≫ WHAT WE BECOME PART 2: WHAT REMAINS APPLICATIONS CLOSED ≪

  • As of today (08/19/2021), we'll no longer be accepting applications for What We Become Part 2: What Remains.

    We've given it some thought and have decided that with the current state of the lore, it's in everyone's best interest if we focus on what we have currently so that we can finish the story in a timely manner. Introducing new characters into the mix would not only complicate things, but it would be difficult for new players to acclimate considering the current player base consists exclusively of long-time players.

    All currently pending applications will be processed, but the application form is closed so no new applications may be submitted.

    Applications will open again closer to the release of our Build 41 lore. Info on that will be released at some point in the future, but I can at least confirm that we're making good progress with our writing and planning.

    Thanks for your understanding!!

The Glass House

Tucker

Agent of the Geese Federation
Joined
Sep 4, 2019
Messages
81
Points
18
Location
The True North
(Trigger warning: detailed scene of blood and violence)


SSG Ross Wicker sits in the TC seat of a humvee, his hands gripping his gun anxiously as their convoy makes its way down a country road. Silently he listens to the ball bearings of the turret behind him, the gunner rotating around slowly as they drive alongside some hedgerows. Wicker watches as the last bits of sunlight fall down the trees they pass by; reflecting on the words of a first sergeant from the night before.

“Sarge.” A voice spoke from the back of the cabin, breaking his train of thought.

“Huh? Yeah, what is it, Baker?” He replied, glancing back at the fellow guardsmen. A private no older than 19, who had gotten out of training earlier that year.

“I was wondering. . .” He paused, glancing around at the others in the cabin before changing his approach “We were wondering. . . Why you’re. . . Well, following the Colonel's orders.” Finishing the question as a bead of sweat drips down his cheek.

The staff sergeant stares directly ahead as everything falls silent, even the hum of the engine seems to be drowned out by the tension. Wicker slowly turns, looking back at the private and the others in the humvee. His face deadpan and voice void of emotion “Elaborate, private”.

The young soldier fidgets a bit with his pant legs as he speaks “Well, our orders sir, they’re. . . Unethical. Th-Those are our people, we’re supposed to be helping them and instead we’re taking. Kicking them to the ground like bullies on a playground”.

Wicker listens, his face relaxing a bit as the soldier speaks. Despite the questionable insubordination, some mutual sentiment is visible in his eyes. “You’re lucky the fuckin’ mercs aren’t in this fuckin’ vehicle right now, Baker”. He glances around at the others before continuing “We’ve got people to take care of, if we start disobeying orders? The fragile situation we’re in will turn into a fucking bloodbath.” He hisses at them, a hint of desperation in his words, “We can’t be fuckin’ doing this shit right now. Innocent folks are gonna fuckin’ die if we start fuckin’ faltering, so wise your asses up and keep doing your jobs.” The other passengers nod slightly as the staff sergeant turns back in his seat, looking back out the window as they arrive at their destination.

Their convoy approaches a baseball stadium on the outskirts of a small city. Surrounding it a series of ditches and fences, several floodlights scanning the land surrounding it. Passing through the checkpoint smoothly they roll to a stop alongside dozens of other military vehicles. As his squad begins unloading boxes of canned goods, ammunition and jugs of water, Wicker makes his way into the stadium.

As he walked through the concrete halls and tunnels of the stadium he passed by countless PMCs with their company logos on their shoulders. As well as several militiamen. He always found it difficult to hide the disapproval on his face. What was left of the national guards saw the PMCs as goons whose loyalties and honour were questionable. Thought of as pawns whose employers were profiting from a world-ending disaster. The militiamen weren’t looked at any better. Unlike the organized militias before the infection that were made up of ex-military and retired cops, these groups had been formed after the infection began and were recruiting young millennials. Most were often seen as overzealous and lacking technical knowledge, trained loosely and retaining poor discipline. Though together the two types of gun-toting species outnumbered the national guard by a ratio of 3:2.

Leaving the stuffy concrete hallways, Wick entered the open air of the baseball stadium. Hundreds of tents and thousands of refugees and soldiers littered the field and stands. Men, women and children hurried around. Workers were constructing shelters, cooks preparing rations at the mess tent and others were milling about with their menial tasks commissioned by the senior officers. The away team dugout had been made into a temporary holding cell, the home team dugout an armoury with sole access given to national guard officers. Leaving then some level of authority over the PMCs and militias.

Making his way down the cold grey steps of the stands, Wicker entered the beating heart of the camp. People bustled around with their mandated work orders as MPs watched over them. It wasn’t uncommon for fights to break out, tension had been at a constant high throughout the camp. For many of the guardsmen, it was a relief to be out in the field, even if it meant coming face to face with sickly maniacs. It seemed as though everything was teetering on the head of a pin, as if at any moment their fragile pen of safety could started around them along with their hope of saving the old world.

Ross slipped his way through the crowds and towards the armoury. But as he turned into an alleyway he froze in place. Sprawled across the ground was a guardsmen, blood pooling around the corpse. Slowly Wicker walked forwards, the shanty walls feeling as if they’re closing in around him. The body was riddled with dozens of stab wounds to the back, the uniform sliced up so bad it looked like confetti. But his attention was pulled away from the corpse and towards the blood scrawled across a metal shanty wall. Red and dripping were the words “Fuck The Guard!” He quickly backed out onto the main pathway as goosebumps ran up his back like the cold blade of a knife. Shivering a bit, he began radioing for an MP.
 
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