anything. Even if it meant looking to the masochistic ways of exploitation. Even if it meant that the ones being exploited were human beings. Eagerly and voraciously, they sought to nullify what they believed to be the asinine and dogmatic morals that surrounded science. Impositions that ethicists – both past and present – had put into place were just that. Obstacles that prevented them from winning their war. They set about removing such road blocks, followed by the propagation of several projects conjured by very capable think-tanks. There no longer was any red tape. No pending approvals. If it meant a successful conquest – then governmental councils asked no questions. Just get back there and get it done. This was no time to contemplate matters of conscience.
And get it done, is what he did. Well not quite yet, mused Wright. There was one last thing on their agenda.
"You have my complete approval, Eliza." he said.
She took in a heavy breath. "We have a limited supply of cryogenic embryos, sir. We can do one round of experiments, but in order for us to have reproducible results – in order for us to make certain we have some positive data, we'll need a larger stock."
Unfazed, Wright thumped his fist on his knee. "Leave that to me, my dear. Go ahead and get this underway. You shouldn't have to be worrying about your supplies – that's my job. The task ahead isn't going to be easy, so you'd better get started. I will find you some new embryos."
She nodded, smiling, and walked away.
An hour later, Wright sat in the same chair, staring at the computer screen. A lengthy list gazed back at him. He reached out for a pen and paper inside his drawer and began to copy down something from the list. Upon finishing, he read out quietly to himself. "Rachel Leeves, Susan Treicel, this is not a world fit to bring a child into. But I'm working on that. Consider this a favour – a favour to your unborn children. They'll never have to see this nasty mess we made. Never."
3025
Fifteen years later
New Hope Research Facility
Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. The nurse, although she preferred to call him the reaper, helped her lean against the soft pillow, and then placed an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. He was alright, really, unassuming and quite gentle. But her interactions with him were almost always confined to her illness. There was no inane chit chat about life, about boys, about nothing. There were just her diseased spasms, and his attending to them. She was certain then, that no matter how long fate kept her weak heart thumping, that when her time came, his would be the last face she would look upon.
After adjusting the elastic that held it in place, he stood upright again and smiled kindly down at her.
"Give it a few moments," her reaper said. "Try to think of something soothing – like a waterfall."
Now when was the last time she had ever seen a waterfall? she thought, annoyed. She scowled, the expression invisible under the mask. Never, she replied to herself. And she had doubts that she ever would.
Her reaper gently stroked her thinning hair and cooed something that chafed her demeanor even more, before walking away to attend to other matters. With a hiss-click, the door shut behind him and she was left alone again with her thoughts. But her thoughts today had become hackneyed and dulled. She had learned from a young age that dependence on the others here for entertainment, and even answers to puzzling questions, was futile. Therefore, she had become her own interrogator, and in turn, the only person around to give her answers.
Some days it was enough to make her scream from boredom. And other days, she was simply too exhausted to be cathartic. At this moment, her eyelids grew steadily heavier, and soon, her mind wandered into the ever-changing realm of dreams.
This was one of those days.
She awoke with a start, yanking her mask off. Almost immediately, her door opened, and her reaper stumbled in, alarmed. Damn, she thought angrily. She must have screamed again.
"Ruth? No, no, don't pull off your mask. Settle down. Settle down..." he said, coming to her side.
And then without warning, she lashed out with her feet – still entangled in the bed clothes – kicking him in his stomach. The blow must have been quite powerful, for he was pushed a good several yards from the bed. The mask was on the floor now, and with determined strides she came near him.
Her reaper lay on his back, too disoriented to push her away again. She took advantage of his vulnerable position and pinned him to the floor with her weight. She struck him hard on his right cheek - bone hitting bone, and then, without pausing, she did the same to his left – but with her opposite hand. She maintained the violent pattern of blows, until she felt herself being dragged away by powerful hands.
She had no fear, no remorse. No shame, that is, until she saw the bloodied man before her – lying unconscious on the floor. Words began to make sense again, and everything around her seemed to quiet down into normalcy.
Until she felt a biting jab on her arm before everything went black, and silent.
3026
Six months later
New Hope Research Facility
His forehead lay pressed onto the cold window pane, and his eyes were closed. He remained standing in this fashion for several moments. Opening his eyes, he saw past the steady rivulets of water running down the glass outside, and into turbulent thoughts.
His mind saw what his eyes could not, and he felt himself relive the children's suffering once again. He'd imagined that after several years, all matters of empathy and morality would be nothing but blunt instruments to be discarded lightly. But it was just the opposite. He felt the emotional repercussions multiply tenfold; it had weakened his resolve considerably. It was not his will to do so, because sometimes he believed that his conscience was beyond his control. It demanded his attention to deeds he should never have been party to. If there are such things as ghosts, he thought, I can believe that now. He supposed that he had unwittingly resurrected them himself. And from then onwards, their daemons plagued him incessantly.
