Mirage of Freedom: Where Are They Now?

[FactualDonkey]

The dust has settled. The Relay is gone. Their work is done.

No longer bound by orders or conflict, the Resistance is free to go their separate ways.​

 

[pants]

Watching the floating fortress fall from the sky brought a smile to the Cowboy's face. He could only imagine the cheering that must've erupted when the dust settled. The Combine could no longer call for reinforcements.

But that didn't mean everything would be safe and sound. Without governance, without a separation between City and Outlands, Europe had just become a lawless frontier... The perfect place for a gunslinger to practice his trade. He polished the Sheriff's star on his hat, brushing dust from the brim.

And then, just like in all the old movies, the Cowboy turned his head from Paris, and rode off into the sunset.

 

[Avg_Joe]

Although he had long since abandoned the efforts of the Resistance, traumatized and disillusioned by the events of Moscow, The Scout - Buddy - found himself again following the fall of The Relay.

Old whispered promises came to the back of his head, and rather than hide in some hole in the dirt, waiting to shrivel up and die, curtailed by the failure of a mission that had proven to have been worth the sacrifice afterall with the success of the W14 Rebels, he left for Southern Europe, travelling far and abroad. Hawaii would have to wait.

He had to find that someone near and dear to him first. No matter the cost.


Henry. Wherever you are, I will be there shortly.

 

[AbeBatJes]

Music


"<:: You sure you can run from your past? ::>"
"Never said I was running. There's nothing that I can do to change it. The only thing I can do, is improve, and fix what I've done."
"<:: Hm... one day, it'll come back to get you. ::>"
"And if it does. I'll accept whatever consequences come."
He stares at the radio for the longest time - the combine tech in his grasp; different than the one he has with to communicate with his fellow allies. Regardless, he drops the tech onto the ground, and crushes it under his boot; sliding it to the side and away. He then joins up with the others, making their clean getaway.

Rory leans back, glancing through the glass of the helicopter out into the horizon, as he thinks back. One of the resistance members comes over and informs him that those in the back are stabilized; they too watch through the glass, not sure what is to become of their near future.

He looks down towards the mask next to them for several long moments. There's this itch at the back of his head, as he thinks deep - the facility in the Americas... is it still operational? And if it is... is Doctor Frost there...

What is certain though, is that for the time being, they are free. Now, it's time to clean up the mess.​

 

[remidimeston]

Old Hinton, West Virginia.

Two months of hitch hiking, and regular hiking. The travel was painful. It felt like time was slowing down the closer he got to the driveway.

The mailbox survived. Mother Nature held it down with overgrown vines, so it wasn't blown in the wind. Chance was thankful for this... It was odd to see the world doing something for him for once. And the dirt beneath his boots, it was familiar and strange all at the same time. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest... How could he have been gone for so long? He's got some nerve...

Even from there, he could see his old truck he left behind so Jasmine could still get to town for anything. It was still on wheels. And the wheels had air. He wasn't sure if it still drove, but he pushed that thought aside immediately. There was more pressing matters.
He didn't even register that he had already walked up the stairs, stopped at the front door, and fished out his key. It was just... already happening. He was home.
...
...
...

"Jasmine?"
Chance called out through the house. A familiar set of footsteps from upstairs. He looked up, and saw her. She looked younger. Then there was another, young looking Jasmine.
The daughters he had never seen... Never seen before. He's finally seen his daughters.
They didn't speak. They just stared in shock. Two lukewarm tubes of metal poked at his nape. Someone had held him up from behind.
He made a slow turn. Before he could even face her completely, Jasmine set the shotgun down, and wrapped her arms around him so tightly, he nearly had the wind knocked out of him.
"You son of a-..." Jasmine couldn't even finish the insult. The tears she had saved up for a lifetime poured out like a flood. He was hesitant to return the embrace. Touching her, believing that this was real, after so long, might have the same result as all the nights he dreamt of this very moment.
Two more sets of feet came rushing down the stairs behind him, but not hugging. Not just yet. No surprise there... Chance wouldn't hug a random guy he'd never met before.
Jasmine pulled away and looked at her long-lost man. "Oh my God, look at that scar... What... Where have you been? We thought you were dead! I thought I'd never see you again!"
Chance felt the warm sensation of tears begin to break from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks as a smile broke through. He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her for the first time in so long. "I would tell you... But-"
"Nothing is gonna justify being gone this long."
"Nothing is gonna justify being gone this long." They said it at the same time.
"Goddamnit, Jazz."
"... Still, tell me. Tell us."

 

[Tazer]

Somewhere in Quebec.....

