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| Xeogaming Forums - Story Realm - Fortuna Maxima |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie!          Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 933 days Last activity: 933 days |
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| In between working on my professional gamer thing and "The Paradox Island Series", I work on other little writing exercises. This is one of those I-intent-to-finish-this short stories again. I kind of have a plot, and I know where the story is going, we're just going to come along for the ride. I'll get back to "Paradox" later. Maybe finish "Juice" and "Howard" too. I'll have the time.
That is, in between work and nothing. For those that have not had the pleasure of my stories before, it may be daunting to see such a long entry. However, it may well be worth it. I can't guarantee that. Which is why there are so many genres of writing; if there were only a single methodology, then the world and writers within would be quite pressed to satisfy so many needs and minds. That being said, I'm implore you to read on. However, I'm pretty much guaranteed that I have lost the short-attention spanned in the first sentence, let alone first click, already. I, too, am diagnosed with Adult ADHD, but it doesn't stop me from reading. Sorry, for the long introduction, I'll just jump into it now. Comments are appreciated. 
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. by: Lee Almodovar He quickly sat up in the darkness, eyes fixed on some distant target, arms at the ready to squeeze a non-visible trigger. "You had that dream again, didn't you?" He wakes up, turns to face her, "Yes, what of it?" "Do you want to head in to work now, or return to the dream?" He sat for a moment, then collapsed back into bed, "Back to the dream. Wake me when its real." She opened the blind and poked his side with the butt of their SKS rifle, "Take a look outside, hun. It is real." "Dream is better." He sat up again, holding his shoulder, and motioned for the handgun. "Honey, dream." "Oh. Yeah," his legs dropped out from below the comforters, "How's it look outside." She parted the blinds, "Uneasily quiet, as is usual for the evening hours. You know it's a bad sign when one's only dream is that of what happens during the working hours." He shifted in bed, scratching his head and staring out through the blinds at the orange hue awash across the buildings. "It always looks the same. In the dream and in reality." She shoved his uniform, firearms and bullet-proof vest into his sleepy arms, "Four-thirty, dear, time to get out there, back into reality." He groggily lifted and dragged his body into the bathroom, emerging thirty minutes later in his off-orange uniform, SKS rifle resting on his shoulder, dark black bulletproof vest on top of his uniform, a cheesy smile spread across his face. He walked into the bedroom, and collapsed on the bed again. "I'm dressed, what more do you want?" She climbed on top of him, "Well, Lieutenant Russ," she ran her fingers down his rifle barrel, "you've got a compound to guard." He chuckled and rolled out from underneath her. Standing at the window, he gazed across the compound, and its denizens, slowly filtering through the evening desolation. "Look at them, wandering around like sheep. It's sad that it's come to this." She sat on the bed, "Well, you give the people what they want and this is what they wanted." "To be treated like citizens, despite their crimes," he holstered his sidearm, "a disjointed society within a society. It's odd, you know, that not a single crime happens within this society of criminals." She turned to him, scratching her head, "What about last week? The man that took the cafe staff hostage?" "Well, we can't deal with people that don't exist anymore." And so it was that behind the four layers of chain-linked electrified fence that the prison population of 2182 California resided in what used to be the farmlands of the state, in a massive city-state prison system that required its inmate population to assimilate the roles of a typical society on the outside--a society of the year 2012, deprived of the modern conveniences of that of 2182--except for any positions that required law enforcement. These positions--fire, police, medical, postal, transportation--were handled by the guards whom also lived on the compound, behind a layer of fence. The inner fence layer extended the equivalent of a twenty-six story building high into the sky, and while non-electrified, provided enough of a deterance to the 3000 inmate population, whose ages ranged from mid-teens to late-100s, and counteracted digging by burying the equal length of fence structure below ground. The guards and their families lives on the second layer of fencing, a mere ten-story high and deep monstrosity also non-electrified for the safety of their families, encompassing the positive aspects of life on the prison-state. Sure, they were cut off from all other forms of civilization, but they were still part of what could be considered civilized. The last two layers of fencing, both electrified and highly fortified, housed a few miles of barren desert and field and were each a mere six feet high and deep. Not many escapees had ever made it past the first two layers--a total diameter of 7 miles--to the last two layers. And, only one had ever made it past all four layers. He was their inner layer warden. Russ stared across the fencing to the compound just beyond the service roadway. The sun filter spewed forth myriad rays of diffused light along the entire inner layer. "I'm sure the weather control will be brought online today," he spoke over his shoulder to his girlfriend, "maybe I'll get to finally see some rain on that side." They lived on the last block from the fenced separation, on the fourteenth floor of a housing complex overlooking the southern "business" district of the inner inmate layer. Russ had taken the position right out of high school, following in the footsteps of his retired father, all of whom had been raised inside the prison-state. Russ had only traveled to the outside a few times in his youth, often on trips with his father, but had never really ventured out in his adulthood. Not that there was anything promising in the wake of the 2098 financial collapse of Los Angeles and San Francisco, or the dessimation of a large portion of the Southern California after the 2085 Great Quake along the entirety of the San Andreas fault. The Pacific Ocean side of the fault had shifted a full three feet before it came to a rest, all in about thirty seconds. The devastation was immense, but nothing that the retrofitting and improved architecture of 2045 couldn't handle. Losses were in the mere hundreds of thousands, and lives were saved thanks to relocations of structures off and far away from the fault