Saint Augustine's Light

There's a place they don't want me to know about. A place they don't want you to know about.

There's a man-made island somewhere off the coast of North Carolina. The government constructed it in secret roughly fifty years ago. You won't find it through satellite images or in any textbook. Out of sight, out of mind, just out of reach of the law sitting in those balmy international waters. It looks just like any untouched tropical paradise from the outside, but you'd be dead before you even got close enough to get a good look.

For years, I stood alongside my brothers and sisters in protest. I endured the shouts, the tear gas and rubber bullets, watched as those around me were beaten unconscious and carried off on stretchers. Protest gave away to conflict, activism faded and sabotage took its place. Rubber bullets turned to real bullets as we took back laboratories by force. The purist movement was never popular with the general public - and I certainly can't blame them. If I didn't let them spoon-feed me lies about longevity and miracle cures, I would be content to stay at home letting it all blow over for a better future. They don't want to talk about those tossed aside and mercilessly churned in the cogs of a society who now has a new benchmark of perfection to leverage war with. Nobody wants to address the downsides of embracing new advances, even if it's costing money and lives to get there.

I have come too far to turn back. The Project was said to have been shut down years ago, but my last raid turned up some documents discussing a secretive laboratory on this secluded island. Beneath the sandbar, nestled between the bedrock and surrounded by water, their dreadful research continues. I refuse to let these operations continue; I refuse to let years of fighting be all for naught.

I pull the lead-lined blanket off of myself and look up at the blood-red sunset above. The Geiger counter now slowly ticks time away. Not very long ago, our associates may have detonated a nuclear warhead somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean's vast expanse. If the math's correct, the EMP should have knocked any security systems offline out here, and I can get on this island alive.

I'm alive and approaching the sandy shore. Nothing's shot me yet. I have about three hours until fallout levels become lethal. I'm going to get to the bottom of this.

A dedicated activist for the Human Purity movement approaches the shores of the clandestine tropical island. It is covered in dense foliage, with a slight wind dancing through the trees. The blackened clouds from the blast are drifting ominously in the distance. Equipped with a pistol, eight bullets, a Geiger counter, and some iodine pills, the activist anchors his boat to a nearby rock and gets on land. Not far now.

But who is our intrepid hero?

>_

Show Content

SpoilerHey it's me again.

It's a text adventure. I'm looking to update once a day, or maybe a little more. I might extend reply times to write longer passages.

a dedicated activist for the human purity movement equipped with a pistol, eight bullets, a geiger counter, and some iodine pills

>Doctor Eva Grace, field researcher

our hero is impure, even by the standards of the impure. they will always have a limp. they cannot grow hair. they have one eye, one nostril, and a stutter. at least braces help with the horrifically misaligned teeth. their flesh is so generally mangled and malformed nobody can ever tell their gender until they say, which they consider a blessing. you might think they would look at their face in the mirror and think "i am hideous. i am god's mistake, an undercooked lump of clay that's been left out in the sun too long." they don't. they think, "i am pure. i am the perfection humanity has been striving for." it's only half-sarcastic; if pushed they can extend on that thought at length.

our hero is a father. was a father. was a husband. was a drunk. is a drunk. now all he has to his name is this boat and a minifridge and he is still not ready to admit to himself why exactly she left him. he pours some more jim bean down his gullet as he pours himself deeper into his principled protest. distraction, all of it

our hero only got to go on this expedition because she's the one that bankrolled it. for her, it is as tourism. principles, in her world, are a liability, so she takes care to have none, even though she knows that the checks she cashes are signed in blood. she might not even realize that her principles, in their world, in the leadership positions of their little protest group, are a mere novelty to her, adopted only when it was popularly convenient, after the bodies have been buried. she likes the adventure, the power, the pulling of ones over, the respect. she is about to find out how little she has of the last, having been sent on this suicide mission.

>Doctor Eva Grace, field researcher

our hero only got to go on this expedition because she's the one that bankrolled it. for her, it is as tourism. principles, in her world, are a liability, so she takes care to have none, even though she knows that the checks she cashes are signed in blood. she might not even realize that her principles, in their world, in the leadership positions of their little protest group, are a mere novelty to her, adopted only when it was popularly convenient, after the bodies have been buried. she likes the adventure, the power, the pulling of ones over, the respect. she is about to find out how little she has of the last, having been sent on this suicide mission.

