Chapter 1. Blackwell

Officer Blackwell keeps a close eye on the floors of the CRYPT, it was only a matter of time before he found an issue...

Officer Blackwell sits with his legs crossed, perched upon the desk. His feet lazily spread across the paper already dirt speckled from being on the field for far too long. He sighs as the wind from the fan turns back onto him, the papers bending but not escaping as it sweeps across the table. He has been there for a solid nineteen hours, who was to blame him that he might be a bit exhausted and maybe even over extended. But it wasn't often his boss had him stay for so long, plus, he is getting paid double for each extra hour he was forced to watch over the damn building. 

"Report back in, Blackwell, over." He hears echo from his walkie talkie, you'd think that a hundred plus years in the future they would've found a better way to communicate over short distances rather than using radio waves. There is already enough data and frequencies jamming the atmosphere. Blackwell catches himself just before closing his eyes, grabbing the walkie talkie from upside down and bringing it up to his face, brushing it against his five o clock shadow. 

"Blackwell, over." He says just after clearing his throat from a hardy swig of liquor he kept deep in the drawer of the desk. He fiddles with the lid as he awaits a response, shoving the rum back into the desk and wiping away the stench from his mustache. 

"I said report, over." The voice calls back, a tinge of fear in his tone. Blackwell flips the cameras, the first one shows the business class, cubicles filled with sticky notes and photos of families and their children. It was rare there was ever an anomaly occurring there, but it was safe to check, considering it's his job. 

The second camera shows the bank just above it, filled to the brim with people, even as late as three in the morning. People stand with suitcases and bags, readying themselves for whatever business they had to attend to the following morning. A sight he loved to see was the execution of those who attempted to rob the bank, often ending with NERO swooping in and beating them to death swiftly. It always put a grin on his face to see another dirtbag mauled to death by the angles of the death. It was also not very often something strange occured on this floor, possibly because of high NERO pressense. 

The third camera consisted of a museum, packed with relics from the early 2000's and going back as far as history could recover. The Museum also known as The Station is known for its fair share of controversial anomalies, ones that often ended with the The Station being left in ruin to be tampered with by some poor underpaid workers. But as far as Blackwell could see, everything was intact, which was good because he wouldn't have looked forward to calling NERO for the third time about an incident. 

"Everything is fine, over." Blackwell groans into the walkie, his eyes fluttering in an attempt to stay awake and conscious. He had his fair share of times where he was tired at work, or didn't get enough sleep, but this was different. An overwhelming sense of dismay took hold of his mind as he tried to remain mentally competent. 

"Check ALL of the camera's, Blackwell. Over." The voice said, now seeming even more urgent and disrupted. He hadn't heard someone on the other side so stressed since an anomaly that almost destroyed all of the CRYPT. A situation all too possible thanks to new NERO regulations that allow for more and more unregistered businesses to set up shop wherever and however they please. Blackwell begrudgingly continues to flick through the hundred different channels, one channel for each floor after channel twenty it is just floor after floor of local businesses. 

Floor Forty Five catches his eye, he stops to examine as a figure stands at the edge of the railing. His body pushing against the guard, almost begging for it to break at his weight. A jumper, perhaps, he thinks to himself. 

"We've got a jumper on Forty Five. Over." Blackwell reports, his eyes squinting at the man who now holds his arms out, testing the wind, perhaps even challenging it. It isn't that anyone will stop him, but it still needs to be reported for data. 

"Is the jumper wearing..." the radio cuts for a brief moment. "Black jacket, NO Cnet." The voice cuts away, it takes him a moment to realize that he was done talking because he had forgotten to say 'over', and didn't end the question as if it was even a question but rather an answering machine listing off random articles of clothing. Regardless he looks at the man deeper, and the description matches, a black jacket and no Cnet.

"Description matches, what precautions are necessary?" He responds, half expecting or rather hoping that they would simply leave it be. But to his dismay, the walkie sparks to life. 

"Engage." The voice says, devoid of emotion or attitude, as if they were pushing a button rather than making an actual life changing decision. Blackwell's throat dries, his eyes slowly closing for a moment of thought. He contemplates the possibilities, had he been drugged? Was he asleep? 

"Just to confirm, you want me to engage the unarmed jumper?" Blackwell says, his voice stern and his mind bewildered. He looks up at the younger man standing across the room, his eyes meeting him. The young man's name is Clover, at least, that was what the other officers had started calling him when he first arrived. He can see Clover mouth a question along the lines of "what the hell is happening?" but he chooses to ignore it and looks back down at the camera.

