>>>[FOR THE BEST VIEWING EXPERIENCE, IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT YOU SWITCH TO ROYAL ROAD'S DARK/OLED BLACK THEME]<<<

  >>[Season One: Portals Epilogue]==

  >>> Loading File...

  >>> Subject Located...

  >>> Fatal Error Encountered: Temporal Paradox Created By Considering Current Subject's Position in Space-Time...

  >>> Restarting Node From Checkpoint...

  >>> Resolving Paradox...

  >>> Please Standby...

  >>>...

  >>> Paradox Resolved!

  >>> Current Directive Updated...

  >>> [CANDIDACY DROPPED. HOWEVER, I WILL KEEP THIS ONE IN OBSERVATION. THEY WILL PROVE USEFUL IN THE FUTURE. I AM CERTAIN OF IT. NO FURTHER COMMENTS AT THIS TIME.]

  >>> Acknowledged

  >>> Searching Memory Feed...

  ==[Begin Memory Playback]==

  ===> [Amsterdam, The Flanders Emergency Reconstruction Zone]

  ===> [Operation: HUNTER-STALKER]

  ===> [Date: February 14th, 2049]

  ===> [Name: Lt. Everett Morgan]

  ===> [Role: Phantom-Mercenary]

  ===> [Allegiance: Pan-Oriental Alliance]

  ===> [Onscreen...]

  Grey clouds. Rain. The sloshing of water.

  Vacant and decrepit buildings flanked all sides of the street, tattered by graffiti from the remaining souls of vandals who wandered through this ghost town. Cars lie scattered across the road, left abandoned by those who fled from the city. Completely useless with their waterlogged engines. Garbage and trash floated in the flood water along with whatever else had covered what used to be Amsterdam’s streets. There were a few fish swimming, but not many. Where he waded, the water was only knee high.

  High enough to force the entire city to evacuate, even most of the country. But not high enough to stop the drums of war.

  Slowly wading his way through the waterlogged city streets with nothing but his rifle, his wits, and the chilling ambience of the flooded city, was an odd experience. He was alone out here, but not defenseless. The scout drone he’d deployed overhead would help too, that’s for sure. It zipped a while ahead of him, shining a light on the shadowy parts of the sunken Amsterdam.

  Morgan felt a familiar, though annoying, buzz in his earpiece. It was mission control, “Control to Hazard One, you’re approaching the meeting point. Recon shows no sign of Coalition activity. Just phantoms and the informant. Still, remain cautious,” the voice of his commander bluntly stated over the radio. The voice sounded frayed. Amsterdam’s abandoned building and near-apocalyptic looking architecture were getting in the way of a clear signal, even though Control wasn’t too far away from the city – perhaps orbiting it in some type of airborne mission control.

  “You guys are aware that this type of work gets dangerous, right Control? Especially since I’m alone. You’d better have my paycheck waiting for me hot and fresh when I get back,” Morgan quipped.

  “That’ll only be if you make it here alive… with the package, Hazard,” Control pushed back, “No intel, no pay. You know how this works. When you’ve secured the drop, Falcon One will move in to extract.”

  “Good. I’m counting on you to get me out of this damn hellhole,” Morgan said, eyeballing the live radar displayed crisply on his wrist monitor, “I don’t have ‘getting stranded in The Zone’ on my 2050 bucket list.”

  “Just do your job, merc. And do it well. That’s what we’re paying you for.”

  “I charge extra for being a pain in my ass too, you know?” At that, Morgan could hear the audible ‘click’ in his earpiece, a signal that Control had grown tired enough to disconnect from the comms. Good, one less annoyance in his hair, “Just get ready to pay up, I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, knowing that they could still hear him.

  Morgan shifted the mask resting on his face slightly, feeling the black plastic-alloy surface – cool to the touch. The radiation burns that scarred half of his face were acting up again. It seemed like the skin cream that the POA gave him wasn’t doing its job right. A gut punch since they were taking the cost of the drug out of his bill for service. He had just about enough of the POA to be completely honest, and he’d have hightailed it over to some foreign warlord or junta, hell – even the Coalition – had the POA not promised him something major…

  Something that Control swore was right here in the sunken depths of the Reconstruction Zone. The hot bed for illicit activity in Europe now that most of the Netherlands had been evacuated. Whatever this intel was, it was game changing – vital enough that the POA had sent a lone mercenary deep into Coalition territory in order to extract it. The POA had paid premium for his services though, and he had plenty of experience dealing with otherwise lethal situations. The odds would’ve been stacked against anybody else.