It was not too long ago Eva Grace had graduated from Columbia, a (metaphorically) bright-eyed physician recovering from twelve years of insomnia and study. The research she began, however, lead to the alarming experiments of human genome modification she fights against to this day. When peaceful protest and information campaigns failed, things turned violet. Eva has since continued to walk the path of aggression, principle a thing of the past. It's too late to roll back, retire, and get away from it all. Too high a price has been paid to simply walk away. Especially not after a high-altitude nuclear detonation has taken place - that's quite illegal, and not just in the United States.

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a quote from her father resonates deeply. Eva searches herself, struggling to find the words...

a dedicated activist for the human purity movement equipped with a pistol, eight bullets, a geiger counter, and some iodine pills

... The first rule of tautology club is the first rule of tautology club.

Wait, that's not it. The words elude you. But now is not the time for jokes, games, or reminiscence. The Project must be stopped. Hair tied back, clothing dry, weapon loaded, radiation levels slowly rising - the stage is set.

Into the underbrush she goes.

Elsewhere, within a forgotten laboratory beneath a secluded island, a scientist carefully thimbles through his superior's papers.

our hero is a father. was a father. was a husband. was a drunk. is a drunk. now all he has to his name is this boat and a minifridge and he is still not ready to admit to himself why exactly she left him. he pours some more jim bean down his gullet as he pours himself deeper into his principled protest. distraction, all of it

A half-eaten sandwich lies on the desk, awaiting consumption. Empty bottles of beer litter the floor, covering what paper and wires do not. A dim blue light flickers above, its power fading. Maybe that rumbling in the distance was an earthquake taking out the fiber cable supplying the island with energy and Internet. It won't be trouble for long - it's only a few days until he gets to go home for a while.

He does not understand what has become of the Project in recent years. Ever since leadership turned over, things have stagnated to a halt. The food stores below dwindle slowly as research fails to proceed under their ineffective leadership. Their director, self-identified as the High Transmogrifier, drinks to forget everything. Bank statements show the loss of assets. A paper trail of divorce documents shows a relationship decline. He opens the drawers, only to find manga in place of important scientific documents.

A greasy phone adorns the desk. It goes off, the backlight screen showing the finger-swipe pattern to unlock it. Curiosity overcomes him, and he opens his superior's phone to an upsetting, but expected, message from his wife. "If only you loved me as much as you loved 2D girls," it reads. You feel bad. The stress of the job has permeated his life beyond the Project.

our hero is impure, even by the standards of the impure. they will always have a limp. they cannot grow hair. they have one eye, one nostril, and a stutter...

No. He stops himself. It is bad luck to think of the last Director, the former High Transmogrifier. All of that man's research on fusing cockroach and tardigrade genes with the human genome to develop radiation resistance left the instant that experiment went wrong. They took him, barely a man, away on a helicopter. Never again was he heard from. In his stead came the greasy, paranoid alcoholic and the downfall of something great.

There is a shuffle, then a knock. The scientist jumps in his skin, only to turn around and see it's the janitor again. Gray haired, elderly, and ever-sarcastic, he glares into the scientist's eyes and cracks a knowing smirk.

"Going through Boss's stuff again, huh?"

"no. it's more like digging through a crime scene in a junkyard. it is very reassuring and refreshing that this man in charge of me who i once looked up to is such a pathetic mess."

"no. it's more like digging through a crime scene in a junkyard. it is very reassuring and refreshing that this man in charge of me who i once looked up to is such a pathetic mess."

"Best be careful. He's still here with the rest of us. Probably got lost in the walk-in freezer again."

Regardless of his shenanigans, the current High Transmogrifier has been preparing something in secret. Neither the scientist nor the janitor have been able to access the main laboratory for a few days now.

There's some concern over what the High Transmogrifier is doing with The Crucible - a Escher-like contraption of machines, wires, and filament tubes that operates like a biological 3D printer. Nothing suspicious can be going on with this unstable, flickering power. It takes far longer than three minutes of uninterrupted power to produce even a new ear from cartilage.

ok