//------------------------------// // Chapter Two: Rain // Story: The Conversion Bureau: The Archon Project // by Astral Spark //------------------------------// The tall, suited man once again found himself pondering the world beyond his organized, but chaotic office. He'd been doing this a lot lately, especially on late nights such as this. This time, however, his reasoning behind doing so relied solely upon the disturbing, but, to an extent, expected news he had just received from his Head of Security. "Serena, patch me through to Denver." His voice had a distinct edge to it; not that it didn't normally, but regardless, one could tell that something urgent was prying at his vast and experienced mind. Not more than a moment later, the face of a man that he once called his best friend was plastered onto the entirety of his expansive office window. Before the other, visibly anxious man on the window could speak, Martin instead voiced his own immediate concerns. "Carpenter, what the hell just happened out there?" Martin was visibly boiling with frustration and anger. Carpenter stuttered, attempting to discover the correct words in reply. "Five of our birds were just shot down over a 10 kilometer radius, south of Greys Peak. Five scientists... including Dr. Zachary Wyatt Graham, are missing. The rest are either dead, as a result of impact, and those who survived were found, albeit converted. Notably among the converted were Veronica Langsley, Friedrich Adler, Tobias Sanders, and Chelsea Graham. The converts are also unconscious, leading my team to believe that a special serum was used: E-78a. They won't be waking up for another 24 hours." He felt a reassuring feeling flow through him at the fact that many of his top scientists and friends were safe, regardless of species. It was far too late in this crisis to care about what species his scientists were, as long as they were still breathing. However, that feeling was quickly and effectively overwhelmed by the fact that his lead scientist, Zachary Graham, had been captured by what was turning out to be, most definitely, the PER. Turning away from Carpenter, he decided that lingering on the subject was not of his priorities. "Were any others affected by what I'm assuming was a PER assault?" For a stark moment, absolute silence pervaded the sleek office that the man spent the majority of his time in. All of the sudden, the gruff voice of the man on the screen once again berated his ears. "The town of Keystone, sir. Over half of the population was affected. ConSec's taking care of it." Sighing, the tall, dark haired man shut his eyes. "Have the converts brought back to HQ. As for the deceased... follow protocol." "Yes, sir." As the call ended, the window once again beheld the entrancing view of New Roanoke. Martin tiredly ambled over to his desk, and eased himself into it. Rubbing his very slightly wrinkled face with his tired hands, he leaned back in his exotic chair, and closed his eyes. ________ Chelsea was having a dream of a sort. It was that type of dream; not exactly what one would consider a dream, but not far from it either. She wasn't asleep, but she wasn't yet awake. Her mind wandered from topic to pointless topic, only aware of herself lying in bed. For all her oblivious mind knew, she was at home in her warm bed, sleeping in on a Sunday morning, as much of herself that she'd ever be. She dreamed, or thought about being a kid again, playing in a park she was familiar with, yet unfamiliar with, at a school somewhere that could be described in the exact same way. She dreamed about being in college again, sitting in a familiar, yet unfamiliar class that she loved. Finally, she dreamed that she was lying in her bed, sleeping in on a weekend. However, it didn't take long for her semi-conscious mind to discern sub-conscious thought from reality. Her eyes felt heavy, as if her individual eyelids both weighed more than ten pounds. Her ears felt ultra-sensitive, yet somehow retained the feeling of being filled with water. Chelsea could feel her heartbeat everywhere in her body, coupled with an uncomfortable shallow breathing that she couldn't help. Without opening her eyes, she reluctantly shifted in the soft, warm bed. Chelsea's entire body felt... strange, to say the least. The feeling was comparable to waking up after a long nap; groggy and drowsy, coupled with an odd ache that encased her body, and forbade her from movement. She almost whimpered at how dry her mouth was. It felt like she hadn't had anything to drink in weeks, and it was as if someone had dumped a bucket of cinnamon in her mouth. Even her tongue felt numb and achy, just like