  But Morgan wasn’t anybody else.

  He approached a narrow intersection within the depths of what used to be Amsterdam’s downtown. Flooded streets, narrow townhouses with storefronts downstairs long since looted clean, garbage and discarded bikes floating in the water, it was nothing like what the city used to be even two decades ago before the European storms. He could see some signs of recent activity, for it wasn’t a rare sight to see a phantom making a shanty home out of the flooded townhouses above the turbid and dirty water. In fact, he could see curtains being pulled from somewhere by a phantom, eyes were watching him even out here.

  He'd have to be fast. The Zone’s authorities were far too stretched, underfunded, and understaffed to be of any particular threat to Morgan’s mission here. But, The Coalition no doubt would have dispatched their elite Headhunters to pursue the drop, and he’d rather not have to fight them. Unlike The Zone's internal security, the Headhunters were actually worth their pay. If Morgan found himself outnumbered by them, he’d have no choice but to flee…

  In the intersection proper was a small inflatable boat. A cloaked man sat in the seat, his face obscured. He could’ve been easily mistaken for a homeless phantom, but Morgan’s keen eyes spotted a greyscale Chinese flag lurking underneath his tattered robes, though he couldn’t locate a gun anywhere. Morgan approached stealthily, though knowing that the man was with the POA – not willing to expose himself.

  Control was right. There really did seem to be no sign of Coalition activity. He hadn’t even spotted any of The Zone’s security patrols that Control was adamant would be on the prowl tonight. It was strangely… empty. Save of course for the poor phantoms living still in this strange, abandoned landscape, somehow.

  The man on the boat saw Morgan’s drone, briefly springing into action, before he turned to face Morgan himself. The two made eye contact. The man on the boat was definitely military, now that Morgan could get a good look at him. The man nodded as a form of confirmation, and Morgan nodded in return.

  The man moved to the engine of the boat, revving the dingy up. The electric hum of the engine was surprisingly quiet, but still too loud for Morgan’s liking.

  The boat crawled past a still-lit streetlamp, illuminating the man fully. Like a sore thumb.

  And almost predictably, there was a whip-like crack! A gunshot, soon followed by several others. The man on the boat was shot, a bullet piercing clean through his head while other bullets fired from who-knows-where peppered the inflatable. The rubber burst, unleashing a hiss as the built-up air escaped and the dingy went limp.

  Morgan instinctively crouched low, hating the feeling of cold dirty water as it crawled its way up his thigh and splashed against his stomach. A nearby sedan offered the only immediate cover that would shield him from the ambush. He reached for his earpiece, “Hazard to Control, the informant was just killed! It’s an ambush! They were waiting for us!”

  He a small churn from the earpiece, and Control had reconnected to the channel, “Proceed with the mission. Extract the intel and return it.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "You're awfully calm about me telling you that your informant just got his brains blown out."

  "He is no longer of use, Hazard," Said the voice from Control, "Casualty disposal will worry about him. You - worry about your job, and that's getting the drop."

  "Alright. So I’m your pet dog now? You say fetch and I go?”

  “That’s what we’re paying you for.”

  “Usually I know what I’m out here risking my life over!” Morgan spat into the earpiece.

  The commander on the other end of the line sighed, “You want information?”

  “POA isn’t gonna jump straight to 'Plan Z’ on a normal day. You’ve gotta admit, sending a lone phantom into the Coalition’s backyard to secure some classified data is batshit insane. Even for you guys.”

  “You’re the best merc we have.”

  “I know, and even I think this is crazy..."

  "Are you trying to quit on us?"

  Morgan shook his head, "No. There’s something of value that's got you guys by the balls. And I want in on it.”

  Surprisingly to Morgan, the commander seemed to consider this, "Hmm... I can make it worth your while. Retrieve the intel, and you may have what you desire. I can guarantee you that what’s inside of that drop is worth more than anything you’ll ever be paid – either by us or the Coalition – that’s for certain.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ approaching,” Morgan said, carefully raising his head to find the hidden machine gun nest, his attention laser focused despite the enchanting conversation. He could see a shadow in the upper floors of one of the townhouses. He carefully raised the holographic sight on his rifle to lock onto the shadow's head. Slowly he narrowed his eyes as a steady finger hovered over the trigger. The Headhunter had not spotted him yet giving Morgan an easy kill. Until he was interrupted.

