Chapter 1 - Miasma
A gaunt-looking young man with pale skin and dark circles under his ashen eyes was sitting in a lavish restaurant. Customers and patrons alike were bewildered with his presence as he chowed on fine cuts of jamon like a starved mutt. It wasn't the slop he had to force down his throat on the daily he, and turds like himself, had back home in the redlight district of Prospect city or the cheap piss they call 'water'. He was ravishing each moment of the real thing.
This assortment of delicacies he was gracing his taste-buds with were only procurable to higher ranked citizens of modern society. It cost most of his savings… well not his per se but the poor man in the suit whose bank card he'd nicked on his way to the city square. Achilles decided to pamper himself to this extent.
It was only reasonable. After all, his life was going to end.
As he licked the porcelain plate clean, letting out an "ahhh…" of satisfaction. A waiter nervously stood as he kept offering the bill like a parakeet hellbent on kicking him out of the damned place. Achilles barely batted an eye as he lackadaisically tapped the bank card on the reader before patting the card on his chest. Glancing at the man as he retorted as if he was talking to a beggar.
"Keep the change…"
Then leaving like it was none of his business. The waiter stood frozen for a moment as he only saw Achilles' retreating form as he stepped through the automatic set of double-doors.
Achilles momentarily coughed violently as the veins at the surface of his neck darkened as his hand clamped over his mouth. As the nausea that followed subsided Achilles glanced at his hand as he noticed his phlegm looking more like dark ichor.
"Well… that's my cue…" He muttered to himself as he put on his face mask, covering his mouth and most of his sickly appearance.
Achilles walked on the clean, cobble pavements of Prospect's city-square as he made his way to the towering police station that stood pridefully. It was a repurposed cathedral so it had the gothic theme going for it.
Achilles craned his head up as his gaze landed on the sight he detested with every cell of his being. Lunaris. The moon colony set up by the upper echelons of society to separate themselves from filth like Achilles. The very same people responsible for trapping many in permanent servitude, making the working class work like filthy dogs before residing in their disgruntled kennels. Achilles despised them not for some noble cause like 'injustice' or 'inequality'. He couldn't care less for what those like him had to live through, he couldn't come to terms to being forced to live like the filthy dogs those in Lunaris wanted him too.
So he promised at that moment, quietly thinking to himself. His eyes narrowing as his eyes laid on the moon, its surface speckled with lights of a society that rejected him.
'If I end up living. I'm tearing it down.'
Achilles then pushed open the glass-door of the precinct, his gaze wandering as he saw an array of wanted posters and events pinned on the notice board. Inside an officer with a bored expression slumped at his desk, his expression turning into that of distaste as his eyes laid on Achilles.
"Boy. What're you here for?"
The question missed Achilles' ears as he stopped before the desk, blankly staring at the weapons arsenal that was barely visible to the hallway to his right.
"Hey! I'm talking to you! You deaf or something?!"
That seemed to get Achilles' attention, his head snapping at the burly officer in front of him. The man was African, at least that's what Achilles made out as the man had a majestic afro with a comb stuck in it, on his black uniform the letters 'PPD' boldly standing out in white, faintly stained by dried blood. He looked tired and annoyed as Achilles replied dankly with a clueless "huh?..."
"Don't make me lock you up for wasting my time! What're you here for, boy?"
Achilles' eyes widened momentarily as he remembered why he was here in the first place. He then hooked his index over the top of his face mask pulling it down as he smirked and stuck out his tongue mockingly.
"As ordered by the Secretary of Defense, Mikaela Reagan, I am here to surrender myself as a carrier of the…"
As if pausing for dramatic effect as the officer's expression slowly paled in recognition.
"Miasma."
The officer stood up as he looked Achilles up and down, his expression more wary and concerned.
"How long've you been infected… Are you close to…"
"Yes. I've been infected for about a fortnight and will probably pass out soon."
The officer bit his lip sharply as his expression went from concern to pure panic as he roughly grabbed the walkie talkie from his desk before bellowing.
"Chief Commissioner we've got an MIA."
—
The Miasma first appeared in the world a century ago. Back then, the planet was just starting to recover from a series of devastating civil wars and subsequent resource wars.
At first, the emergence of this 'Miasma' was declared a global pandemic. People in masses falling deathly ill in a matter of weeks. World governments began ordering quarantines and paranoia grew as rumours that it was a biological weapon of sorts began spreading…
Well they weren't wrong in a way.
As people blacked out from the level of nausea they felt, they fell into a long abnormal slumber, no signs of waking up even after a few days. At that point, Governments panicked and realised that this wasn't a disease in the traditional sense. It was too late to do anything— not that they could do anything in the first place.
When the infected started dying in their sleep, their dead bodies turning into monsters, no one was ready. Thralls quickly overwhelmed global militaries, plunging the world into complete chaos. The quarantines backfired as it led to more bloodshed with infected and civillians cooped up together liked a fucked-up slaughterhouse.
No one knew what the Miasma was, what abilities it harnessed, and how to fight it.
That was until the emergence of the Awakened. Infected that woke up from their slumber with supernatural and superhuman abilities. They put the carnage to a grinding halt with the armaments they gained from the Miasma. Restoring a semblance of control and order to this world.
It was a given there were more such tragedies, that wasn't relevant to Achilles as it served no purpose in helping him survive.
