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E1M1 (working title)

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I felt like dusting off my writing hobby and posting some semi-readable Doom dumb fan fiction in an effort of getting back into the groove of writing. I was largely making it up as I went along, and I have no idea where I'm going to go with it, if anywhere at all. Be as harsh as you wish if anyone even reads it.

I also need to think of better names than "John Stalvern", "Toro" and "Steel". Those are just placeholders.


It was as though tangible reality had collapsed and the realm of dreams had supplanted it. Stalvern recognised the layout of the large, squarish room that surrounded him, but all of it's peculiarities had washed away. Observing the room with a keen eye, he saw in front of him four sturdy pillars holding aloft the weight of the ceiling, as if standing in proud defiance of the bizarre trasnsition, with some remnants of computer equipment dotted around their upper sections. The walls were seemingly constructed of the same materials that they always were, but all of the electrical wiring, pipelines and other industrial nuances of the base's interior were no longer present. Most unnerving of all was the deathly silence that caused his every breath to echo throughout the chambers of the complex, or at least in his hypersensitive mind, which was working overtime in an attempt to process what was afoot. There was no immediate evidence of the engineers, scientists and fellow military personnel who used to breathe the same generated oxygen on this outpost on Mars' moon, causing a cacophony of hustle and bustle in conjunction with the whirling sounds of computers and machinery. It was once alive, if far removed from being a pleasant working environment.

It was a place that he spent every day patrolling, but as unfriendly and dreary an environment to dwell as it always was, he felt a sense of unease and discomfort that he was not conditioned to experiencing. Blinking hard, squaring off his shoulders, silently saying to himself "Snap out of it, soldier", he tried to wake himself up from what he assumed to be a feverish dream of some kind; perhaps brought on because he had succumbed to ill health and his subconscious had obfuscated it, perhaps by the relentless monotony of his occupation as a glorified security guard, causing his sanity to slip out of his control. Perhaps, albeit unlikely, it was simply a delayed hallucination brought on from that allegedly super-strength bag of cannabis Steel had smuggled into the barracks a few nights previously, which all of the off-duty grunts had partaken in ingesting, out of sight of the superior officers. But all of his attempts to prize himself out of this abstract version of reality were of no use. He was here, breathing and existing in this strange new world.

Drawing his sidearm from it's holster, cautiously taking a step forward, followed by another, he glanced to his right, swiftly observing the exterior landing bay that stood outside through two tall windows, the thick glass that protected the workers and personnel from the deadly conditions that lurked outside now gone. He didn't stop to dwell over how he was still breathing, or the increasingly abstract nature of the world he was interacting with, because all inquisitiveness and feelings of unease were now being suppressed by the experienced soldier's pragmatism and survivalism. He knew he had to use the communications tower, firstly to try and contact his comrades in the base, for his personal radio had gone astray, secondly to try and contact Earth if there was no reply from anyone on Phobos. Despite not being fully familiar with how the equipment he was approaching worked, he had a mission.

Stalvern turned left and walked into the adjacent radio tower, the security door that once sealed it off now completely absent in accordance with the paradigm of this new reality. Before he could approach the stairs that reached the platform where the vital communications equipment lay, he heard something. Not from the radio equipment that he hoped to hear humming, confirming that it was still present and working, nor was it the sound of a human voice.


"What model?", interrupted Dr. Toro, finishing off his latest scribble on his notepad. He sat a few feet away from where Stalvern was sat, cross-legged and resting his pad on his thigh, twiddling with his pen whenever not taking notes. "Hmm?" murmured Stalvern in response, with a puzzled expression, having been thrust out of his memories and asked a direct question about what he at best felt a superfluous detail in his story. "What model of sidearm were you guys issued?" retorted the Doctor, with the same deadpan expression on his face but with more clarification in his inquiry. "Uuuhh... Ninety-two, Beretta. Nine millimetre. Fifteen round clip." replied Stalvern, obligingly.

"All right, John." said Toro, nodding his head. "Please continue."


A foul stench punctuated the air. Stalvern knew the aroma: rotting flesh. Decomposing bodies was something he was not unfamiliar with, and he was struck with disbelief at the thought of a corpse lying around in the facility unnoticed, be it a warped version of it or not. "What the hell is this doing out of the med bay?" questioned John. But whatever his initial reaction, nothing could have prepared him for the sight that unfolded before him. A sight that had hitherto been the preserve of fiction and myth, antique so-called horror movies that Stalvern had seen in a museum as a child.

It was indeed a human corpse, a fellow soldier no less. Who it was, or once was, was unclear, as their face was mangled in a putrefying state and their jaw was completely missing. Yet it was animated. Standing still, seemingly unaware of Stalvern's presence, but paradoxically alive with a gaping whole in their chest, and what could be seen of of it through the tattered military uniform, it's skin covered in gangrenous lesions. Having served in numerous theatres of war, he had seen sights that he wished he could forget. Sights which made grown, hardened men abandon their resolve and weep. But this was something so horrific and surreal that it defied all explanation, and topped everything he had so far seen in the bizarre world he had been thrust into.

No sooner had Stalvern come to terms with the sight that lay before him, his self-appointed mission still in mind, than the wretched husk of the human raised the shotgun that he had not noticed in it's right hand towards him. Whatever this twisted creature was, it's aim was not as deft as it once might have been, and it clumsily fired in the vague direction of Stalvern. A lethal threat, if an imprecise one, Stalvern darted behind one of the mighty pillars in the room and ordered the creature to drop it's weapon in an authoritative tone, to which it failed to respond except to fire in his direction again and again until the creature's weapon had depleted it's conserve of shells. Stalvern gave the beast no opportunity to draw it's own sidearm and resume it's assault, leaned out from his cover, took aim with his handgun and shot the creature in the head. It recoiled, but did not collapse to the floor. Without pause he shot it twice in what remained of it's torso before the creature fell to the floor in what he hoped was a permanently deceased state.

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