Thread: Cataclysm (BlisteredBlood & darkangel76)

A story of divergence... Suppose if you will, you had everything taken away from you in the blink of an eye, all because of something you had nothing to do with? You had done everything right, or at least what was considered right in the eyes of those you had considered to be your best friends, your loved ones, your significant others and beyond only to watch as they turned their backs on you while you suffered the consequences. Now, you seek your own personal path to redemption. How, you may ask? There's many ways to go about it. But how would you go about it? Would you seek to right the wrongs that were placed upon you through whatever means necessary, even if it meant having to perform some of the most barbaric acts known to man, even as the whole world has fallen to ruin, power lines snap and communication as a whole has ceased? Or, suppose if you were to take the moral high ground and attempted to prove your worth, knowing full well that it would still cost you? But what if you chose neither of these things and instead forged your own path? These and many other questions are ones you must ask yourself. Given the choice, whether to rule a corrupt and failing empire or to challenge the fates for another throw - a better throw - against one's destiny... what was a king to do? But does one even truly have a choice? One can only match, move by move, the machinations of fate... and thus defy the tyrannous stars. - Kain, from Legacy of Kain Defiance You still awake back there, Jackknife? Asked one of the prison guards that was monitoring the transfer of prisoner number 58-016-N2, also known as Jack McKenzie , who would only glare back at the guard with a steely eyed glare. I'm fine, thank you. Jack answered as he then looked back out the window again of the prison bus as it traveled along the I-93 tunnel towards Logan International Airport, which would then send him out on a first-class trip out to California. Folsom Prison would be the final destination. The flight would be leaving at 200pm sharp, and it was 115pm right now. There was just one problem with it. Aside from it being the usual lunchtime rush hour, there was a lot of people out and about that were coming in off of I-95 and and heading in a similar direction. But then again, Fridays were notorious for being bad, especially out here. At this point, traffic through the I-93 tunnel was reduced to a crawl, and the prison bus that he and the few that were legitimately tried and sentenced was wedged into that bumper-to-bumper mess. Don't get smart with me, boy. The guard snarled back at him. Besides, you're already in enough trouble as it is, especially after everything you did to that poor kid. He answered, referring to the court case which inevitably hand him down a guilty verdict for the murder of seven-year-old Oliver Lewis. There was an odd wrinkle within the case, however. But even then, just like the old saying goes, justice was blind. Even with nothing but conjecture and circumstantial evidence, the prosecutors trying the case did everything in their power to put Jack away. And did they ever go the extra mile to make sure that the nail was firmly embedded in that coffin. Jack frowned sharply at that as he looked out the window, trying his absolute hardest to not think about the grave miscarriage of justice, the ineptitude of the judge, the blind contempt of the 12 people who served as a jury of his peers, the puffed up prejudice of the family who blindly accused him of the murder, even though they knew he had nothing to do with it. But yet, their blind anger, their outrage, their feelings over what happened to that child drove them to this. Nobody wanted to look at the facts. Nobody wanted to analyze everything, to pour through all of the evidence and cast doubts on another person who was there, running from the scene of the crime and purposefully barreled right through him. He didn't get the best of all looks at the guy who knocked him over on his way past, but those 12 people, the judge and the scumbag prosecutor and his equally useless defense attorney? Those would be faces he would remember. The driver would look down at his watch, showing it was 117pm. Ah, dammit... He grumbled before reaching up for the radio to call ahead. Dispatch, this is unit 734. We're currently en route to Logan International, but we're stuck in traffic right now, over? He spoke. Unit 734, The dispatcher spoke. This is Dispatch. Deadline's a deadline. We'll get you the time you need, but we're ...making any pr...ses. The driver looked at the radio for a moment, wondering what the cut offs were about before he then shook his head, figuring he might as well suffer this one. 10-4, Dispatch. He concluded the conversation with a rough sigh as he settled back into the seat. Nobody really knew what to think as of right now as traffic continued to slowly slog along. Further into the tunnel they went until the bus and surrounding vehicles eventually come upon a traffic checkpoint