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Kzxkx
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Posts: 1
Registered: 08-13


Hello, all. This is just the first chapter of a Doom Fanfic that I've been meaning to get to for a while. Comments and Constructive Criticism are always welcome.

'Penal Colony Vambrose.
Population: 30,000
Location: Earth's Moon.
UAC Security Clearance: High.'






Activity onboard the transport 'Repentance' was scarce, none of the new inmates spoke more than a few words. This event was something of a special one for the prisoners as well as the prison. For three years, new arrivals were hard to come by and most of the transports returned empty, if they even left at all. That was, until newer laws were set on Earth to allow even such a crime as Robbery to permit interment at Vambrose. Support from the UAC gave law makers the lobbying power and availability to keep Earth 'crime-free'. Even going as far as to motion a law to demolish all prisons and jails.

The ships interior was designed for the safe transport of inmates deemed too violent or, as per new law, 'high risk' for any normal prison on Earth; its walls padded and floors stainless, though, any chance of an inmate actually getting up off the specially designed chairs were slim. Each inmate securely fastened to their chair via restraints that were time sensitive. There were three rows of inmates, each given a new number as per dozen. The first row sat the One Hundreds, the most heinous and sadistic inmates, these individuals would never again set foot on any non-artificial ground again. Behind those, sat the Two Hundreds, a mix of crimes including murder to arson. And behind those sat the Three Hundreds, in which the crimes were hardly more than grand larceny, robbery, and embezzlement.

In front of the rows of seats stood a lone officer, dressed in blue military armor. His gaze analyzing the entire dozen of new inmates, a permanent scowl across his face. The rank of his collar device shone a bright silver, a small eagle grasping a single line. Captain.

"Alright, scum. Some of you have waited days, weeks, and months. Others, years. But all of you are coming into MY prison now. And let me tell you," the Captain paused with a grin, "I'll take care of you myself if you step out of line."

One of the Three Hundreds, hardly nineteen years old, began to nervously tap his foot against the steel flooring. The Captain narrowed his gaze and pointed to the boy, "You!" he exclaimed, "what the hell are doing to my beloved ship?!"

The boy was slow to speak, clearing his throat before saying, "N-nothing. J-just nervous...I'm sorry."

The Captain glared at him, "What was that, scum? You think I'm a sorry Captain? Huh? Do you? DO YOU?" Everyone slowly turned to look at the nervous wreck of a criminal.

"W-what? No, no. I-I mean that, Cap'n. I-"

"Shut up, Maggot!" The Captain howled, walking over to the boy, drawing his pistol from his holster, "maybe I should just shoot you now. Save my precious prison the trouble. Would you like that? Huh?" The barrel of the gun pressing against the inmate's temple.

"N-no! Please!" Was all the inmate could say, gasping and squirming in his chair. The Captain smirked and holstered his weapon, chuckling at the expense of the boy.

"Now," he said walking back to the front of the rows, "W-"

"Sir," The pilot's voice rang through the intercom, "we're two minutes away from our destination." Each set of eyes looked toward the Captain who centered himself in front of the rows.

"Excellent. Now you scum listen up, when you depart from my darling ship you will do one of two things. First, you will not talk. Second, you will follow the orders of the guards. Failure to do so will result in the shortest prison stay you will ever have."

Everyone nodded as the ship slowed and descended, the hanger/entrance coming into view. A couple seconds passed and tractor beam from the prison's hanger latched onto the ship, pulling it in and making sure of its safe landing. When the ship was finally on the ground, the restraints on each prisoner's chair released, the back of the ship lowered as the ramp touched the ground of the hanger. Each inmate was the herded off the back of the ship under the Captain's watchful gaze, the hanger's security detail forming the new inmates into a line.







The under-halls of Penal Colony Vambrose stunk with the sounds of unbridled humanity. Each wing had its share of the most violent criminals Earth had to offer. Every cell containing two inmates and a lifetime of bad blood; though, never enough to garner the attention of the research team.

Each new inmate was meticulously analyzed, both guard and camera watching their every move. Ahead of them was a concrete booth with glass that only mirrored what was cast on it, a single colored line to their left and row of guards to their right. Processing would begin again after three years.

"All new arrivals to the left, make a move and we'll fry you early. Come up to the window ONLY when your name is called, any other movement will result in the aforementioned 'frying'." Rasped the middle-aged woman from behind the Processing Station; her voice gravely after many years at the Post. Security Guards stood atop parallel catwalks, making sure to keep a close eye on those being processed.