Many of their voices were eerily distinct, but mostly, it was their sickness, and the sounds thereof that haunted him. Subjects one through twelve and – no, he reminded himself – they had names. Joshua and the others had often experienced heavy, laboured breathing. Their weakened immune systems had given way to sporadic bouts of lung infections. He could hear their raspings for air in his head; often due to the development of chronic bronchitis or tuberculosis caused by different mycobacterial strains – as little hollow intakes of air. Like unplayable, deformed wind instruments.
And the breathing difficulties were only the beginning.
The hair loss began around five to six years of age; they looked like veteran cancer patients who had undergone several treatments of chemotherapy. But of course, it wasn't cancer that was killing them. It was themselves. And he had helped bring about that self-destruction. He, and the other scientists – past and present. They had wrought something that he was now certain that nature would not let them get away with.
He remembered the skin discoloration as well. Melanin production – the pigment found in mammalian tissues – was dangerously low. The children could not risk going outside. Exposure to the harmful UV rays of the sun without sufficient melanin could result in mutations, skin cancers. He recalled many a day where one of them would gaze longingly through tinted windows, rub their aching joints unconsciously, and ask to go outside.
No, you can't, the orderly would answer, not unkindly. You know what will happen if you do.
Some of them insisted on it, one short day in the sunshine could surpass a lifetime spent within closed doors, they believed. But they weren't making decisions. They weren't calling the shots.
We were, he thought. Because we knew what was best. Because father always knows best.
Turning his eyes away from the window, he stared at the framed photograph on his desk. He picked it up and looked at it; obvious tenderness in his eyes. In it, he was smiling, his arm around a young disheveled boy of around twelve. The boy's blue eyes were striking – discernable even within a photograph, and it held all the hopes, dreams and anticipation that youth could bring. He was wearing his uniform, with badges impeccably pinned to his suit, boots shiny and new, a clean-shaven face – everything in place except his hair.
The man laughed quietly, and ran his hands through his own unkempt, dark hair, briefly musing on such similarities. He was trying to search for the good in this boy, the man he would become – his son – something to mirror his own. But he couldn't help but feel that for all his efforts, his son remained the better man. He wouldn't have made the same mistakes. He couldn't. He would see to it that the sins of the father would not be passed down to the son.
Putting the photograph down, he picked up a small tape recorder on his desk and turned it on.
"Marcus, I don't know where to begin. If you were here, you would tell me to begin at the start. But you see, it's more complicated than that. It all came about from noble intentions. Or so we were told, I suppose. A very simple goal. War is horrible. And the only thing that could overshadow war would be if we brought it on ourselves." He paused; too many thoughts trafficked through his mind. His words sounded muddled and tumultuous. He breathed in, trying to regain his composure. After a moment, he sat down in his chair and continued.
"When Helen Cooper refined the lightmass process – I was ecstatic. Well, more relieved than ecstatic. I thought that this – a renewable source of energy – not nuclear, not cold fusion – was our saving grace. You must understand, son, that it was a virtuous act, another deed that stemmed from benevolence. It was meant for progression and not for destruction. But I suppose altruism – for all of its benefits – is not immune to corruption.
I never could understand why Sera didn't work with our developing neighbours. If we took that imperative first step – we would have been the perfect model for our compatriots. We would have shared, and shared alike. But, you see, Marcus, near-sightedness was our undoing. Self-preservation demanded that we stockpile imulsion; I believe we coveted it unlike any other limited resource in the past. We also underestimated the smaller nations. We were too busy basking in the rays of this new discovery to recognize what we had deprived them of. We did not foresee how desperate they would become, how they would band together to take us down.
And take us down...they almost did. I suppose desperation begets desperation, and this is where my work comes in. We needed something greater than imulsion, greater than lightmass bombs to squash our enemies.
I...hope you can forgive me for what I did...for what I'm about to tell you. And coward that I am, I also hope that when you hear this, I will not be with you. I cannot bear to see your face. You will rightfully be ashamed of your fool of a father. We tampered with nature, Marcus. We were...are...playing god. And we were arrogant enough to believe that we would be successful.
It sounded good at the start – just like I said before. To my credit, I suppose I wasn't told the whole truth, but I had my suspicions. And I should have acted on them. I should have turned my back on it all. But I was too ambitious and too full of myself to resist the opportunity to do this kind of work.
Dr. Samson told us that it was time for an era of peace. And that something drastic had to be done, and that we were the only individuals courageous enough for the undertaking. He told us that our children's children would never know the hardships of war if we were successful. But we had to sacrifice in order to achieve this. It would be a worthy sacrifice, of course...but painful nonetheless.
We ate into his lies greedily. We were given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to prove our mettle. We wanted...we – oh, God, what have we done, Marcus? What have we done? "
His voice broke down, and he paused the tape. How could he tell his only son that he had helped destroy his future? How could he bear the shame of it?
Tomorrow, he told himself. I can finish this tomorrow. I haven't the nerve for this anymore.