the rest of her. The lust for water overwhelmed her body's instructions to stay put, and with much effort, she was finally able to open her eyes. However, as soon as she did so, her brain was assaulted by the unfamiliar visual stimuli, and forced them shut again in order to recuperate. Groaning at her body's inability to cooperate, she once again attempted to pry her eyes open with an invisible crowbar. With one final effort, she fought to keep her eyes from closing again. Before she could investigate her surroundings, something immediately hit Chelsea as relatively strange. After opening her eyes again, the first thing she could see was a picture of her mom on the dresser across from her bed. Normally, without her contacts the image would be extremely blurry. However, at the moment, the image was crystal clear. What? She knew that she wasn't wearing her contacts. She couldn't have been. She'd been without her contacts for days, not having time to pick them up due to the conventions. She'd resorted to wearing her glasses for the past five days, and she was positive that she didn't go to sleep with them on. Befuddled, she slowly lifted her hand up to feel for her glasses. As her supposed hand touched the side of her face, her brow furrowed due to the multitude of strange sensations assaulting her brain. Her immediate reaction and proceeding conclusion was that she had slept on her hand long enough to damage her nerves. However, that conclusion, and all of her hopes of this being another normal morning were effectively washed away at the sight of what she believed was her hand. Four inches away from her nose, which, at this point, was not where she thought it was, dangled a small, flat, pale-yellow appendage. Deep in the chaotic center of her brain, the cogs began turning opposite of each other, and the pistons struggled to operate in unison. She knew what the appendage was called, but didn't want to acknowledge it. Rather, she couldn't acknowledge it in her present state. Without removing her fixed eyes from the vexing appendage, she began to raise her other hand to attention as well. To her horror, she once again beheld a strange, flat, pale-yellow... hoof. Panicking, she frantically and awkwardly kicked her blanket off, revealing the small form of a pale-yellow equine with a brilliant red-orange tail. Chelsea only stared; her eyes wide in shock, disbelief, and... regret. What did she regret? Her once calm, yet shallow and groggy breathing had sped to an almost inhuman pace, and she began to feel lightheaded. In a mad rush to get out of bed, she only worsened her situation as she awkwardly thrashed about, throwing her self off of the bed, dragging the bedsheets with her. Landing in a lumpy, thrashing tangle of blankets, Chelsea futilely wrestled with the encroaching bedding, attempting to free herself. Her breathing was now short and ragged; her heartbeat reaching impossible speeds. As she struggled to comprehend the current events, Chelsea ultimately found her vision fading, and her useless thrashing slowly coming to a rest. Before her eyes finally closed, she began to retrieve faint memories of the smoke filled cabin of the Vulture. ________ "Will she be okay?" An auburn haired woman inquired. "She'll be fine. It was shock induced; just a stress faint, nothing serious." The nurse was currently standing over Chelsea, her bedsheets repaired and her diminutive Pony body tucked beneath. "No, I mean... will she be okay?" The woman frowned; a sorrowful, yet hopeful and reserved show of emotion. The nurse turned away from the Pony resting in the bed, and faced the woman, her fingers interlocked. "Well, Forced Conversion is extremely traumatic for most, and on numerous occasions, victims are often hospitalized. But, for those who receive the best care and support almost always make a recovery, and are back to themselves in no time," The nurse pulled the woman into an embrace, "Jen, I promise you that she'll be okay. It will take time and effort, but there isn't any reason that she can't make a full recovery." Her tablet pinged, and she released the woman from the friendly gesture, "I've got other patients that need me back in the medical ward, but if you need me, don't hesitate to call me. She'll be waking up soon, most likely extremely thirsty and disoriented, therefore, I'd recommend that you should be here when she does. She'll need her mom." "Thank you, Kasey. You're a good friend." Standing by the door now, the nurse bowed her head to the woman, and then proceeded to exit the room. However, she abruptly halted, and spun on her heel to face the woman once more, "And Jen... we'll bring him