"Inmate 233. Step up."

From the back of the line, Inmate 233 got out of place and hurriedly walked towards the window. His legs and hands shackled, the old orange jumpsuit he once wore now traded in for the white and blue uniform he had on, the number 233 engraved onto his bare head. The one-way glass only highlighted his anger and resentment towards the system, a system that wrongfully accused him of murder.

"Hold out your palm and stay still. This'll only hurt a moment." Suddenly, the sounds of whirring flooded his ears. A small mechanical arm shot out of the wall side and hovered over the man's hand. Slowly, it bore a hole into his hand, the smell of burnt bone and flesh started to fill the air. White hot pain invaded every thought of his mind, as much as he wanted to pull away, it'd be no use. This would eventually have to happen.

Just as quick as it tunneled a tiny hole into his hand, it shot back into the wall and another, equally tiny arm came out with a chip and viscous blue gel. The pain slowly subsided as the arm lowered into the hole, allocating the gel in equal amounts to the wound and inserting the chip inside. The wound sealed back up from the gel, the pain completely gone. From inside the booth, the computer flashed to life in front of the woman, the inmate's entire back round popped up.

'Inmate 233: Craig H. Roberts.
Conviction: Murder, 1st degree.
Recommended Classification: Military Wing.'

"Ahh, looks like this just might be your day, 233." She said as she prepared his Classification markings.

"...What do you mean?" He slowly spoke, his voice low and unamused.

"What I mean is, you might not fry like all these other punks here."

"How? What are you talking about."

"...Did you sleep through the classification lecture on the ship ride over here? You've been given MW, Military Wing."

This took him aback, 'the military?' he thought. "There was no lec-"

"Here," she said firmly, as another arm came out with a blue and gray patch. It pressed against his uniform with a 'tsssssssssss' leaving the patch permanently in place just above his right breast. "Next!"

The entrance to the maximum security prison whirled open as two guards from the other side motioned to him. They guided him to the twenty-four hour holding cells, colorful lines indicated different paths and sections. He noted the red line leading down to a place that was aptly named: 'Morgue'. After some time, they had entered the Holding Wing, a place where unclassifiables and re-classes and new classes were held. Its color absent walls only embossed the contents of the room. There was hardly anybody inside, though, that was soon to change.

With a 'swish-ca-chunk!' the door closed behind 233, the guards having turned around and returned to their post. Inside looked dirtier than the window view had let on; dried blood adorned the floor and floorboards, cold, unforgiving metal benches were the only respite from the ground. Taking a breath, 233 slowly strode over to the far end of the benches, wanting to keep a close eye on the other man; the other inmate shifted his head a bit towards 233, his eyes sunken in yet moving quickly, scanning and observing.

"Military, eh?" the man suddenly spoke, causing 233 to jump a bit.

"Y-yeah."

"New Arrival?"

"Yeah."

"Crime?"

233 narrowed his eyes at the man, wondering if he should even mention what he knew he didn't do.

"Robbery," he lied. "What about you?"

The man inhaled and exhaled slowly, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

"Homicide. Well, to be fair, triple homicide according to the system."
233 brought his fingers to his mouth, slowly chewing on his thumbnail. He had more questions but figured that he'd probably never see this man again. The silence only elected the other man to chuckle and look down.

"Can't handle that news, can ya? Look, I ain't going to kill you, at least, not yet. Name's Jeremiah," he held out his hand towards 233, "yours?"

He looked to the mans hand and nodded slowly, "Craig." Jeremiah rescinded his hand and looked intently at him.

"Skipping the formalities eh? Just because we're in prison doesn't mean we have to be strangers." he said, brushing off his uniform.

"You have different colors than I," Craig said, "what wing are you in?"

"Research. Though, the more appropriate term should be 'Guinea Pig'." Jeremiah chuckled, causing Craig to relax a bit. Maybe being here wouldn't be so intolerable after all.


"We'd best get some rest," Jeremiah motioned to the digital clock inside of the wall, "No use in staying up."

"No, no I guess not." Craig replied, unsure of his motives. With a fake yawn and stretching of his arms, Craig tried to get as comfortable as he could, making sure to stay up just long enough to make sure the other man was asleep. He watched the clock tick by, the light seeming never to turn off, 'I guess it's true what they say,' he thought, 'there's no rest for the wicked.'

Old Post 09-02-13 01:05 #
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