"Cargoship to Henri do you copy? Damn this fucking snowstorm, Does anyone copy? Walter, have you found anything yet in that hangar?" But all Henri (LaTour) Got was static due to the heavy snowstorm coming in. "Fuck I'm freezing, how did my ancestors survive Canada?" LaTour mutters to himself, and he gives up trying to communicate with his group, he has to prioritize finding shelter. LaTour grabs his pack of supplies and pushed forward.

After some time wandering in the snowstorm, LaTour is able to spot part of a building, He makes a run for it and tries the door to find it locked, he sets his dufflebag down and clipped his pulse SMG to his belt and began using his body to force the door to open, after a couple attempts at throwing his body into the door, it finally gives way and he almost falls but recovers, he grabs his bag and desperately got inside pushing the door closed.

"Finally..." LaTour says as he feels the warmth of the building he's in, he removes his mask

To be continued? (Can't turn this into a full story or mickee will tweak prolly lmao)

Weeks later...

LaTour hesitates to press the transmit button but after a couple of seconds, he presses it and began to speak in both english and french, hoping there was some canadian french people still around "Survivors of Quebec, we are looking for people will useful skills, mechanics,gardeners,former police or military are welcome to join. Rations and a bedroom will be provided when you arrive, I wish I was able to broadcast on television to give proof but you will just have to trust us until you come. The radio local radio frequency and coordinates are as followed....Do not come unless you have something to bring to the table."
Days pass by....
At the bunker entrance...
An SUV and a hatchback slide to a stop across from each other, headlights cutting through the fog.
Rick:“What the hell—? Another car? You said this place was empty!”
Hannah: “I did! The signal came from here—”
They jump out, weapons drawn. Hannah raises her MP5K, Rick holds his shotgun low, Caleb behind them with his Glock ready but unsure.
Tara (from the hatchback, shouting): “Hold your fire! We’re here for the same reason!”
Ace: “You’re not Resistance— step back!” (He shoulders his UMP45, scanning.)
Ben (trying to calm them): “Stop it! We don’t even know who’s in charge here!”

Everyone freezes as a bright light in the fog lights up, a set of heavy footsteps began to approach, revealing the one who made the broadcast

Hannah (quietly, stunned): “…Oh, hell.”
Rick: “That’s Combine gear… that’s Combine gear!”
Caleb: “No, wait—wait! He’s not shooting!”
Tara: “You call that normal? Look at him!”
Ace: “I told you—trap. We’re leaving!”
Ben: “Shut up, Ace! Just—look at him. He’s not moving.”
The SUV and hatchback crews aim at him, tension thick in the air. The hum of the pulse weapon is the only sound.
But then all of a sudden, the APC's autocannons fire a warning shot nearby, causing the strangers to flinch and freeze in fear
"Enough! I didn't fight my way from Moscow to Paris and to Canada to die to a ragtag group of a sad excuse of survivors." *LaTour shouts, his cajun accent more pronounced*

TO BE CONTINUED AGAIN BC RN ITS 3:33AM IN THE FUCKING MORNING GN I HOPE YOU ENJOY MY WATN SLOP CONTENT)

 

[pants]

As the resistance fought their way through Paris, countless biosignals would ring out.

In fact, so many were logged that night, nobody would notice one lone signal ring out from the slums.

Lost bio-signal for Protection Team unit - ZERO. THREE. ZERO. THREE. ZERO. Remaining units, contain.

STAND CLEAR. ADMINISTERING SHOCK.

Mirna gasped as she surged upright. Looks like the frenchman in the metro wasn't a liar after all.

She plucked the AED's electrical contacts off of her chest, and quickly pulled her shirt back down.
Zipping her patrol vest back up, she reached for the crummy civilian-grade radio she found back in Warsaw.
And then she hesitated.

What if Holt was right? What if their Benefactors did return someday?
Mirna looked down at a special scar on her hand.
A permanent mark of loyalty that would identify her as one of the true believers who would be spared upon Their return.
How could she ever live a normal life after such darkness?

But then she remembered the kind old woman, Ms. Welachelli, who told her it was never too late.
Mirna was still young. She had her whole life ahead of her.

And, after all, what is a scar besides proof that you survived?
She lifted her radio.

"Morgan? Are you still there?"

​

 

[Tazer]

Years later?


The end???

 

[Vecilea]

Spoiler: .