home. Trust me. If Martin is anything, he's persistent, and he will stop at nothing until your husband is home safe." The nurse shot Jennifer Graham one last encouraging smile, which she replied to with a curt nod. Turning back to her daughter, she inched closer to the unconscious Chelsea with thin, cautious steps. Tears budding from her eyes, she lingered there at her bedside for several crisp minutes, thinking to herself, and acknowledging the world around her. Then, she lifted an unstable, quaking hand. She thought for a long moment, but then, overcoming the strangeness of it all, reached over, and gently placed her hand on the Pony's back. Her own hand was ice cold, but the warmth of the pony, her daughter, radiated, and the sudden emotional influence it had on Jennifer prevented her from even thinking of pulling away. Tears streaming from her eyes, she stood there in the omnipotent, but fragile silence, only the diminutive breaths of the pony before her invading the clarity of the moment. However small, and insignificant her breaths were to the world, in that moment, they meant everything and beyond to the mother of Chelsea Graham. She couldn't find the words to describe it; even her thoughts themselves were unable to decipher the true meaning behind her emotions. But that didn't matter. Not to her. Sniffling and wiping her soaking eyes and cheeks with her free hand, she remained standing, her other hand firmly rooted to the peaceful sleeping pony in the bed. ________ Chelsea had a headache. That was the first thing worth taking note of. Slowly and carefully opening her eyes, due to the abundance of morning rays of sunlight she immediately noticed gracing her room, she carefully examined the world around her. "Ch-Chell?" Her mom's voice. Why was her mom in her room? Not wishing to move her head, mostly because it felt as if someone had replaced her brain with a hunk of steel, she instead swiveled her eyes toward her mother, who was standing over her expectantly. "M-Mom? What are y-you doing here?" Her voice was weak and strained, a light cough following her words. Her mouth was unbelievably dry, and her entire body was aching from her lack of hydration, "I... I need water..." Taking her hand off her back, which Chelsea didn't know was there, she disappeared for a brief moment, and returned with a foam cup, a straw poking out of the top. She began to reach up and grab it, but her mom quickly grabbed her hand, which was still under the covers, and stopped her from doing so. Giving her mother a questionable glare, she coughed, "What?" There was an unwavering uneasy emotion pervading the stagnant room. Chelsea was unusually warm, as if someone had cocooned her in an airtight, thick fuzzy blanket. When she moved her hand, it felt labored, like her muscles refused to move. "Let me do it. Don't move." Her mom offered a visibly forced smile, and shoved the drink into her daughters face. "But I..." Before she could speak another word, the straw was forcibly shoved in between her lips. Although it didn't take long, Chelsea considered not drinking the substance, but the pondering of her mom's suspicious behavior was easily overridden by her need to drink. In an instant, her grogginess all but vanished, and her senses were reinvigorated by the introduction of water to her body. Before she knew it, her straw was making the telltale sound that signaled the end of her supply of precious water. However, before she let go of the straw, she noticed something very... indescribable. She couldn't exactly understand it, but her mouth felt... odd. Bigger, somehow, yet smaller. She didn't know. Allowing her mom to regain possession of the cup, she began to return to the fridge. "No, I'm okay now, mom," She didn't heed her instructions, though. Refilling the cup with more water, she glanced back at Chelsea with a blank expression, "You need water, Chelly, okay?" Her mind swirled, and for the first time, she began to reopen closed passageways in her brain. She noticed something... peculiar. It was strange and foreign, but at the same time, she felt as if she had experienced the same phenomenon once before. Everything was crystal clear. Not only were her eyes impossibly strong, but all of her other senses were assaulting her with a barrage of noises, smells, and the taste in her mouth was incredibly wretched. One thing, she noticed, that didn't reflect her other senses, was touch. It felt like she was lying on a thin, furry carpet, but it was almost as if the carpet was attached... to her. Befuddled, she pushed her self upwards in the bed with her hands. However, when she attempted to grasp the bed sheets, a strange pain, like small needles penetrating her fingers, radiated up her arm. "Honey, stop!" Chelsea's eyes went wide as her mother dropped the cup of water, sending it everywhere, and grabbed her shoulders in a vice grip. "What's wrong?! What did I do?" Her heart beating through her chest, Chelsea currently feared for her life. Above her, her mother stood, pinning Chelsea to the bed as if the fate of the universe depended on it. After what seemed like minutes, her face softened, and Chelsea could feel the pressure on her shoulders being lifted. Her mother, with tears in her eyes, turned away from her daughter, an expression of fear glued to Chelsea's familiar, yet unfamiliar face. "I'm... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I mean, it's not like you won't find out eventually, right? Just... For right now, don't move, sweety." Chelsea didn't know what to think. What was going on? What did her mom mean by that? Was she in an... accident? And then, all of the sudden, a sharp pain shot through her skull, forcing her eyes to close, and her body to spasm. Digging her face into her pillow, she tried to block out any light that tried to penetrate the fortresses that were her eyelids, and harm her further. "Chell? Chellsea!?" "What's going on?!" "We're under attack, I tried to tell them-" "Mayday, mayday! Foxtrot-Echo-Echo Zero-Zero-Four going down! Brace for impact!" The pain slowly receding, she gazed up at her panicked mother with a worried, but serious glare. "What happened? On the way back, from San Francisco, what happened?" Her mom, frowning slightly, sighed and sat down on the chair next to her bed. Interlocking her slightly wrinkled fingers, she gazed at Chelsea with mournful, but increasingly trying, green eyes. "Just outside of Denver, in Colorado, the convoy was attacked by insurrectionist forces. Your Vulture went down, just like the others, but you, and Toby, were relatively okay. You passed out from smoke inhalation, is all..." Chelsea settled into her pillow, and proceeded to stare blankly at the ceiling. She would've been able to contemplate the weighty situation, but a strange sensation on both sides of her head prevented her from it. On both sides of the top of her head... it felt like she had pigtails almost, but at odd angles, and it was as if she had nerves in them. How could she have nerves in her pigtails? Why did she have her hair in pigtails on the top of her head in the first place? Frustrated, she huffed, and attempted to draw her mind away from the strange phenomenon. Focusing back on her mother, who was eying her daughter with an odd skepticism she couldn't rightly place, Chelsea's face softened. "So... Toby's okay, then? What about dad?" Her mother tensed, and turned her gaze towards her interlocked fingers, gripping her hands tightly. Her breath shuttering slightly, she looked up at Chelsea with a forlorn expression which bored itself into her very heart. "Well, Honey... we... we didn't find him at the crash site. It was you, Toby, and one of the pilots. Your dad wasn't with you." Chelsea gazed at her mother with a blank, unwavering stare. Leaning forward, her mother placed her hand on what felt like her arm. "Wh-What? What happened to him?" She croaked. Beginning to realize the implications of her mother's words, she could feel her throat tightening, her head being pressed together by two unseen forces, and the beginnings of tears forming around her eyes. She could remember, albeit vaguely, her father being violently tossed about the cabin of the Vulture, and she was sure of the outcome. The trauma he likely received pared with smoke inhalation formed a dreadful image in Chelsea's fragile mind. "Now, sweetie, we aren't sure, but... your dad's GPL implant is still transmitting, I've been told. But... the signal is being scrambled, and they can't locate him." Chelsea sniffled, tears streaming out of her eyes. "He's dead. I know it." Her mother seemed to recoil at that, not expecting her daughter's reaction to be so straight forward. "Chelsea, we would've found his body. Only one of the five Vultures that went down exploded, and yours wasn't one of them. It wasn't just a blind attack... It couldn't have been..." Pausing for breath, she continued, "Sweetie, he's alive. I know he is. We'll find him, and everything's going to be okay, alright? Chelsea, honey, listen to me. Chel...sea?" In that single moment, Chelsea Rebecca Graham's entire life was flipped upon its head. Her mother gaped in shock at what she was witnessing before her. Chelsea was currently granting loft to a dainty, recently tear stained, pale-yellow hoof mere centimeters from her now large, inhuman, brown