You know how it feels when out of the blue you find yourself in the middle of a blizzard, the wind with persistence worthy of a better cause, tries to throw you out of the rickety shit, that only with a high degree of optimism could be called a scooter, and you, with all of your strength try to keep the saddle and tear vis a vis the storm, despite the fact that you do not expect to find anything specific at the end of your detour? No? Thought so.
My name is Jack. In our Vault we no longer use any family names, since the pool of genes run out. You know, ninety years underground, sealed society, and someone eventually nails his own cousin. We spent more than two hundred. Together with incest there came general reluctance to use the surnames - a psychological trick for us to hate ourselves less. Well, the man will do anything not to feel a monster. Each of us, nevertheless, had a nickname. Most connected with the jobs we performed, but sometimes because of some other qualities. We had Arek the Carpenter, Susan the Midwife, Frank the Bignose. However, as we also had Paul the Thief, Adam the Murderer ... and Jack the Psycho as well. Pleasure to meet you.
According to the Vault's Chief, pathogenic behaviors were caused by containment of our group, and genetic defects. With enthusiasm he preached that we needed new blood, that we needed a breath of fresh air. I hope that someday he'll see the surface and breathe the freezing cold air, trying to make one big hell of an icicle out of your lungs. For me, I had more new fresh air than I ever wanted. And so much of the cold freshnes that it will suffice till the end of my life.
In a nutshell, living space was shrinking, someone had to check whether it's possible to live outside or not. To reduce depletion of the pool of healthy genes, and root out the evil at the same time, filling our prisonlike shelter, a small group of nutso's and criminals were sent to the surface - me included. After three months of vitamin treatment accompanied by irradiation under UV lamps, armed to teeth, equipped with hightech gadgets, we were escorted to, and kicked through the farthest Vault's hatch, which closed behind our backs. Our task was simple - find a new place to live or die trying.
I, personally did not go too far. Despite all the preparations, I still could not get used to this horrible, gross and furiously burning sun, and therefore I gave it a finger and turned my back on it. I travelled in the opposite direction. I haven't even reached the twenty kilometers count on the meter, when I found myself amidst the white hell's performance, and after five more the wind finally made it's point - it threw me out of the scooter and blown me into a snowdrift like a child's toy. If this wasn't enough, my fucking luck caused me to find the only snowdrift within a radius of thirty kilometers, under which the metal door to a Vault lay hidden.
Suit lessened the blow a bit which, however, was strong enough to sound the brass bells and all the angelic choires in my head. Bemused and disoriented, but still sober enough to think, I started looking for shelter from the fury of a blizzard. Luckily, the door to the Vault were not locked from the inside - short wrestling match with that hatch, and I was inside.
The interior was not very friendly, actually - I don't remember much of that day - the only certain thing I remember is the neon reading: 'Medical Bay'. Shaking I hobbled there and dozed off on a ruggy bed. According to the gold watch of my grandfather, I was unconscious for more than twenty hours. Sirens started screaming everywhere, which woke me up, and the annoying flashing red light pierced continously through my eyes. The megaphones from the ceiling communicated with a cool as earths surface womans voice:
Welcome to the Kraków's atomic Vault number thirteen. You have been qualified as an intruder. The full lock-up procedure has been commenced. Air reserves will suffice for up to twenty hours. Reserves of clean water have been exhausted. If you are a lawful resident of the Vault, enter the access code in the central computer. Have a nice day.
If I wasn't a bit saddened by the fact of my imminent suffocation, I would lose my cell of the battery because of the bloody communicate repeated every ten minutes. My holophone was dead - with shatterd screen it wasn't as lucky as me when we gatecrashed our way to the party here - I was alone. Fuck, fucking shitheaded shit.
Twenty hours till I breath carbon dioxide. I had to get out of here...
We are looking for artists. Right now our team consists of two part-time 3d modelers, and me - a designer, programmer and leader. We have open spots for:
We have started a new, fresh facebook page for Chain Reaction: Escape. And we need YOU, to like it ;)
We've been looking around for some means of funding the game - be it by business angels, some kind of venture groups or just some individuals with money, that love to play and help develop games. But with great money comes great responsibilities... Or so I was told. Each and every person, that was interested in helping us and loved the project idea, wanted to know if there is niche for the game; if it would sell well. To show them, that people will love the game, we have founded the Facebook page - to gather likes and comments from people all around the globe, that love post-apocalyptic games and would want to see Chain Reaction: Escape happen.
So go ahead! Throw a thumb-up here: www.facebook.com/chainreactionescape
...with new faces, among them our official composer. But still, we need you to help us - commenting, throwing ideas or spreading the word!
Since the first post-apo game (which would be, I guess, Wasteland from '88) we were fed with a vision of world inhabited by mutants, which were the ultimate...
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