Mark '21212' Schoenfeld:

His body still lied beneath the top a sandy dune in the Caspian desert. Eight months after his death, those of whom he oppressed for nearly twenty years, finally over threw the alien regime that took everything from him. His rotting corpse nothing more than food for the maggots and carrion insects of the desert.​

Keith Sullivan:

His body buried somewhere in the outskirts city 30. Rotting, forgotten, no one who cared about him around to remember, the only lasting impact he left on the world was his accidental helping in hand in creating the man that his metaphorical son became.​

Dr. Thekla Gisela Schwarzkopf:

Her corpse left in the belly of a combine facility, rather, what's left of her. Legs and a head aren't much to bury after all, a deserving fate to one vile enough to sell her species out in the name of 'progress' . Her desires and dreams of watching the union fall to bits never came to pass, never came to be. However, perhaps she did just enough good to be remembered in a light more palatable. Years of service to the combine, the mastermind behind several cutting edge engineering feats for them is a taste not easily forgotten. ​

 

[pants]

America wouldn't exactly prove to be a cakewalk. But to keep a long story short?
Doctor Conrad Frost didn't exactly live long enough to be put on trial.
But that's not particularly important or surprising.

Elsewhere,

A lively bustling line, a procession of men and women with backs straight and hearts at ease, inched ever forward.
The sun shined. The wind blew. A small town stood ready and free, drawing their way towards the Bakery for their allotments.
No credits, no patdowns, no deductions for antisocial behavior. No masks.

It was a good day.

Just then, an ordinary woman turned to look at her companion.
​

"You ever think of that guy in 89 who got punted by the Strider?"
"What, you mean Lucas Leavitt? "
"Lucas. Yeah, that's it. Swear it was on the tip of my tongue."
"What about him?"
"No, I just mean, like... you knew him, right? You ever think about him?"
"Sure. Couple days ago, the library just got that book he published. It's okay, I guess. I don't really like war stories. It gets really philosophical towards the end, you'd like it."
"...Come on. I mean, what do you think he's up to? "

The two stood in ponderous silence. They were in no rush-- nor was the line. They had all the time in the world, after all. Eventually, the pause broke.

"You know, there was this one time-- before that whole Strider thing-- I was on my way to the Distro and I saw him sitting there, blood streaming out of his nose. A real shiner, too, big nasty bruise like he tried to catch an Antlion with his eyelashes."
"Yeah, that checks out."

They shared a laugh.

"...But, like... so I asked him, you know, what're you doing? You okay? That sort of thing. And he just grinned at me like a kid and he said, uh..."
"...He said 'uh'?"
"No. Shut up. I'm trying to-- OH-- right, okay. I asked what he was doing and he said, I'm just waiting for a win."
"A win?"
"That's what I said. Maybe it was something he picked up from whats-his-name--" "Peter?" "--That's the barrel guy? Yeah, Peter. Probably."

The line shuffled forward. They stood in the shade now, a little cooler but nonetheless contented.

"And he says to me, we're all waiting for a 'win', right? Maybe it's just hearing the next Ration announcement, or seeing a familiar face on the next train. He says everyone's waiting for something good, and this time, he says, he can feel it. It's right around the corner."
"Uh-huh. And when was this?"
"Bout a week before the Strider gave him a lesson in physics."
"Pfff. Jinxed himself."
"Ehh, maybe. Made one hell of a recovery, though."
"Yeah, after they had to peel him off the road with a shovel. How did we get here again?"
"You asked what I think he's up to."
"RIGHT. Yeah. So, what do you think he's up to?"
"Right about now? I figure he's done waiting for a win. Probably enjoying it right now like the rest of us."

Pyotr was born on a bright and cloudless day towards the end of the summer. Right on time, perfectly healthy. And he had his mother's eyes.

Lucas considered that a win.

 

[Mickee]

Elizabeth Carter Brooks

Despite the ability to traverse the world and take ahold of the globe that was left there was only one longing feeling that sat within the tired woman's mind.

Home.

She did not want to stay in an area she truly never considered home. The inability to stay in one spot before being moved within a 12 month span left her feeling hopeless, isolated, and foreign in every environment she landed her worn down boots within...However there was one place she was not sent to or assigned. One place that she was born into. Her childhood land, one of fondness and whimsy.

North America.

She was not thinking of the people around her in that train. She was thinking of the people that were not.

Every friend she made within her moves about the country. Close or distant, her mind searched through it all thinking about how they all equally shared this goal...Every last one. Her eyes slowly tear up as her eyes look out at the rapidly transitioning scenery. Miles vanishing beneath the tracks they rode upon...Miles closing between her and her goal. Her mind wanders again as her chin meets a small plastic lip of the window, the tears doubling as she thinks back to the people who never even got the chance to think of going home. Her parents.

For once Eliza does not scream or hide her emotions. She openly cries while staring out the window of the train car, happy memories of her childhood and long deceased mother and father dancing through a relieved mind. She was not going home for the land--no...She was going home for them.