eyes. Her tears fading now, she only stared in what could've only been described as confusion at the unexplainable appendage she was currently gawking at. Without even noticing she was doing it, she slowly lifted her right arm in front of her, staring in befuddled bemusement at the strange phenomena taking place before her eyes. Memories of her brief time awake not so long ago were now returning to her, however, it didn't detract the amount of shock she was experiencing at the moment. "MOM!?" Her voice rose in a panicked crescendo. Her mom, acting quickly, bolted to her feet in order to restrain her erratic daughter. "Chelsea! CHELSEA!!! You're okay! Everything's alright! Just settle down, okay, sweetie?" "WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?! WHAT'S GOING ON?!" Chelsea, sobbing now, was hysteric. "Honey, the insurrectionists that attacked your team; it was the PER. Of those who survived the assault, all were ponified. Including Toby, and you." Chelsea only stared at her mother through a teary veil, dreading the words being delivered to her strange new ears. Now more aware of her form, the touch of her mother's hand on her furry foreleg felt all the more strange, and alien, forcing her to shiver slightly at her comforting touch, "I'm sorry, Chelly," Her mom was shedding a tear of her own, "I'm so sorry." Wanting nothing of the world, Chelsea turned her unfamiliar head away from her distressed mother, and dug her muzzle into her pillow, tears soaking the soft fabric. ________ "What's on your mind, son?" Walter Verga slowly eased himself into the chair, his old bones and muscles working vigorously to keep the fragile scientist from losing his balance. It was currently mid-morning, but the windows of the office were tinted an opaque black. Reaching for the control panel on the desk before him, he cautiously dragged his finger across the touch screen, the windows returning to their clear state, morning rays of sunlight shining through. Martin, facing the large wall-mounted holoscreen on the wall behind his desk, sighed, and turned to face the old man sitting across from him. "What's on my mind? The fact that you now apparently have authorized access to my window controls." Martin glared at Verga with an expression of disdain, which soon transformed into a hearty grin. The two friends shared a guffaw. "Well my friend, at least you still retain a sense of optimism in spite of all this." Walter reclined in his chair, interlocking his fingers in his lap. "I have to. It's all I've ever done. In a crisis, you cannot let such hope or optimism go to waste, or you might just allow yourself to fall to those who oppose you," rotating his chair to face the screen once again, he gestured to the words and pictures being displayed, "I am not sure what to do, friend... Five of our top facilities: Detroit, Boston, Singapore, Shanghai, and Berlin have been attacked in the last 24 hours, and I expect many more to come." Walter seemed taken aback by this, and stuttered, "W-Well surely we're able to protect ourselves? How extensive have the attacks been? Surely a ragtag group of mercenarie-" "We've lost communication with all five facilities," Martin leaned forward, into the face of Walter Verga, "Our security systems are some, if not the strongest Humanity has to offer. A group of ragtag mercenaries would die before they reached the front door!" Rising to his feet, Martin maneuvered himself over to his large office window, and paced back and forth on the polished marble floor, "The attack on the convoy last night was only a precursor to what was to come next. This isn't just the PER, this isn't the HLF, dammit, I doubt even the Home Front would be able to orchestrate an attack on this scale." Walter shambled to his feet, and took hold of his oaken cane, "Ah, but it is the PER. It is also the Home Front. And, even though it would seem unlikely, the infamous Humanist organization may be part of this as well." He took his place beside the troubled man, who was currently gazing down upon the city below. "At the end of the world, people will do anything to preserve themselves." Verga looked at Martin with utmost solemnity, and placed his wrinkled hand on his shoulder. "I learned something when I was very young, Eric. Something that puts me at ease during times such as these. You know this concept well, but sometimes I think you just simply get caught up in all of the troubles of the world to recall it. Do you know what I speak of, my friend?" Walter grinned at Martin heartily, which he returned with his own smirk of realization. "Everything always works out the way it's supposed to in the end."