Paradox: The Last Day - Seymour's Story

by Rachel Charman

  Paradox: The Last Day – Seymour’s Story

  by Rachel L.S. Charman

  © 2010 – 2013, Rachel L.S. Charman (Ze Crow Studios)

  ~ For my Father ~

  ~ Kevin George Charman ~

  ~ 6/6/1960 – 7/18/2012 ~

  A long while has passed since we parted,

  and too soon you were taken.

  I am brokenhearted,

  and I feel forsaken.

  Yet even in death,

  you fill my heart with pride.

  Though you no longer draw breath,

  you remain right by my side.

  Because I’ll love you forever,

  and I’ll forget you, never.

  For I will always remember,

  our time together.

  To Mom, Eric, Tim, Grandma, Uncles Dan, Gary, Alan, Joey, Barry and David ~

  ~ to all my friends, close-by and far-flung, ~

  ~ all the original members of the eXo PRIME, ~

  ~and to my cats Tigger and Hanabi, and to Sweet Prince - Rest In Peace 2002-2010~

  ~ “Love Lives Forever” ~

  ~ For those of you who make life worth living ~

  ~ This world belongs to you ~

  “Memoria est Infinitas”

  I will now read out the charges against the defendant,

  Commander Seymour Franklin Moreau.

  Crimes Against Humanity.

  Crimes Against Peace.

  War Crimes.

  Genocide, Resulting in an Estimated Nine Billion Casualties.

  Illicit Designing, Construction, and Induction of War-Related Weaponry and Contagions.

  High Treason Against The Realm of Free States, and its Cities.

  Desertion of the eXo PRIME Armed Forces.

  First-Degree Murder of Multiple eXo PRIME Operatives and Research Workers.

  Hijacking of Military Vehicles.

  Numerous Human Rights Violations, including Unsanctioned Torture and Medical Experimentation on Human Test Subjects.

  Embezzlement of Military Funds.

  Misuse of Tenure.

  Violation of the Act of Military Secrecy.

  Violation of Military Contract.

  The defendant has been indicted for over four hundred counts of illegal activity.

  … How does the defendant plead?

  All is quiet.

  A dim light flickers dully on the steel ceiling as Seymour Moreau sits serenely on a cold, hard-backed metal chair in a tiny underground interrogation chamber, his eyes closed in thought. His waist-length, stark-white hair glints luminously like liquid ivory under the weak yellow light hanging low overhead, framing his young, pale-skinned face. He tugs slightly at the tight handcuffs on his wrists, which are shackled to the back of the chair, and keeps his colorless, hyaline eyes closed while he ponders in silence. After several minutes in suffocating, secluded stillness, a young man with short, slicked brown hair, sporting a stiff black suit, enters the room grandly; a wide, triumphant smile stretching across his stern, sallow-skinned façade. His features are haughty and hawk-like, and he seems to carry himself with an irritating notion of superiority and superciliousness that barely hides the envy and ire entombed within every minute detail of his conceited build. Seymour opens his eyes at the man’s sudden approach, and he extends a slight smile to him as he sits in the vacant chair opposite Seymour, folds his arms, and stares at him sardonically; his fervent auburn eyes burning with pure malice, and sinful elation.

  “Well, I’m back, Commander Moreau. So nice to see you here.. Still alive.”

  “… I assure you, Vincent, the pleasure is all yours.”

  “Hmph.. So, I see you’re back to your old arrogant self.”

  “Well, Solari.. I feel one should always be true to oneself.”

  “Oh, really? But you didn’t seem to mind in the time you spent in DIV. 4 amongst the other crazies, Moreau.”

  “I was myself.. I just couldn’t remember who that self was. I suppose it’s the only time you’ve ever been right about something, Lieutenant. Er, oh, wait.. It’s General now, correct?”

  Solari’s expression resembles something caught between an annoyed grimace and a superior leer as he declares in a low, dangerous voice –

  “.. Yes. Learn who your superiors are, Moreau. Though you won’t have a chance to right about anything anymore, as you say, Seymour. And your inveigling hubris will only get you so far this time. I’ve just come back from Judicial Tor. Whilst there, I lobbied for your immediate public execution, and the board complied. We won’t wait this time. A firing squad is headed this way as we speak, and oh, they just can’t wait to rip you apart. You killed a lot of their families and friends, after all.”

