Da Doofus
Veteran Geek
The year is 2299, fifteen years after the fall of most national governments in mass world war and the establishment of the United Global Republic. Much of the world is now war-ravaged, (save for the rebuilt coastal metropolises ruled by the Republic). Those loyal are granted refuge in these walled havens of technological splendor, while many others are left to endure the scarred and near-desolate conditions inland. Lately, in the wake of the latest boost to Republic support, many places across the globe had been reporting seismic activity from unknown sources. Much of this has been dismissed as rumor, and so uninvestigated for the most part.
New Atlanta had been a beacon of Republic ingenuity ever since its final construction in 2267, built on the East Coast to support trade between the dozens of other coast cities between the American coastlines and the Western cities on the European and African ports of the Republic. To those yearning for a life within its walls and the benefits of modern technology now a rarity elsewhere, New Atlanta was a dream of Eden made real in a world forever scarred by war and the devastation of the weapons built for it. In reality, there was strife, crime, and political corruption that plagued parts of this paradise of rebuilt civilization.
Victor Stiles was one such man caught in the seedy life of the new age of metropolitan crime. A young man hired to be a courier for a group of smugglers operating inside Atlanta's walls, his reputation of reliability with his superiors had been dashed to the ground on a delivery gone horribly awry. Now left at the hands of the Republic jurisdiction, the delinquent now had a sentence of labor before him. He and dozens of other prisoners had been taken far from New Atlanta to the ruined roads and towns inland. Their assignment was to assist in clearing the rubble of the highways and old transit tunnels to hopefully reestablish continental trade and further colonize America for reconstruction.
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Dust and darkness were all Vic could experience as he hauled brick after brick, stone after stone, handing one bucket of rubble to the inmate behind him as he awaited the next haul from Roland, the man who occupied the cell across from him back at the detention facility. Dust and darkness once he had to trek down the old monorail tunnel with only a measly headlamp to guide his way. No chance of simply turning back since there would undoubtedly be a Republic Vanguard droid waiting with a loaded weapon to ensure no prisoner attempted to flee from his duties. Even if escape was successful, there was no place to go from this point. Even an Outsider town was too far away to have any hope of escaping to.
Soon however, Vic caught up with Roland still piling stones and bricks into the next mounted hover cart for the younger man to take back to the entrance. An older man who had been incarcerated for soliciting a prostitute, his skin was wrinkled and tanned from a life of labor. His head was smooth from hair loss, which he tried to conceal with a ragged cap. Apparently it was once a style worn in old days at a sporting event called "baseball".
He grunted after hauling a piece of stone with a bit of rebar poking from its side, and saw Vic approaching.
"i'll say it again, kid . . . They're putting us up to this . . ." he panted after dropping his arm load into the cart, which was closer to the ground from the weight. The faint hum of its propulsion jets blew dirt upward in a small cloud. "Because they don't want to spend the money to execute us . . ." He lazily pushed the cart toward Vic. "I mean . . . They have fucking bots aiming fucking guns at us. You'd think they'd have some to at least break up this shit to make it easier to carry.
I get that it's a punishment, but they could be smart about it.
Bastards."
New Atlanta had been a beacon of Republic ingenuity ever since its final construction in 2267, built on the East Coast to support trade between the dozens of other coast cities between the American coastlines and the Western cities on the European and African ports of the Republic. To those yearning for a life within its walls and the benefits of modern technology now a rarity elsewhere, New Atlanta was a dream of Eden made real in a world forever scarred by war and the devastation of the weapons built for it. In reality, there was strife, crime, and political corruption that plagued parts of this paradise of rebuilt civilization.
Victor Stiles was one such man caught in the seedy life of the new age of metropolitan crime. A young man hired to be a courier for a group of smugglers operating inside Atlanta's walls, his reputation of reliability with his superiors had been dashed to the ground on a delivery gone horribly awry. Now left at the hands of the Republic jurisdiction, the delinquent now had a sentence of labor before him. He and dozens of other prisoners had been taken far from New Atlanta to the ruined roads and towns inland. Their assignment was to assist in clearing the rubble of the highways and old transit tunnels to hopefully reestablish continental trade and further colonize America for reconstruction.
**********************
Dust and darkness were all Vic could experience as he hauled brick after brick, stone after stone, handing one bucket of rubble to the inmate behind him as he awaited the next haul from Roland, the man who occupied the cell across from him back at the detention facility. Dust and darkness once he had to trek down the old monorail tunnel with only a measly headlamp to guide his way. No chance of simply turning back since there would undoubtedly be a Republic Vanguard droid waiting with a loaded weapon to ensure no prisoner attempted to flee from his duties. Even if escape was successful, there was no place to go from this point. Even an Outsider town was too far away to have any hope of escaping to.
Soon however, Vic caught up with Roland still piling stones and bricks into the next mounted hover cart for the younger man to take back to the entrance. An older man who had been incarcerated for soliciting a prostitute, his skin was wrinkled and tanned from a life of labor. His head was smooth from hair loss, which he tried to conceal with a ragged cap. Apparently it was once a style worn in old days at a sporting event called "baseball".
He grunted after hauling a piece of stone with a bit of rebar poking from its side, and saw Vic approaching.
"i'll say it again, kid . . . They're putting us up to this . . ." he panted after dropping his arm load into the cart, which was closer to the ground from the weight. The faint hum of its propulsion jets blew dirt upward in a small cloud. "Because they don't want to spend the money to execute us . . ." He lazily pushed the cart toward Vic. "I mean . . . They have fucking bots aiming fucking guns at us. You'd think they'd have some to at least break up this shit to make it easier to carry.
I get that it's a punishment, but they could be smart about it.
Bastards."