"Target could be armed, engage." The officer on the phone says, his voice had gone from trembling and weak to flat and methodical. There have been many instances of officers doing and asking for unreasonable actions in underwhelming situations, but nothing had made Blackwells skin crawl like the coldness in this officer's voice. There is no chance in hell he was about to have NERO on his a*s so he knows what he has to do.

"Copy that. Engaging, over." Blackwell submits, wincing in frustration and looking up at Clover who was already preparing his gun. Classic rookie officer situation, wants all the action they can get but will learn the hard way that the best days in the office are the ones where you're just looking at cameras. 

"Over what?" The voice beacons, making both Blackwell and Clover stop in their tracks as they had both stepped into the Cnet platform. Clover's face flushes white, for no real good reason, but even Blackwell can feel the unsettling stigma in the air. 

"Nothing, we are preparing to engage." He carefully avoids using proper lingo, a tinge of confusion shown through the twitch of his brow. Clover reaches over him and presses the button for floor Forty Five, and within moments they feel the pressure of entering Cnet take hold and then release. Like the feeling of when you stand up too fast after sitting down for a long period of time, leaving white fuzz in your already blurry vision. But as soon as the feeling comes it goes and they are left standing on the Cnet platform with both their hands on their guns, Clover being first to raise it. The wind instantly takes hold, the open air blowing through the empty platform, all the shops closed and locked for the night. All that lights the way is the industrial hellfire below, Clover edging close to the balcony and looking down the CRYPT. The smell of burning material hangs in the air like a thick smog, mostly because it is a thick smog. Some parts of the city it is nearly impossible to see your own hand through the muck. 

"North east side, unstationary supposedly." Blackwell expresses, quietly motioning for Clover to stay a few steps behind him, too much paperwork if his head was blown off while he was his partner on duty. A loud sound of metal grinding against metal reverberates around the corner a few dozen feet away at the north end.

"Fire at will?" Clover puzzles, his finger tapping the side of his gun, readied at full extent, only slightly worrying Blackwell who could very well end up being shot in the back of the head by his own partner if he was incompetent enough. 

"He said engage." He replies only partly mockingly, it wasn't often he felt so uncertain of what he was doing. But if it meant less trips from NERO he was going to do what he was told regardless of how strange the order may be. Clover gives him a weak nod in return, an obvious tough guy facade printed on his face like a Q-TAT, which is just a fancy device that scans skin and implants a tattoo instantly. 

They eagerly march forwards, Blackwell feels the thickness of the air clog his throat. Flashing lights from the neon signs suddenly spark to life, allowing them to examine the floor below them. Which is dotted with blood leading towards the noise. Go figure he thinks to himself.

The Cnet blinks on Clover's head, he presses a finger to his temple, scanning the Cnet for what it was trying to communicate to him. He sighs as he seems to reach a conclusion on his search, opening his eyes and pointing to the alley way that cuts to the opposite side of the stores. 

They both carefully enter the alley, a division between the pure cold cut metal walls that are the businesses that keep the CRYPT alive. It is it's blood, and the temple at the top it's brain. The tower is a home for most everyone left in the city of Saint Louis, known only as the CRYPT it's divided into hundreds of floors from living spaces to businesses, to banks to restaurants, and even several floors dedicated to being burial grounds. Or rather, pods that house millions of combined ash piles of the dead. 

They reach the edge of the alley, both pressing into the wall and sliding elegantly to the peak. Blackwell turns his head to look down the plot, to his surprise one of the stores had left a red flood light on that reflected off the metallic floor allowing them to see the man standing at the railing. 

His head is low and his hands are gripping the guards, his legs kicked out pushing against it for support. A stifling is heard and he straightens his back, taking in a deep breath and allowing his feet to shift back in place.

Blackwell can feel the stress leaking from Clover just behind him, unable to see the target clearly making him nervous. 

"Eyes on him?" Clover whispers, to which Blackwell snaps his finger at him to be quiet, but follows with a slow nod. But what should have made him content only makes him more restless, his feet shuffling noisily at the uncomfortable position. 

Without warning, the flood lights start to flicker, the man doesn't seem bothered other than putting his hands over his face. It isn't till he turns and looks directly at him that Blackwell feels the pressure of his finger yank the trigger as an image is forced into his vision via his Cnet.