  Seymour twitches in his seat at Solari’s words, but quickly regains his composure, and says with a smirk –

  “You came all this way just to tell me my sentence? Wow, does that ever make me feel special.”

  General Solari’s cold auburn eyes narrow at Seymour’s assertion, and he asks viciously –

  “… What are you getting at, Moreau?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just saying that usually playing messenger boy is a grunt’s duty. Looks like you’ve really moved up in the world since I’ve been gone, eh, Mr. General?”

  Solari leans forward in his seat towards Seymour, staring straight into Seymour’s colorless eyes with his own, which seem to glow with suppressed anger as he utters venomously –

  “Yes.. Yes, enjoy your last moments of gloating, Moreau. If I had my way, I’d slit your fucking throat right here, and end your worthless life right now… However, I’m a patient man, and I must adhere to governmental policies. I’m not the only one who wants to watch you die as slowly and painfully as possible.”

  “Heh. Lucky me.”

  “But it’s only a matter of time, Moreau. The world doesn’t need people like you.”

  On that note, Solari stands, gives a labored, sarcastic bow, and exits the room without another word, leaving Seymour once again in silence. Though Solari’s arrogance fails to daunt Seymour’s calm demeanor, the General’s disconcerting statement does manage to perturb his quiet resolve ever so slightly.

  |Hm.. Execution… I guess I should’ve expected it.. Solari won’t settle for anything less… He’s such a prick. Well, if there’s a firing squad on the way, I suppose now would be a good time to escape.|

  He pulls his shackled wrists apart with all his strength; the cuffs eventually break free of each other, allowing Seymour to slide his hands away from the chair. Rubbing his wrists as he approaches the thick, narrow steel door, he tries to open it, but it is locked tight from the outside. Frustrated, he grabs the chair at the table, pulls it up to the door, and peeks out through the tiny window high on the wall beside the door. The hallway on the other side of the interrogation room appears to be empty, save for a single lonesome soldier toting a pump shotgun in his hands, making his rounds through the cells. Swiftly formulating a plan, Seymour jumps down from the chair, grabs hold of it, and starts smashing it fervently on the door, and screaming for help as the young soldier cautiously responds to the noise. As the startled soldier anxiously draws closer to the chamber door, Seymour sidles to the sidewall, still clutching the chair and yelling deceptively for aid. The soldier worriedly riffles through his keys, unlocks the door, and creaks it open slowly, his shotgun trembling in his tremulous hands as he enters the room. The young soldier finds nothing in the room; no screaming, terrified man inside. Just then, Seymour takes the chair, and smashes the soldier to the ground with all his strength, cracking his skull upon impact. Seymour wrenches the shotgun from the soldier’s tight grip as he chokes for breath, and merciless
ly pumps a slug into his chest, killing him instantly. The naïve soldier having left the door open, Seymour, with a faint smile upon his lips, and shotgun in hand, exits the dismal cell into the dark, convoluted hallways of Liberty District’s DIV. 7 correctional facility.

  Paradox: The Last Day

  Seymour’s Story – Year: 2245

  The Present Story

  ~ Back to Business ~

  ~Santuc TerraDome: DIV. 7 Correctional Facility (Liberty)~

  Striding through the shadowy corridors of DIV. 7, Seymour ponders his next move as he absently guns down anybody in the hallways; the sounds of the each merciless slug’s departure echoing riotously off the cold steel walls.

  |So.. Now that I’m out, let’s see.. Where did I leave off? … Oh yeah.

  First, I need to find Sam. … But it’s been awhile.. How am I going to find her? Where did those PRIME fuckers take her? Do I still have my..|

  Groping at his belt loop, he searches for his tracer device, though it is nowhere to be found.

  |Damn.. Where’s my tracer? Oh, right.. Solari took it when he caught me and Sam in Trajit.. If he brought me here, I bet that means he threw it into the contraband vault. He probably had no idea what it’s for.. Guess I’ll just have to break in.. But I’ll need a distraction..|

  Studying the locked inmate cell doors studding the gloomy corridors, he quickly devises another idea. Putting his plan into effect, Seymour runs down the hall to the nearby fire alarm pull station, breaks the glass, and pulls it down with a sly smile. Instantly, the thunderous, strident fire alarm blares throughout the building, the sprinklers on the ceiling activate, showering the corridors in a torrent of icy cold water, and the inmate’s cell doors fly open automatically, revealing the crazed, bloodthirsty inmates within. Suddenly grasping their newfound freedom, the convicts excitedly race out of their dingy, lilliputian cells, and converge around Seymour, as though searching for orders. With a satisfied smile, he says to his criminal army –

  “Well, go on then. … Your captors are waiting for you.”