  “But, if I reveal to you what the intel contains, you’ll become implicated in it and you won't be able to get out. Consider it an… infohazard,” Morgan paused. The Headhunter was still in his sights, but his body tensed up from the thought. 'Implicated'? Control liked to be secretive, mostly due to the nature of the job, but this was another level of cryptic that Morgan wasn't used to. It was odd. Morgan racked his mind of all the potential things that the POA could be up to at this moment in time. A coup in America? No, the Americans had already done that themselves. Besides, with the way the U.S. Military and CIA had Washington D.C. under lockdown, Morgan highly doubted that any kind of seditious plot would've gotten past the "Planning" phase before the traitors were strung up and executed. But what else could warrant this level of secrecy?

  “What’s inside of this data drop is part of a project so much bigger than us. Or anyone really. That much I know for sure...” Control's voice lingered in Morgan's ear, distracting him.

  Muzzle flash. Whip-like cracks snapped around Morgan's head, and reflexively he ducked just as the first bullets clashed against the aluminum hull of the sedan. Sparks went flying everywhere, keeping him suppressed. His opportunity for a clean kill, gone. The machine gun was making short work of the car, with bullets piercing clean through the door and emerging out the other side. Morgan was forced to scramble towards the engine block, providing at least some minimal degree of separation from the bullets. Even as the bullets cracked around his head and body, Morgan kept his composure. Eyeballing his next vantage point. Just within reach, “So what you’re saying is that if I know, I become part of it?” He surveyed other options to move so he'd have the best chance of going on the offensive against the machine gun nest.

  “Not a part of it. More like you become chained to it.”

  “And how much do you think they’d pay up if I followed through?” Morgan raised himself above the water, his entire lower half now completely drenched in swamp water.

  “For this? Priceless…”

  He sprinted across the street, faster than the machine gun could keep up with. Bullets whizzed by, splashing into the water and kicking droplets up into the air before they turned to mist. He slid into cover at a street corner, just out of the gun’s line of sight, before he raised his rifle once more. His gloved hands pulled the trigger, one bullet, two bullets, three bullets fired. He saw a shadow fall behind the window that the machine gun nest was buried inside of. A kill.

  Morgan stood, his attention once more turning to the now deflated dingy. The body of the POA soldier was limp inside, his arm half submerged in the water, tainting the already dirty water with his blood. Morgan waddled towards it, feeling the water slosh and swirl around his legs. A lone briefcase. This was it…

  He could feel the hairs on his body stand on end just by looking at it. This one briefcase… untold riches… or his truest desires. Perhaps. He wasted no time in securing it, though the fact that he was forbidden from looking inside tortured him. Not like he knew the code to open it anyway…

  “How do I accept?” Morgan asked Control, eyeballing the briefcase for yet another brief moment.

  “Eager, are we?”

  “You’re expecting a merc to not get excited over money?”

  “At least you’re honest. If you want more information, get your ass back here with the intel. You know where the extraction point is, Hazard. Get on it.”

  And like that, the signal went dead. Morgan’s heart stilled as he got the word, “Understood…” taking only a moment to brew in the stench of swamp water. He grabbed the briefcase, noting the clear ‘ACRA’ markings engraved onto its coal-black surface.

  “ACRA, huh? Never heard of them before." He mused, before putting the briefcase into his pack, and trekking off into the urban decay before the Coalition's grunts could arrive...

  >>>[Verifying...]

  >>>[Loading SitRep A-2(B)...]

  >>>[Going through File Directory]

  >>>[Standby...]

  ==[Loading Complete!]==

  ==[EUROPE'S CANCER]==

  Flag of The Flanders Emergency Reconstruction Zone

  GENERAL INFORMATION:

  Capital: Brussels

  Ideology: None (European Military Mandate Rule)

  Government: European Defense Coalition - Emergency Mandate Government

  Population: 21 Million

  Primary Language(s): None (De Facto); Dutch, French, English, German (De Jure)

  Faction(s): The Global Strategic Coalition; The European Defense Coalition (Via European Union Membership)

  GDP: N/A

  Currency: The Euro (€), The U.S. Dollar ($)

  Flag of The Dutch Administrative Government In Suriname

  GENERAL INFORMATION:

  Capital: Amsterdam (De Jure) Paramaribo (De Facto)

  Ideology: United Front

  Government: Emergency Unity Government

  Population: 800,000

  Primary Language(s): Dutch, Surinamese Dutch, Javan, other Indigenous Languages

  Faction: The Global Strategic Coalition

  GDP: USD $4 Billion

  Currency: The Euro (€), The U.S. Dollar ($)

  Chaos. Misery. Failure. Regret.