"I am the root of all your troubles in life." The boy resumes, rubbing his face after the blow. His eyes red with tiredness and his face even more red with pain. The drunken father stands over the kid with a menacing look, a grin of satisfaction of his ability to manipulate a child mentally.

"Say it again, for dadda." He mocks, barely able to put the words together, the moonshine stirring in his hand and throat. The boy shuffles awkwardly, pinched in the corner with no real escape. He smells his father and his odorus body, a stench of pure acidic liquor and stale cigars. 

"I'm the root of all your troubl-!" He is cut off by the swift slap of his father's hand, his body tensing under the pain and quivering deeper into the corner. 

"I AM the root of all your troubles in life, not 'I'm' you lazy MUTT!" And before the man could strike again his vision blurs.

Blackwell stands in the middle of the open platform, the lights reflecting off his eyes blindingly. But now he stands in the center of the room, as for the man, who now wields a sword in hand. Makeshift, scrap from broken down items forged into cheap weapons, often seen throughout the floors' petty resistances. 

"You...did that?" Blackwell croaks out, his throat dry as he looks up at the man facing him. His expression is cold and his gaze unwavered. He had never once in his twenty years on the field encountered a hacker good enough to transmit memories into someone else's Cnet. Clover stands still in the alley observing, or paraylzed with fear beyond the point of functionality. 

"What did you see?" The voice echoed, sounding that of the operator on the other side of the walkie. Blackwells blood chills, sweat begins to beam down his forehead as he grips the gun, the shot he had fired previously seemingly had missed. He struggles with the idea of telling the truth, what if what he saw was important to whatever mysterious plot he clearly has? 

"WHAT DID YOU SEE, BLACKWELL?" The man screams, his dampered radio tuned voice scratching at the stress of his query. He waves his hand and Clover is sent sprawling into the open space, his head clashing against the solid ground and colliding with the railing, harshly coming to a stop. His body motionless, no attempt to recover from his sudden whiplash. Blackwell doesn't look, he tries his hardest to remain calm, which was proving easier than he thought despite the circumstances. But somehow, he felt the truth crawl up his throat.

"It was a child." He pauses, tears swelling in his eyes, the red lights casting refractions.

"What about the child, was it strange?" He presses, taking slow steps towards Blackwell. A strange sensation washes over him, every instinct to fire his gun is utterly suppressed. Whether it's his own body doing it or something else, he isn't sure. He bites his tongue in an attempt to remain silent but his lips move without consent. 

"The child was beaten." He mutters through his teeth, the man taking slow steps through the solid red light, a light so dense and powerful it makes his skin glow the devilish shade. An image burned into his head, the image of a sword wielding devil approaching him. 

"Why was the child beaten?" The man askes, stopping dead center at the peak of the lights reach, a soft dimness reflecting off his back. 

"The dad was drunk, I could smell the liquor spill off his tongue." Blackwell says, his eyes glassy, all he can see is red. 

"Come here." The man calls, his voice cutting out like a radio transmission being disrupted. And so he listens, taking mindless steps until he finally stands center inside the light, his arms stuck to his side, mentally bound to his torso.

"Your orders come from me, and me only" He whispers, their eyes struggling to stay connected as Blackwell tries to take hold of his body. But all he can release in return is a nod. And before he knew it, he awoke. 

Blackwell awakes to the sound of screaming, though his eyes open, the lights are off. But he can feel the breeze of his fan, and the familiar smell of his office. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark, but the exit sign above their door begins to illuminate the room, and Blackwell can see Clover across the room twisting and contorting himself into the wall in desperation to get away from something. 

He gets up from his desk, stumbling past the chairs and desks over to Clover who gives him a manic look in the midst of his panic, but Blackwell grabs his arms, pulls him up off his seat and holds him still despite his intense struggle. 

"Clover, what happened?" He yells, gripping him harder and pulling him closer to the light, eventually letting go of him to search for the light switch. Clover grabs hold of a table and leans against it, his screaming and thrashing turning into a fit of hyperventilation. His hands grabbing at his throat and rubbing his head.

Blackwell tries to flip the switch but nothing happens, strange considering the fan and computers still seemed to work, so the power hadn't gone out. He begins to walk around the room, remembering the flashlight strapped to his hip, flashing it over at Clover who winces and covers his face in fear. He feels little sympathy for the boy, but more so for what might be occurring for the entirety of the CRYPT. 