  With a resounding scream from the group, Seymour and his felon militia swiftly travel to the upper floors of the facility, wrecking all in their paths, while Seymour leads their insurrection with grim pleasure.

  “Ahh.. Directing mindless and violent idiots.. Just like old times.”

  Put on alert by the piercing, screeching alarm blaring throughout the entire facility, the PRIME soldiers mobilize within the confined corridors of DIV. 7, as the overhead sprinklers shower all within the building with frigid sheets of water, and the hanging lights on the ceiling are automatically killed, blanketing the already shadowy hallways under an impenetrable veil of absolute darkness. As the convicts continue to unrestrainedly wreak havoc under the viscous cloak of sheer darkness, the soldiers, in their desperation to maintain order, pull bright red flares, and place them all throughout the shadowy corridors to help light their way while they hastily track down and subdue the crazed liberated inmates. Advancing through the bedlam calmly, while gunning down anybody whom he comes across in the darkness; convict or soldier, Seymour abandons his villainous legion, and makes his way through to the lowermost basement floor of the detention center alone, searching through the darkness for the contraband vault. He picks up a flare to light his way, and eventually locates the tiny chamber, the interior of which is enclosed with tall shelves packed with various illicit items. The vault’s door is protected by thick iron bars, and a keycard-activated lock, but Seymour simply blasts the hinges from the walls with his shotgun, then grabs hold of the bars, tears them away from the doorframe, and steps inside the miniscule span. Using his flare as his only source of light, Seymour searches through every single one of the numerous items upon the towering, dusty shelves; turning the entire room upside-down in search of his tracer device, but to no avail. However, he does come upon a very familiar-looking object, which is tied up into a bundle by two pieces of intersecting steel wires. A white card is pinned to the black fabric, and reads: “Apprehended from Prisoner: Seymour F. Moreau – 01-30-2245; Under Examination, Deemed Dangerous”. Seymour smiles in the light of the flare, pulls the object from its bindings, and unfolds it to reveal a long, tattered coat. Seymour sweeps a hand across the soft black fabric, and says under his breath –

  “Good to see you, old friend.”

  He throws the coat over his stained white t-shirt within a feeling of deep contentment, and puts his hands in the pockets; his tracer is not within them.

  |Shit.. Where the fuck did Solari put it? .. Maybe he still has it on him ... Guess that means I’ll have to go find him.. But is he even still in the building?|

  As he muses, a nervous, burly young soldier emerges from out of the downpouring darkness, and inspects the chamber anxiously, his helmet stained with blood, and upon noticing Seymour tearing through the claustrophobic vault, points his shotgun straight at his face.

  “G-get your hands up, fucker!”

  “Oh. Just a soldier. And why would I do that?”

  “You know why, asshole! Now get your fucking hands up! I’m not screwing around!”

  “Heh, sure. I think you should drop your gun, before you get hurt.”

  “I’m not in the mood to play around!”

  “What a coincidence! Neither am I.”

  “Fine, you asked for it!”

  The soldier pulls the trigger angrily, and Seymour swiftly knocks the barrel’s end out of the way of his face, and points it up to roof. The slug blast blows a massive hole in the ceiling, blanketing the chamber below with dust and debris, while heavy metal cylindrical drums fall through the hole into the room below. Their lids blow off from the impact, saturating the entire vault in a thick, dark-yellowish liquid and dousing Seymour’s flare, causing a momentary, but massive blaze of red flames to burst into the air. Under the cover of the dusty, fiery bedlam, Seymour wrenches the gun from the terrified, soaked soldier’s hands, grabs him by the throat, and roughly forces him up against the wall.

  “See now, look where you are. See what happens when you disobey your commanding officer?”

  “W-what?”