that was allowing traffic through. The bus would slowly ease to a stop at this checkpoint. Hey! Not sure if you heard the news, but if you're on your way to Logan, you're gonna have to pass through Dewey Square Tunnel! Something about one of the other ones getting shut down about a few minutes ago because a hunk of concrete dropped on the roof of a car or something! Shouted one of the traffic officers. The driver looked back at the officer and shook his head. You kidding me?! He asked. The traffic officer shrugged his shoulders in response. I don't make the rules around here, pal. I'm just doing my job. He answered. But hey, it's your funeral if you wanna try and get through this mess, huh? The driver would nod before he was permitted through, but not before he would look one more time at the clock radio. 120pm. Goddammit, and now with a hunk of concrete blocking a portion of the road, he had to put up with at least half a dozen convicted criminals who would undoubtedly get a little antsy and start acting up if the shit really hit the fan. On top of this, he had a schedule to keep. Besides, he needed to get back home and start gearing up for the upcoming home game the 4-1 New England Patriots were going to be playing against the 2-3 Cincinnati Bengals the following Sunday. Doubly, since Tom Brady was due back on the field at Gilette Stadium after serving a four-game suspension. Goddammit, Goodell just couldn't keep his hate boner away from ruining everyone else's good time. Further down the tunnel the bus would go before all on the prison bus got a rather prominent eyeful of what was before them. It wasn't just a hunk of concrete that had fallen on a car, but it looked like a whole upper section of the tunnel had broken off! True, there had been quite a few leaks that were reported in the tunnel over the years and they had always been repaired, but this was going to set everything back! Ambulances were pushing in and out of traffic, trying their absolute hardest to get through, and getting a Life-Flight for some of them was going to be extremely difficult. Those that were fortunate to get through sped through the I-93 as fast as possible to save what lives they could. Those that were unfortunate to be caught under all that rubble... Almost nothing could be done. But even then, the few EMTs that wanted to be heroes fought tooth and nail against total inevitability before they were forced off. It was around 130pm when the first tremor shook through the tunnel, causing all of the traffic to come to a dead stop. Everyone stay in your seats! The guard shouted to all those on board, this being two drug peddlers, a violent serial rapist that was on his way to a supermax prison in upstate Colorado that was chained down anyway, two robbers and sitting in the front of the bus was Jack who only looked around for a moment, followed by an immense groan of steel, sharp crackling of concrete and trickles of water. ...The fuck was that? Said one of the drug peddlers in his mother tongue of Spanish. I said stay in your fucking seats! The guard shouted back. It would be the last thing he would say, when a sudden gush of water from the Atlantic Ocean burst through the thick concrete wall and violently t-boned into the side of the bus, along with several cars that were in the immediate vicinity of the bus as it was lurched onto its side. Even though the prisoners and guards on the bus were buckled into their seats were shunted into the side of the bus, two of them smashing headfirst into the window, lacerating their faces severely while another was smashed through it and hung out of it lifelessly with a shard of glass lodged in his throat. Jack was fortunate enough - to a degree - to have fallen out of his seat and dropped into the aisle, slamming backfirst into the wall and knocked himself out when the back of his shaved head hit the wall, groaning out in pain. What would soon wake him back up would be the sensation of water spilling into the bus along with several hundred shards of glass that had scattered into the bus of various lengths and dimensions. 145pm. The I-93 tunnel was flooded, and water was still spilling in. Jack looked to be the only person alive andor conscious as well as able to move around, to a degree. And now, he had to get out of here. He needed to get out of these chains. He had to be free. Moreover, he needed to get away from these psychotic freaks of nature that he had no business to be beside, not after the way the justice system treated him so unfairly. The next ten minutes would see Jack fighting against time and against the surge of water that was constantly spilling in from the Atlantic Ocean. When he finally got the chains and cuffs off of his wrists and ankles, he stood up quickly before he scrambled off the bus and started running, tripping on various bits of rubble as well as people along the way. Time was of the essence, and where would he go mattered little. So long as he was out of the tunnel and on dry land, that's all that mattered.