lines. A few burst sewer, power, and fuel lines, several thousand miles of destroyed freeway and streets, old transportation systems obliterated, but not a major predicted disaster of the late 20th Century. It became a triumph against nature. But, most of the middle of California had suffered as a result. With prison overcrowding and riots reaching high proportions, it was proposed that rather than restructuring an earthquake-torn land for farming again, that a prison-state be instituted. A large, 10-mile diameter prison-state, housing all inmates of the entire county and state prison system in a radically new idea of controlled civilization within a four-mile fabricated city, surrounded by another three-mile city housing prison employees and their families, surrounded by another 3-mile barren landscape to prevent and discourage escape. It was a multi-billion dollar project, and was approved and built. And, in their sign of graciousness, Walt Disney World provided their WeatherDome for use on the inner circle, to help maintain temperatures as desired. The early morning air was crisp with a fine mist from the real rain the night before, but the internal temperature of the prison complex maintained a balmy 93 degrees. He walked through the various airlocks and decontamination chambers to the main guard building. After checking into the computer, he was given his task for the day: Postal Service. The onslaught of the late 20th century had seen many a postal worker that, disgruntled, would tote a firearm to the workplace and shoot up the place. Reminiscent of those days, Russ walked about in his prison guard uniform, heavily armed, pushing a mail cart around the blocks of the complex. It was an eerie feeling being on the inside. A simulated city, equivalently prospering in an imagined economy far exceeding the current capacity of a struggling Los Angeles and San Francisco. Inmates going about their lives as if they hadn't murdered a whole family, robbed a bank, bombed a federal building. Walking to work training. Taking transit to the school commune. Spending rations at the mall. Interacting in a guarded environment. Lock down rarely occurred, and mostly when the board decided that it was time to release a new inmate from maximum hold into mixture with the whole population. "Lieutenant Russ," his earbud piped in, "code 34 one block north of you. Assistance required." He nodded. The entire compound was monitored much like it was on the outside, closed circuit cameras, both mounted on building and hovering several hundred feet above ground. He pushed the cart into a nearby safe point corridor used by guards, and started a slow jog up towards the area. A code 34 meant that an altercation had occurred between personnel and an inmate with a possible code 36 erupting, hostage situation, and it had to be dealt with quickly and quietly. The inmate population had ceased to be citizens on the outside. They only existed as denizens of Fortuna Maxima, the famous prison-state. Anything that occurred to them on the inside, was left to the inside. As far as the world computer records were concerned, these people never existed on the planet. They were no one. It was customary that if a family member were convicted to FM, they ceased to exist. These inmates seldom had visitors from the outside, and few seldom were pardoned or paroled to the outside worlds again. Rehabilitational ways of old had been abandoned. It was just easier to integrate them into an internal society than it was to attempt to assimilate them back into the outside world. And, even Fortuna Maxima had a prison within the prison. Those that refused to integrate were sent there, subjected to the ways of old, considered less than a person, less than an inmate. He jogged quietly past the other inmates, rifle at the ready, heading towards the corner looking for a good vantage point. There was a chance it could go a little worse, and turn into a code 35--inmate with a weapon--and that would facilitate the code 36. He never really understood why they would attempt the menial crimes that got them in there in the first place, inside again. This code 34 sprouted from an attempted robbery of the Fortuna Bank, housing currency that had no value outside of the prison-state. An attempted robbery and hold-up of a fictionalized currency system with value only within the prison-state; why would any inmate go to the trouble of executing such a crime unless they wanted a quick and easy way out? Most code 34s ended up with a move to the internal prison for isolation, code 35s were either killed or placed in isolation, and code 36s were definitely terminated. No sense in keeping the extremely bad eggs around. To be continued later on this week, or on my LJ... (Last edited by Zabuza on 11-09-07 10:08 PM) |
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Elara Divine Mamkute Dark Elf Goddess Chaos Imp Penguins Fan Ms. Invisable  Since: 08-15-04 From: Ferelden Since last post: 99 days Last activity: 99 days |
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| Interesting... though I find the idea of Walt Disney World contributing anything for free to be a ridiculous notion. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 933 days Last activity: 933 days |
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| It's not so much a donation as it is, here's our old one, we have a new one. And, not so much a donation as it is, we're the US Government, and we're confiscating this for our use.
As long as the situation didn't turn into a all-out riot resulting in a prison lock-down, they were fine. The issue had to be remedied quickly and as quietly as possible. He took position on the roof of a building across from the bank, trained his sniper rifle through the front doors. The cameras inside the facility reported a single inmate, armed with a rifle, a downed prison guard, and several other inmate "hostages". "Base, this is Lieutenant Smith, we have an officer down, permission to fully dispose of inmate?" He moved his rifle sight over the inmate's head. "Granted." One single deadly shot, and the day was forced back to normal. However, this always resulted in a partial lock-down, closing down the entire block and surrounding blocks to create a neighborhood lock-out. Seemed like no one would be receiving their mail or going to the bank that day. Or the gym, grocery store, internet cafe, apartment complex, and everything else in the nine-block radius. |
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Elara Divine Mamkute Dark Elf Goddess Chaos Imp Penguins Fan Ms. Invisable Since: 08-15-04 From: Ferelden Since last post: 99 days Last activity: 99 days |
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| Ah, that makes far more sense.
Very short update this time, running into more writer's block? |
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