In the perspective of an ordinary Joe being infected was like betting it all on black. A gamble. Children trained in martial arts, armed combat and bushcraft in designated academies in the off-chance they were to be infected. Loaded families hired private tutors to train their children in all sorts of martial arts. Those from the Legacy clans even had access to powerful artifacts, wielding inherited Armaments and Constellations in their first visit to the planet known only as Oblivion.
The richer you were, the higher probability of survival.
Achilles on the other hand, no immediate family and spent another man's wallet (without consent of course) on a lavish meal. Being infected was merely a death sentence handed by the universe as it flipped him off whilst cackling at his misfortune.
—
Mere moments later, Achilles coughed violently before vomiting sickly grey bile into a metal basin. A policeman held it for him, gagging as he looked away as the stench of the wretched bile could make you eat lunch again. Two others were busy laying Achilles down into the pod that could be called his future grave. Metal cuffs locked his arms, wrists, legs and ankles to the cool soft interior of the pod. He was in the basement of the precinct as this room was sealed off from the outside room with a foot thick metal door. Heavily armoured policemen stood gripping their 12-gauges anxiously as they eyed Achilles wary.
Achilles was half-conscious and half trying not to cough out his guts as from the large metal door he entered through, the Chief Commissioner walked in. A man in his late-fifties, a seasoned expression with a killer mustache to compliment it. He had a pair of wiry spectacles that reminded Achilles of a comic book he read as a child. The Chief carefully observed a metallic device being attached to Achilles' head before noting it in his tablet.
Without looking up, "What's your name, kid?'
Taking in a deep breath to dampen the nausea he felt, he tilted his head at the old man.
"Achilles. No last name."
The Chief gave Achilles a deadpan stare, as he retorted "Really?"
Achilles wanted to laugh but only a hazy rasp left his dry throat. "My birth parents never gave me a name. So I picked one out myself; personally I liked the ring."
"Alright… I guess…" The man wearily typed on his tablet as he rolled his eyes.
The Chief continued, "Then I assume you have no immediate family to contact."
Nodding, Achilles replied "Ditto."
The commissioner tapped keys on his tablet as he recorded Achilles' responses, meanwhile the sickly boy in the pod began fading in and out of consciousness but held on.
"How long can you stay awake for?" The Chief asked with a hint of worry.
"Not long—a few minutes at best…" Achilles stammered, his expression paler than when he'd arrived. His grey eyes ringed with inflamed vessels from the sheer force of his coughs.
"Okay okay, we'll have to rush this then. How much do you know about the Miasma?"
Achilles scoffed, barely "As much as anyone else…"
The Chief's gaze sharpened, his voice more stern "Be more specific and don't say what the media says."
"I go into another world of sorts, get a quest and superpowers, kill a few monsters, and Bob's your uncle, you're awakened!" Achilles exaggerated.
"That's one way to put it" a guard nearby muttered, earning a glare from the Chief Commissioner before his gaze landed back on Achilles.
"Listen to every fucking word I say Achilles. Once you fall asleep you will be transmigrated into your first Dread. In there you'll meet monsters, that's a given, and people. Remember these 'people' aren't real. They're trials by the Miasma to test you."
"How do you know they're not real?" Achilles interrupted, his gaze with a hint of curiosity.
The Chief glared at him for a moment before retorting slowly, "Better for your conscience since you might have to kill them."
Achilles nodded understandingly "Ahhhl… I see."
"Pray to whatever God you believe in as you'll need every molecule, I repeat, every molecule of luck once you're in that hellhole. There's a saying that the Miasma is fair; the Dread isn't overwhelmingly hard. They're trials not a death sentence… It'll feel like one though. Since you're disadvantaged since you're… uh…"
"Poor." Achilles dryly added.
A guard in the corner quietly held in his laughter as the exchange seemed comical to him. The Chief nodded as he continued immediately as he saw Achilles' eyes slowly rolling back.
"You get two 'superpowers' once you're in there. A Constellation. An Armament. The Constellation you're given is designed to be extremely vital to your survival in the Dread as well as your Armament. A Constellation is an object you get, pray that it's a weapon as you will have to kill something. An Armament is more like a superpower where your body or mind is augmented in one way or another, maybe you're strong, fast or can read people's minds. Just pray… pray it helps in combat."
Achilles could barely follow along as he made sense of every second word spoken. The Chief continued regardless. "Even if you don't get anything that helps in combat. Whatever you get WILL be useful. It depends how and when you'll use it. There are no bad Constellations or Armaments…"
Achilles nodded as he bit his lip to gain a few extra seconds of consciousness as he felt his body weaken from nausea. The Chief then tapped his finger on the device on Achilles' head. "That's the failsafe in case you fail. If you die in the Dread, I think you know what happens next. So to make sure that doesn't happen. This will send a controlled charge to your cerebellum, killing you before you harm anyone else."
Achilles only groaned in response, coughing as his vision blackened. The chief stepped away as the lid of the pod began to close. The Chief held the gunmetal cross that dangled from his neck as he muttered to no one.
"Try to not die right away, Achilles. We would really appreciate it if you don't make us clean out a pod of another dead body."
Achilles heard none of that as the Miasma took its hold on him and stripped his conscience from his body as it went limp in the pod. The Chief sighed as he gently kissed the cross muttering "God save him."
Everything went black.
No sound. Taste. Sensation of any kind. Then an angelic voice rang out:
[ Greetings to the Miasma Nebula. We shall begin your first Dread… ]