Act 1: Task Force Batalic
Hello there! My name is Kufa Vampir but others call me as General_Dead, a covert operative of the “Batalic″ Task Force and its 13th Overseer from the Armed-Hazmat Cleanup Corps. in Murmansk, Russia. We are trained and brought up in such a way that we are non-susceptible to any human emotions. Today is the year 2088 and it all started one day, a cold winter dawn and eternal solace after a hectic schedule of heavy field work. Our lives as Batalic operatives were a lie and everything was built up as a cover-story for the media but none knew about us.
Well then, that time and that train passed us a long time ago. A rather cold winter’s morning was disrupted by a series of painful events. My session of solace was suddenly interrupted by a broadcast on the TV. The host said that a meteor was going to hit the Earth in 24 hours. It took me no time to contact my headquarters for a status update.
As a “Batalic” Operator our duties to our country are considered to be of great pride and importance. We secure areas of extreme interstellar threat, contain and research the behaviors of some of the most high-profile interstellar/paranormal organisms and we do everything to protect others along with our loved ones. Everything at the cost of saving others, our families and our loved ones. It was a saying our late Company Commander imbibed in all of us, “No Victory Without Sacrifice”.
All this was going to end when the news of the meteor came crashing down in my life and now, the entire story rushed throughout the early morning newspapers like wildfire unlike any of us had seen before. There was mass panic in the streets of Russia, the Military initiatives were on the verge of being deployed, there was talk of the country going into martial law, soldiers were tripled in a short time at the Red Square and Task Force “Red Dawn” came to full force.
Once that happened I knew how my day was going to go out. I packed my stuff, carried my essential equipment, my trust pen and writing pad along with my standard issued firearm, the Makarov. I was picked up by members of the rear echelon guard, the Russian Naval Marines off-coast at the Polyarny Military Port. Along with myself and about a guard detail as big as a Platoon boarded the “Yevchenko”, a guided-missile, sub-hunter destroyer warship. Upon my arrival on the ship I was handed a file named “Classified”.
I didn’t feel I had the energy to read it completely. The long trip at sea for nearly 4 hours and fatigue had both caved into my soul, with their full force. Overwhelmed, I was forced to retreat to my quarters on the back-aft section of the ship to finally be able to take some rest.