  No other words can better define the F.E.R.Z., for "The Zone" (as it is known to those across Planet Earth) has become the ultimate symbol of the twilight of the global order. The failures, hypocrisies, and contradictions of the optimistic Democracies of the 2000s, all left to rot and stagnate under their own weight. The effects of decades, upon decades, of inaction, regression, and ignorance - all culminating into one massive open-air prison, roughly 30,000 Kilometers in size.

  After decades of ignored warnings from the scientific community, The Atlantic Ocean rose, swallowing coastal communities and nations whole. One by one, beginning first in the areas of the world that Earth's interests had forgotten about. The small island nations, the poor coastal communities, the dark spots of the globe. But the storms did not stop there, and the world could only watch as the inevitable happened in the 2030s. Try as they might to withstand the rising Atlantic, the failure of Dutch Coastal engineering projects during the Great Storms of the 2030s caused by funding being pulled from a populist anti-climate government, as well as sabotage by rival interests in the Pan-Oriental Alliance, both led to the single largest humanitarian catastrophe on the European Continent since The Second World War. The flooding and complete devastation of The Netherlands and much of Northern Belgium has spawned a refugee crisis numbering nearly 11 Million People, victims of the storms that have claimed their homes. Millions displaced, all caused by ignorance, neglect, and the dreams of profit for a handful of wealthy billionaires at the expense of so many across the world.

  In the 2040s, the F.E.R.Z. was established by The European Defense Coalition as a means to contain the 11 Million new Phantoms. As the United Kingdom descended into Civil War, as France and Germany dealt with their own crises’ of Democracy, and as the Scandinavian states closed their borders to the entry of Phantoms, the F.E.R.Z. was transformed into the worlds largest holding pen. Millions of Phantoms were deported into “The Zone”, regardless of citizenship. Desperate refugees - Phantoms - from forever wars and resource shortages across the globe, would seek refuge in the social-democracies and capitalist havens of Europe, only to be met with cruel government policy fueled by increasing xenophobia and political radicalization. Many Phantoms who were not forcefully deported by their host governments, were instead kidnapped and pushed into The Zone in an effort to rid Europe of its undesirables. Meanwhile, The Phantoms that reside in The Zone live in a permanent state of limbo. They live in sprawling shanty towns and black zones forgotten by the world, absent of regulation or policing beyond constant military watch. Littered with crime, negligence, and gross incompetence by EDC authorities. The ancestral homes of a nation, left abandoned, and used by Europe to hide its problems away from their own populace. The FERZ - to some - is a necessary institution for the unwanted to be pushed away where they cannot be of harm. To others, the FERZ is a bleeding sore - a festering symbol of a cannibalizing ideology of profit over lives, where destroyed homes and mass discrimination do not represent failures - but only reinforce prejudice and fear. And to many others, the Zone is wasteful, with the European Union's democracies spending billions to keep the metaphorical lights on - even if these millions almost never trickle down into anything beyond better guns for the Zone's security forces to use in order to keep their prisoners in.

  The Zone has become Europe’s largest Black Market destination, where modern day slavery and piracy has hit record levels. The Zone has become the murder capital of the world, as millions are pushed into the Zone as undesirables with few resources within to provide a better opportunity via legal means. The Zone is everything Europe fears. Ultimately - The Zone is Europe’s Cancer. Propped up only by reluctant funding from France and Germany as a means to keep their own domestic situations from boiling out of control, kickstarting a second - devastating - crisis that could spell the end for European democracy as a whole. A ticking time bomb, all of their own creation.

  But among those who live amidst the flooded ruins of Amsterdam, many dream of a new world for them to migrate to... one where they can find a fresh start and rebuild, for good. Within the Zone, a plethora of different Phantom groups have mobilized into factions of competing interests, each trying to carve out a slice of the Zone for themselves within the limits that the overstretched Zone authorities can allow. Each of these factions differ wildly in practice, but their end goal is the same... to make a dream out of the closest thing to hell on Earth.