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Alas Poor World

Setting

Default Location for Alas Poor World
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Minimap

The Ruined World is a part of Alas Poor World.

5 Characters Here

417782 aka Hill [1] "I love you, Civilian Leader."
110279 aka "Elli" [0] Elli couldn’t imagine what ‘endless’ would look like, but her imagination never really quit trying to picture it.
L-91 [0] "Don't mess with me, and I won't mess you up"
Omicron [0] "Omicron, a symbol of intelligence, of purity, of GENIUS.....a little like me, I suppose....."
Protector Delta [0] "Delta. Mathemically it is symbolic for change or uncertainty...I suppose that's an irony not totally lost on me."

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'PROSPERO LIVES'

It was sprayed on in a black spray paint...the sort of stuff that they used on the vertical supports in the maintenance corridors...someone must have stowed a can of it away...it would be hard to track that sort of thing as it was so widely used. They were clever, these people, a little too clever for her liking.

It was morning in MK-2, most would be waking up and getting dressed for a day of work. She'd been up for a while though, ever since the news of the newest graffiti had reached her.

Protector Delta was not an overly confident individual, but she did pride herself on what she had accomplished to some degree...and it did not seem right that she should be stumped by a bunch of Citizen malcontents. If she could find Prospero, then she could find these jokers....it was just a matter of working out how.

The distinctive figure of the Protector stood in one of the large transit corridors that led between the dorms and the main canteens. It was wide and low-slung, with thick support beams that ran over the roof, spots of dirt and condensation clinging to the ceiling. Old ventilation grates rattled overhead as the city's air system did its best to keep them all alive...some of the pumps were malfunctioning and it was putting a greater strain on the machinery...it needed to be looked at. Any minute, the Citizens would be coming through to eat before work begun, and the ugly little message of dissent on the wall was sure to attract attention...and it went without saying that Citizen Leader already knew about it. She seemed to find out one way or another, regardless of whether Delta was keen to reveal it or not...oftentimes she suspected that some of the Protectors reported on their peers in hopes of gaining favour.

She sighed, turning and making her way along the wall of hallway, over to the intercom that was drilled to the wall. It was a squat yellow box with a mircophone and speaker set into it, a button for activation, and a notice that any Citizen caught using it without express permission would be very harshly disciplined.

The woman lifted a pale hand and pressed the bottom, speaking into the microphone, pausing at the scratchy shriek of static that accompanied the activation.
"Protector Delta Here. Four Guardians needed in the north transit corridor. Bring a ladder, plastic sheeting, and tape. This is an order, not a request."

She always adopted the same, somewhat irritable tone when addressing Guardians. There was no love lost between them and the Protectors. They resented the fact that The Protectorate could tell them what to do, and would often go out of their way to find a reason not to follow any orders...particularly if it was something like this...doing grunt work for a job that was assigned to her....but Delta was well aware that she couldn't deal with it alone...and telling Citizens to handle it was a terrible idea...so Guardians it would have to be.

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Character Portrait: 417782 aka Hill
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H I L L


In the crevices of the brain, now lay dead the remnants of life. The morning brought no joy, no peace, no comfort. The night brought no sense of accomplishment. Each day was exactly like the yesterday and the tomorrow. Matter not what time it was outside; matter only the ringing and the ticking the clocks in the dome.

Prospero may be only the figment, the last figment, of imagination of a desperate soul; a broken soul that wishes only for a taste of freedom, of true peace and quiet. But the soul was not its own master. And yet, the soul administered hope in itself; hope for change. Would the tired soul be bestowed upon with happiness? Never, if it stayed in MK-2. The quantum of solace would destroy it.

Early morning stirred a tired scrawny body. The demons and servants would commemorate him by Hill, till they could remember no more. The body lay on a dirty white bunk bed covered with a torn white pillow. The pillow was merely for name, a piece of cloth stitched with rocks inside. His body ached, a sign that this wasn't how it was supposed to be, but his mind shooed away the thought, fearing deadly repercussions.

"Wake up," a voice box screamed. The half-broken piece of iron screamed again. With all his soulless might he slammed his palms against the top of the voice-box; silence and pain the rewards of the action.

His body moved in the motions he had learned oh! so many half eaten memories ago. Somewhere in his mind a jingle began, one that his mother said. Kee' you' 'ight leg dow', kee' you' left leg dow', now stan' up and wa'k arou'. He still followed what his mother had asserted each fine morning, till she was gone. Just, gone.

He kept one leg down on the squeaky clean grey floor, winced as the cold sensation shot through his leg, put his other leg down, winced again and stood up. For a moment, all the blood gushed out of his brain, rushing through his veins to his legs; he felt nauseated but his weak heart beat on. Blood come back to the brain like a forgotten lover and his mind was at relative peace again.

Even with his bated breath, he managed to command his hand to remove yesterday's, and tomorrow's, clothes. He slipped into his second pair of hand-me-downs not like a man in the woman he loved, but a truck through a shop window. The shadow of perfection had left him years ago, when the requiem for the better sperms was held in his mother's womb.

He had dreamed of a stormy night. His dream had always been vivid; a caricature of desires, a painting of his hopes. But this one had been different. "My son," a low voice spoke. Hill was standing at the edge of the cliff as the rain battered against him and thunderstorms provided light. Not one of the raindrops, he felt. He had never felt raindrops consciously so how could this dream know what to project, what lies to spin?

Hill turned to the voice, and saw no soul. He was all alone. Yet, the low voice continued, "My son, be free..." Hill's body shook... It was Prospero---


RING!RING! The doorbell chimed. RING!RING! it chimed again. Hill had fallen asleep again. He was taking support of the side of the bed as he slept. Quickly, his muscle contracted and relaxed, and he was at the door. A throaty voice accompanied the creaking of the door, "Let's go." He followed the man quietly. There was work to do.