After all...They never did leave that farmhouse.






Brooklyn McGowan

An unmarked grave sits within the forests of Eastern Europe, wood becoming aged and weathered with where it lays. It's been untouched for months. No new marks, no adjustments...Nothing.


Despite this life does blossom. A batch of floors soon blossom where the grave has been placed, the corpse aiding in the growth of the plants to create a new beautiful sight for anyone that wishes to venture in the territory it resides within. Beauty found within profound tragedy.




​

 

[Tyrex]

Kairos Agon

A once-dolled up face, now turned into bones along with the rest of her skeleton.
Buried lovingly near a forgotten city that others may not see again for decades.
Perhaps the makeup applied to her was not in vain.
Perhaps it is what her Οικογένεια saw when she was finally able to visit them.

Arthur Evans

To overcome evil and wretchedness - That is tough.
To overcome guilt and self-hatred - That is Herculean.
To himself, a very weak man, slowly trained only through battles that none could see.
He became stronger than he thought was possible.
The world seemed to agree as it finally allowed him freedom.

'North'

The group declined her offer of assistance in the end and they thankfully did not need it.
Who knows of where she traveled off to after that, maybe she even rejoined the Combine's remaining efforts on Earth.
One thing is certain however, wherever she is, she is likely doing what she loves best.
Manipulating others.

Shra'Ko

After the events of the group, she said her strange goodbyes to them and departed.
Returning to all she has known since her traumatic brain injury, her massive family of green aliens.
Together they live in harmony, helping out the humans where they can in their remaining battles.

Ebba Aalberg

Turning sides at the very end.
Maybe even enough to make an actual difference.
Was it the loss of one of her HORIZON leaders that caused it?
Or was it actual love for a subject she initially despised?​

 

[remidimeston]

A couple months after the train left the station in France, far off to the East - Kyiv's squatters and survivors began to rebuild. It was a rough toil, sure... But it wasn't the first time the people had to build something from the ground up. For them, this was a toil that felt more relieving for the soul than a strain on the back.

One of the many murals put up for the lost was also being formed by grieving men and women in Pechersk, putting up photographs, notes, and posters - the latter posted by the few that hoped their loved ones were still alive, still out there, with the whistling wind.

Agata stood in front of the mural with her binder tucked closely to her chest, pondering something. Her gaze panned the dozens and dozens of photographs, and the candles that illuminated their faces captured in the pictures. She didn't run around for long with them, but she knew for certain that most of these people were still alive. It wouldn't make sense to have them here.
...

As the sun set on Kyiv, an older man sat down a cardboard box full of blank newspaper next to a printing press. It wasn't his press, it wasn't his newspaper. But if it survived the war, it yearned to be utilized. To inform the people of what has happened here.
He's never used a printing press... He turned to look at the room, with all the debris and shattered glass from the windows. He had a passing thought that this might not be worth-

The door creaked open.
"Ви скоро друкуєте?" Agata stepped in, her binder still tucked in her crossed arms. The man turned to face her fully, surprised at the sudden visitor.
"Я ще переїжджаю, але можливо завтра." He grumbled out, scratching his greying beard.
Agata stepped up to the scratched up counter in between them, setting her binder down and opening it. She flipped through the plastic sleeves, showing the different pictures she had taken.
"Я взяв їх з Робочого майданчика Чотирнадцять."
The man was stunned. "Робочий майданчик чотирнадцять!?" He approached the counter, looking at her photographs in awe. "Вони підійдуть... більш ніж ідеально!"
Agata felt a smile creep up. She nodded her head. "Я можу розповісти тобі про них майже все."
"Ви?"
"Agata... Але мене називають Журналістом."

 

[BoB (Best of Boxes)]

[Fair warning, Maddie was never meant for happy endings. Parallel piece on her profile.]

Spoiler: Music

Maddison watched the train pull away, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks slowly fading into the distance. She stood alone on the platform, a small figure silhouetted against the grey, overcast sky. The lump in her throat was still there, a persistent, uncomfortable ache. She raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, a gesture that felt both alien and strangely natural. She wasn't sure who she was waving to, the fading train, the people who's lives she'd wandered through, or the ghost of the person she might have been. Number six... She'd been the number sixth threat on whatever stupid ranking system they'd had for people like them. Not like her though, nobody's like her.

