Recollections of Sweden
'Utgående' - 'Outbound'
Joint-Research Outpost EJ-06 'Gunnar', Eastern Jurisdiction, Sweden
January 12th, 2020
Have you ever gotten mixed up in a Murder Mystery?
I don't think a lot of people have been, it's far too unlikely, too outlandish. It doesn't play out like how it does in the movies, with you - and a bunch of your fellow wealthy compatriots - huddled around a fire, whispering your suspicions to one another and waiting for a dashing detective to save you from the killer's next plot.
No, it.. goes an awful lot more like you standing outside of your CMC Issued 'V740-e' (Post-war Volvo Modification to host a.. 'Sensitive Piece of Mechanical Equipment'), your lips and teeth fidgeting on the business end of a cigarette - the scent of smoke, and vomit (yours), and decaying iron clinging to your nostrils as you anxiously wait for the Officers that're enroute to your location to arrive: the feeling of still, chilled air dampening your spirits further, and further, as your eyes idly fix themselves on some distant obscurity - deep within the frozen tree line.
And then?
An Interruption.
The groan of suspension, spinning tires, something undeniably heavy and industrial approaching. Spilling out guttural, alien cries from it's heart - a reimagining, a reverse engineering of the combustion engine.
It pulls up beside the V740-e which is, in comparison to it, a dainty little thing in the face of the armored bulk of the Combine Lorry.
Not quite an Armored Personnel Carrier, not quite a Paddywagon, somewhere in between. An unmistakably exotic thing with a heavily armored, two-man Cab, and a low-profile cab in the back for transporting just about anything you'd need in the field as an Officer - Metropolitan or Officer.
And yet, somehow, from just a glance at it in the corner of my vision - I knew it to be insufficient.
Metal creaks, groans, then slams.
And then, I am brought to reality by the shrill tone of imperceptible curses from one side of the Lorrie, followed by much less shrill tone, one directed at me.
"<:: Rudstrom! Front and Center! ::>"
Here we go.
Showtime.
Like the clamps on a great, and ancient machine, being released: my fingers and jaw alike part from the cylinder of synthesized tobacco and wrapping paper in my possession. Letting it, and its embers, tumble - as it quickly comes to meet the earth, mud, and snow and is then driven further into it by my boot, as I turn around in the slurry upon the earth and quickly harken to the voice. Pacing up to it, and then stopping.
This one is a Man.
I don't know his Name, I don't know his Face, but we've met.
Time, and time again.
For some reason, and I couldn't fathom why, they don't like him very much. Just enough to be assigned to one of the many Outbound Precincts which dot the landscape, acting as a quick response force for the surrounding Worksites, Civil Outposts, so on and so forth.
He's much taller than I, fed decently - for his Rank I'd suppose, and he's all business. There's hardly a description to his voice, but he lacks the usual tumble in the filter that an accent would typically give from those around these parts. He's a Foreigner.
I call him '19892', nicknames don't curry any favors.
"<:: You know the drill. ::>"
"Karol Norin-Rudstrom, 01187."
"<:: Assignment? ::>"
"Remote Location Service Technician."
There's a pause, an assessment. My gaze, and presumably 19892's as well, shift as I see his compatriot step out from the opposite side of the Lorrie - a figure, about as tall as I am. A Woman, either that, or a scrawny Man.
Though their voice - I've heard before, definitely a Woman. More than that, the peculiarities in the way her Faceplate masks her voice hints at an accent. That, combined with previous audio violations, lets me know with a confidence that she was one of us. A Local.
She's '19892''s Partner, or at the very least, I've seen her with him more often than I have not.
Either way, with a fresh coat of mud on her boots and on the bottom most of her pants, presumably from a close call with a near slip-and-fall, she continues far past the two of us toward the more-or-less low profile cabin. The fresh coat of red paint, and the recently shoveled roof, as well as the array of wires, junction boxes, and various locked hardcases which rest underneath it's undercarriage - held aloft by sturdy supports - being the only signs to life having ever been there.
Our gazes return to the other. They meet in the middle.
"<:: Rudstrom, I'm going to have to ask you to give me a rough, and preferably quick, explanation as to what the fuck happened in there. ::>"
I don't quite get the time to speak.
"<:: Because from what I hear? We've got a DEAD Joint-Research Team consisting not only of local talent, but of TWO Professors from the goddamned ARI - who were expected to return to Austria not even TWO days from now! ::>"
Deep Resentment,
It's palpable.
But through the bitter taste of lingering acrid smoke, bone chilling cold, and the acidic aftertaste of vomit - I recall the scene.
Men, and a few women, bound together by their ankles. Daisy chained, crammed together into an all-too-small storage closet and..
".. They were butchered. Probably an Automatic Weapon of some kind? Or maybe multiple Weapons? I don't know. The Cabin's been cleaned up, aside from the mess in the back."
Mess. That's one way to put it.
"I didn't tamper with anything, I didn't touch anything, and I didn't look at anything else besides the mess. I just.. smelled it, then I saw it, and then I called for backup. I swear to-"
And then, a call from the Cabin.
"<:: Boys. Both of you. Get up here - I'm going to need some extra eyes on this, and that includes yours Rudstrom. ::>"
And as if anticipating resistance, not only from myself, but from '19892' - she commands us with the following statement.
"<:: And like it or not, he's apart of this investigation now. He was the first on site, and he's a key witness. Besides, the nearest Tech Specialist is at North Lakeside, we need him. ::>"
There's a grunt from her counterpart, perhaps disagreeing with the fact that she chose to call it 'North Lakeside' instead of 'Eastern Jurisdiction Outbound Precinct 12'. Perhaps its because of her, once again, getting me involved with one of their Investigations as they had done time, and time again.
I don't get a chance to ponder. '19892' shoves past me, and with a faint exhalation of exasperation, I tag along beside him as we climb the steps of the cabin to meet '71808' - known to me fondly as '808'. Without further words spoken, and a universal swallowing of pride, we descend through the doorway and into the carnage.
Just another day in Paradise.