"Get a hold of the captain, Clover." He says, hoping it would snap him out of his panic attack, but it doesn't, he only seems to disassociate more and slowly fall to the ground with his hands still sprawled across the desk. 

"Clover! Damnit!" Blackwell yells, walking back over and shoving his arm underneath his and pulling him up. Giving him a harsh push in the direction of the radio and computer. 

"Give a status report, now!" He demands, heading for the exit. "I need to check the floor." He mutters as he pushes the door open, swinging it violently. 

A long hallway stretches out before him, dimly lit red lights flashing above each door every few feet. He's just had about enough of the red lights, growling as he paces down the hall and reaches the staircase door. Barging through it, he grabs the railing and looks down it, hundreds of floors below and above him, red lights all the way up and down.

"Clover, report, over." He says into his walkie. Silence. 

"TEETH! THE TEETH!" A voice screams over the walkie, making Blackwell jump, the feedback piercing his ears. In a moment of shock he drops the walkie, watching it bounce off the floor and slide through the railing and down the stairs, clattering a few stories below thanks to the angle it fell. 

Blackwell curses under his breath, kicking the railing making it vibrate loudly. Taking a deep breath, he starts to jog down the stairs, hearing sounds echo through the staircase from the walkie. A voice screaming out random things in a pleading manner. The voice becomes more clear as Blackwell comes closer to the floor where the walkie lays. 

"TEETH, HIS TEETH!" The voice rambles on repeat, and even as Blackwell stands over the walkie, he can't seem to tell who's voice it is. 

"Who is this?" Blackwell asks, picking up the walkie. 

"I'm glad you're awake, I'm sorry for the scare." The voice shifts to the familiar tone of the man that just attacked them. Blackwell tries to speak, tries to curse the voice into oblivion, but his vision blurs. 

The overgrowth feeds through the shattered window high up on the wall in the public bathroom. A beautiful green cascade of light and shimmering god rays left to dance on the walls thanks to the coverage. No matter the time of day, the bathroom looked better than it did before everything had gone bad. Before the world fought themselves for oil and land, blood shed and bone splintered for the smallest amount of liquid gold possible. Enough to keep select cities running for a few days.

There came a time where technology could not keep up with the rapidly depleting resources left on Earth. Solar panels became a necessity, but a luxury. Anyone that had them was ripped apart in the streets, and almost always they failed to get the panel over the wave of flesh fighting over it. Oftentimes destroying it. Symbolic for their current predicament. 

What was the solution? Build a civilization capable of sustaining itself, a world devoid of life, true life. The CRYPT. A skyscraper reaching so high that it is seen as the world's next north star, as the sky is too murky to view the stars.

Every square inch of the floor, anything untouched by the CRYPT is factory, machinery, metal behemoths forced to work till their engines refuse to run. Slums, houses made from scraps of metal weave between each and every factory. The roads are thin strips of dirt between the metal traps. Tree's are nonexistent, and grass was stomped away a long time ago, any and all nature stripped from the earth's soil.

The air is unbreathable, every human left on earth that isn't within the CRYPT's field, wears a gas mask. Only people left on the ground floor that can't afford the luxury or luck of being pulled into the CRYPT are left to work in the factories, or die. Filters for your gas mask have become a currency, those who live without it slowly choke to death on the brimstone and ash, leaving the streets covered with soot and dead bodies. 

But still, Johnathan finds himself at peace. Remembering the time when he could sit in that bathroom and let the light dip down the wall and kiss his face. A feeling he would not soon forget, a feeling much better than the constant lump in his throat that bubbled like a fiery stew. 

He pounds his chest and lets out an unruly cough, slipping his hand into his gas mask to feel if it was blood. Sighing in relief as he pulls his hand back to see nothing. Taking a deep breath in to make up for the slight exposure of checking his mask. 

"Johnny, check the basket again." His mother calls, walking inside, a bag slung over her shoulder. Johnathan nods, grabbing the table in their shack and pulling himself up from underneath it. His mom lays down the bag, digging her hand around. She pulls out several fish and lays them down on the table. 

"Please hurry." She says, muffled through the mask. He nods again, and heads outside. Only a foot of distance between the entrance of their house and the back wall of a factory, a large thick metal wall that seems impossible to penetrate. He thinly squeezes himself to the side of the house, where he slips in between him and the other slum house, even less space to be given. 