  “Heh.. More muscle than mind, this one has.. Very well, just tell me this. Where can I find General Vincent Solari?”

  “G-General Solari? He l-left DIV. 7 a-about ten minutes before t-the fire alarm was pulled..”

  “Where did he go?”

  “A-all I heard was that h-he was leaving for the D-DIV. 8 M.D. in downtown Liberty District.. I don’t k-know if it’s true though.. P-please! L-let me down!”

  “Patience is a virtue, soldier. Just one more thing. Why did he leave?”

  “I-I don’t know, man.. Please.. I-I can’t b-breathe!”

  “Hm. I see.. Thank you for the info. Now here is your reward.”

  Grabbing a fallen sharpened rebar, Seymour forces it deeply into the wall beside the soldier’s neck. He bends the rebar tightly around his throat, garroting him securely to the wall. Searching the ground, while the terrified soldier desperately tries to kick himself free from the wall, Seymour traces a finger through the dark, yellowish liquid blanketing the ground, and smells it curiously.

  “Hm.. Petroleum. Heheh.. What luck.”

  He effortlessly lifts a heavy open drum into the air, and pours the entire barrel’s worth of petroleum onto the terrified soldier. As the doused soldier frantically gasps for air, Seymour swiftly grabs two nearby flares on the ground, and splits their lids, sparking more luminous, bright-red blazes. He places the dancing, white-hot flares beneath the petrified soldier’s suspended pant legs, which are soaked in the petroleum.

  “Now then, I must be on my way, so just wait patiently until your clothes catch flame, and then maybe you’ll realize, while your flesh is cooking away, what the consequences of pulling a gun on your commanding officer are.”

  “No, p-please man.. Please.. I-I don’t w-want to die!”

  “But why would you join the PRIME if you didn’t want to die? That’s just foolish, soldier.
”

  ““I-I was just in it for the power, m-man! L-look, I-I’ll do anything you w-want, man! J-just l-let me down!”

  Seymour leans causally against the wall next to the garroted soldier, smiling viciously as he kicks forcefully against the wall, absolutely beside himself with terror, while the flames quickly and quietly start to catch on his pant legs. The soldier lets out a loud, horrified whimper, and Seymour laughs fiercely at him before saying calmly –

  “Don’t spend your last moments begging. It cheapens us both.”

  “C-c’mon, man.. H-have a heart…”

  “Ah hah.. You make me laugh.”

  Swiftly pulling the soldier’s helmet off and removing his jade PRIME soldier’s jacket, Seymour slips the helmet onto his shining, white-haired head, and takes off his own coat. In the instant when he pulls off his long black cloak, he catches a small glimpse of the strange black brands burnt upon the flesh on both his forearms. Staring at them absently, he shakes his head to clear his suddenly distracted mind, and dons the PRIME jacket without further hesitation, making sure that the sleeves fully conceal the curious stigmas upon his forearms. He grabs a nearby shoulder bag full of various contraband objects, unceremoniously dumps the objects on the ground, stuffs his own coat inside, and slings it over his back. Upon exiting the vault, Seymour takes one last look at the garroted soldier, and smiles at the sight of the soldier’s horrified, tear-stained face through his pilfered helmet.

  “You’re dismissed, soldier.”

  Seymour exits the office into the dark, waterlogged corridor, and it is suddenly filled with horrid, anguished screams of indescribable agony, as the young soldier mounted to the wall burns alive. The pungent smell of cooking flesh soon fills the hallway as Seymour continues to calmly ascend the facility, resuming his slaughter, and makes his way towards the exit. Approaching the emergency exit at the very end of the long, dark corridor, feeling that his conspicuously atypical hair will arouse suspicion to the soldiers outside, Seymour ties his long white hair up under his bloodstained helmet, makes sure the black choker on his throat is tight, hitches up his bag, and finally strides out into the parking lot of DIV. 7, where soaked, disgruntled-looking troops angrily load countless drenched and bloodied-up inmates into the backs of APCs. Cautiously searching for Solari through the bedlam, Seymour finds a Sergeant standing near a full APC, exasperatedly shouting orders to his grunts. Putting on his best grunt voice, Seymour approaches the Sergeant warily, whose eyes momentarily flick towards Seymour, and continues shouting orders.