Quoted By:
His lips move as he crosses himself. <span class="mu-i">“Requiescat in pace.”</span>
<span class="mu-i">Ecclesiastical Latin, literal translation – ‘rest in peace’.</span>
Your head tilts. “You’re religious?”
“Catholic, to be precise,” he says without looking up. “Just don’t ask about my opinions on the cyber-pope, the Third Vatican Council, or the schismatics on Alpha Centauri. We’d be here all week if you did.”
…cyber-pope?
“That was a joke, sorry,” he amends upon seeing your face. “The cyber-pope, not the Catholic part. That I very much am.”
You watch him for a moment longer. It doesn’t feel performative. From what you’ve observed of Harper Park, it all seems genuine.
He rises without another word, brushing the dust from his knees, and gestures down the hall. “C’mon. Watchtower’s just up ahead.”
>>Line Break
The corridor gradually widens, with daylight bleeding through the end of the tunnels. As you approach the edge, you shield your eyes and stare out into what was once the beating heart of the Newport News PRC.
The ceiling stretches over a hundred stories high, topped by the skeletal remains of a plexiglass dome. Sunlight bleeds through the tinted cracks, revealing a vista of rusted catwalks and collapsed walkways that stretch from one end of the shoebox to the next.
A breeze stirs the dust, carrying the smell of ozone and something worse. Your guts churn as you recognize the odor – the sickeningly sweet stench of decaying flesh. Breakfast nearly comes up as you spot the source. There are dozens, nearly a hundred bodies that lie scattered across the multi-purpose space.
Some are scavengers. Most are civilians. All are contorted and broken, twisted into mangled ruins of limbs and left permanently locked in agony. Their clothes and armor bear the scorch marks of direct energy weaponry, with some even cut in half or missing limbs. They are all left to rot in the shadow of the Watchtower, a blocky silhouette of broken lights and glass windows that glints like a jagged crown.
Even Harper isn’t immune. He pulls up his scarf with a grimace, then draws his rifle, gazing through the scope with intense concentration. An arm reaches out, reflexively holding you back in the safety of the shadows.
“There,” he mutters. He hands you the rifle, then points up towards the Watchtower. “Sixth floor overhang, just above the ledges.”
Through the scope, you spy the culprits: a pair of turrets swivel on their mounts, menacing the ghosts of the atrium as they hunt for targets. The only sign that they’re affected by the Cataclysm is the occasional jitter or cascade of sparks that erupts from their housing.
<span class="mu-i">Crowd-control model – less-lethal sonic cannons to disperse unruly crowds, direct-energy weaponry for lethal measures. Output: 184 decibels – enough to induce atrial flutter and bradycardia before tissue searing. Lasers neutralize more dangerous or persistent threats.</span>
(cont.)