He hurries along the edge of the metal sheeted wall, until shoulder blades poke the ladder. He presses his arms close together and turns around, grabbing a hold of the ladder and hoisting himself up. The house isn't very tall, and the roof isn't very sturdy, but at the top a basket awaits him. So with zero complaint, he carefully walks across the roof, feeling the metal bend beneath his weight. Each creak of the house made him pause and check his footing. 

"Johnny!" His mother shouts from below. He remains silent, best to save his breath. He grabs hold of the basket, the contents inside fully dried. He slides the basket to the edge of the roof, looking down at the small wedge between the entrance and the factory. He looks up the wall, the factory towering over them by at least a few dozen feet. He reaches out his hand and feels the cold metal, the vibrations of the machinery inside almost act as a white noise for his clouded head. 

"Johnny for the love of God!" She yells, even though she strongly protests the idea of a god. 'God wouldn't let this happen to our world' she cries every time someone tries to shed the slightest amount of hope. Johnathan doesn't care, he never has. Not his problem. 

He grabs the rope and ties it around the basket handle, being careful as to make it a good knot so nothing spills out. Biting his lip, he lowers the basket down to the floor, just wide enough that it doesn't get pinched between the walls.

Almost instantly as it hits the matted down dirt floor, a man runs out from their house and swipes the basket. Running down the road as fast as he can. The rope still attached, it yanks Johnathan, his head hitting the wall of the factory and pulling him several feet to the ground, landing on his arm with a crunch. 

He lets out an ungodly scream, his mask having been left behind on the roof from the tug. He grabs at his throat, desperate for the air that had been stolen from him, and now, was never going to come back due to the air's rotten sting. 

Rolling onto his stomach he tries to crawl for the house, his body already half inside of it. But he pauses as he sees something. His mother sprawled out on the floor, blood pooling around her body. Her mask had been stolen, ripped off violently to be sold. His eyes widen, and realizes he is alone. 

Swallowing the pain, he pushes himself up with his one arm, again using the table to help himself up. His eyes begin to sting from the air and the tears swell up making it hard for him to see. He turns around and keeps against the factory wall, gasping for air, each breath a jab in the throat while painfully providing another waking moment. 

He squeezes himself in between the houses again, each breath becoming even harder with the pressure on his chest from the opposite house. He clutches his arm, trying to hug the ladder and only use one hand to get to the top, and after a while of struggle, he does. Laying flat on his back as he makes it to the top, he wiggles his way to the center of the roof where his mask was left behind, quickly sliding it back on, taking in a desperate breath of 'fresh' air. 

"MOM!" He screams, banging on the roof with his hand. 

"MOM GET UP!" He yells again, rolling over to pound harder on the thin metal sheet. 

Blackwell awakes, his body half hanging over the railing, looking down into the spiral of red lights and darkness below. Vomiting down into the abyss, he pulls away and leans against the wall, slowly sliding down until he's hugging his legs in confusion and horror. But he suddenly remembers. 

"You did that, again!" He says into the walkie. 

"I showed you what it's like, for the REAL humans of this world." The voice returns, snarkily. 

"You're from below?" Blackwell asks, sitting himself up straight as the lights flicker. 

"I am much more than someone from Below." He replies, his voice sinister, jagged. 

"Then what are you?" Blackwell pleads, his hands gripping the walkie harder than he thought, hearing the crack of the plastic. 

"Nero." 

"What do you mean? NERO isn't a person!" Blackwell starts to go further down the stairs, making his way to the next police station. NERO has been in control of the country since Fallday, they built the CRYPT and maintained it. Standing as a private militia that acts on its own terms rather than being swayed by money. After years, the government had collapsed, and what would have been total anarchy was already being salvaged by NERO. Not to say they aren't without their faults, being known to be extremely brutal in their punishments and even more secretive than the US government had been before it all. So to say you are NERO understandably doesn't make any coherent sense. 

"You've seen my power, you've experienced it. In time I will reveal more, but for now, you will call me Nero" Nero says, his voice becoming more static as he goes down more and more flights. 

Author's Note

I made this chapter awhile ago and was wondering if it needed some tweaking, please let me know!

Reviews

[Pooka]

Thought this was going to just be syfy, so I was excited for the supernatural twist at the end! Very intriguing concept too. Would love to read more :)

[sam2es]

Thank you for taking the time to read this all! I appreciate the feedback, yeah I wanted to add a more paranormal aspect to it, but you'll learn what it really is in the future ;)