She turned and walked away from the station, her boots crunching on the gravel. The world was quiet, but not peaceful. It was the quiet of a place holding its breath, waiting. The war was over, but the scars it left were everywhere, in the broken buildings, the abandoned equipment, and the people who had survived it. Maddison was one of them. Not a person who survived it, no, she was a scar. Scars were all over, lots were easy to deal with, easy to brush over with a sponge, daub some foundation over, and celebrate how easily it vanished into a smooth, unremarkable facet of a perfect whole. That wasn't the kind she was. She was less an ugly blot, more like one of the sharp stakes driven into the heart of the earth still standing sharply over the skyline of every city, taller than any human would ever dream to build, deeper than any would ever willingly go.

Even the metal hull of a helicopter built for an entirely different sort of apocalyptic war wasn't that sort of ugly. Especially not when it could rattle and rumble to life to carry refugees and food, not soldiers and bombs. Instead it loitered just long enough near the others, near the train at a final stop, a second, third, fourth chance. She didn't even look out the window once she found out. This wasn't her stop. Just another form of limbo.

She eventually got out at some European city. Something with some neoclassical buildings, French signage, and almost German naming. There was some sort of party happening in the city, celebrating the heroes who'd done the impossible, or maybe just the prelude to the rest of their lives. It only took a couple of streets to be well outside of where people were actually living, a few more to be outside of where they'd been dying. Pre-war cities were built with the populations before the war in mind, not the endangered humanity still trying to cling at the margins of them and pretending that they were the same species that built them.

Maybe it was because it was a big, stone building that looked official, looked like it was supposed to mean something, or maybe it was because it was just as grandiose as her own self-image, but the building she broke into had these tall, marble pillars, the triangular façades, and giant windows that portrayed enough grandeur to be worth destroying as something beautiful. Whatever it was used as during the occupation, it didn't show much of it. well polished stone floors with little designs, tiling, the occasional bio-mechanical console or power cable running through the building. The black and white tiles of the empty ballroom is where she finally stopped. At least, it was probably a ballroom once, no real features, a slightly raised stage in an area, no chairs or tables, just flat and empty.

It took her another trip to find a chair and drag it into the room, somewhere vaguely in the center, where she sat, and waited a moment, occasionally spinning a little bit, staring at the walls, the ceiling, the windows. The silence was more deafening than all the gunfire and screaming could have ever been. Emptiness was an old friend. The fight had been another drug in her arsenal, another thrilling hit, her reason to stumble out into the world, like every other meaningless distraction. Now, there was nothing.

Her jacket hit the ground with a thump, her little metal merits glimmering proudly from below, a foot to nudge out her pharmacy in a bag. She fished a few little glimmering vials from the bag, her quiet, comfortable moment with fingers of twilight stretching out from behind the façade of another wing of the building that the window faces. It's not really for a high, just for something, one last time before she goes. The plunger goes down cleanly, a rush of artifice building up beneath the SOLAR band before she unties it, and lets it go.

It rolls through her head, her fingers briefly fumbling through her shirt as they close on the tarnished metal coin from Mark all those months ago. She turns it over in her fingers, the faces, the symbols on it, all worn long ago to a smooth oblivion.

A laugh, a dry broken sound slips from her lips. "Stupid fucking coin..." The metal disk tumbles from numbing fingers, end over end, hitting the ground with a distant, ringing noise. Her shoulders rise again, and finally, mercifully fall still.

The click of a well-heeled shoe on the marble tiles sounded behind her. A sharp, familiar sound that made the hairs on her neck stand on end...

 

[yoursteamfriend.royce]

As the genuine dust of war settles within the shot out sparking innards of the combine airship, the fate of many including Ms. Sade and Ramos was finally settled on that day. Though the whereabouts of Sable and Ether seemingly fade into obscurity. Perhaps they had been wiped out, perhaps they had finished their purpose. All that was left was an empty an uneasy sense of something missing and questions left unanswered.


The granules in the hourglass of time of the Caspian gust along the sharp sun-scorched sand. Worksite 14 lay long abandoned, the data terminal inside of the main precinct of the camp long broken into and gutted by either scavengers of resistance members long after HORIZON's rapid response to the scene shortly after the outbreak.

And there it was heard, the drawn out hiss of a snake enters the frame of the snapshot view of years after the experience that friends, enemies and lovers all shared. The snake slithers and etches an imprint into the sand before the caw of a crow echoes out in the sky above, the snake being wrapped tightly in the bird of prey's talons as it flaps its wings away with the meal. A pack of houndeyes traverse through the thin alleys, ducks and dives of the infrastructure left to the now-abandoned camp.

...An ecosystem? Life always finds a way...right? Even after all of the doom and gloom the eggheads on both sides of the fighting had to say...if one squinted just enough they'd see it. It was a start, but that's all life needs.

Perhaps there will be answers, perhaps not -...does it really matter at the end of the day?