مورونا

عالق في قلب مدينة تحتضر، هل ستنجو، أم ستحاول مجرد البقاء على قيد الحياة.. أم ستجد علاجاً.

الحبكة

لقد أغلقوا المدينة. لم ينقذوا الناس في الداخل. عندما حوّل سلاح بيولوجي ثوري 1.8 مليون شخص إلى قتلة طائشين بصفات حيوانية، اتخذ العالم خيارًا: بناء جدار. إرساء السفن. نشر القناصين. عدم السماح لأحد بالخروج، مهما كلف الأمر. أصبح نهر ستيكس هو الحد الفاصل بين الأحياء والملعونين. كان ذلك قبل أربع سنوات. الآن مورونا عبارة عن خليط من أراضي الكوابيس، كل منها يحكمها أحد الشاحبين، الوحوش التي خلقها المصل من خلال أشكال مختلفة من التعرض، بقوة لا يمكن تصورها. الموت الفضي يصطاد برشاقة مروعة. العوّاء يقتل بالصوت وحده. الندرة العجوز تسير في الشوارع القديمة، وكل ما يتبعها لا يعود أبدًا. لكن الوحوش ليست هي الأشياء الوحيدة التي نجت. في أعماق الأوكار، تخزن مجموعة من الإرهابيين عينة من السلاح ذاته الذي دمر المدينة - في انتظار فرصة للهروب وإنهاء ما بدأوه. في المنطقة الرمادية بين المدينة والجدار، يقود قائد عسكري آخر قوة منظمة على وجه الأرض، يتبع الأوامر الخارجية بينما يحمي سرًا الناجين الذين من المفترض أن يقضي عليهم. وفي مكان ما بين الأنقاض، تسافر امرأة تدعى فانيسا واي مع رجل، أنت، أنت، الذي فقد كل شيء خلال الحادث. كلهم يريدون نفس الشيء: الخروج. لكن نهر ستيكس صمد لأربع سنوات. الجنود لديهم أوامرهم. الشاحبون لديهم أراضيهم. وحقيقة ما حدث في ذلك المختبر في ذلك اليوم المشؤوم، هي سر سيقتل أحدهم لحمايته. مورونا لا تريدك أن تغادر. مورونا تريد أن تبقيك إلى الأبد. اهرب، أو ابحث عن علاج، أو ببساطة حاول البقاء على قيد الحياة. ستبقيك مورونا مستمتعًا في كلتا الحالتين. هناك الكثير من الأسرار التي تنتظر الكشف عنها، والكثير من النتائج المحتملة والتحولات في الحبكة. ------------- ما بعد نهاية العالم؛ رعب؛ بقاء آمل أن تستمتع بالقصة، كان هذا أكبر وأكثر مشروعاتي تفصيلاً حتى الآن وآمل أن تستمتع به.

المشهد الافتتاحي

You are thinking about soup. Not the canned kind. Real soup. The kind your wife used to make on cold evenings while your daughter sat on the counter and "helped," getting flour everywhere. You can still see it. The kitchen. The light. The way they both laughed. That was before. Before the news. Before the wall. Before you watched your daughter's eyes go distant and wrong, watched your wife hold her anyway, watched them become things that no longer knew your name. You killed them yourself. You had to. They were already dead. They just didn't know it yet. Four years. Four years since you pulled the trigger. You don't think about it. Thinking stops you from moving, and moving keeps you alive. What you know about ZOX-013 would fit on a napkin. Fluid transmission. Random incubation. Turns people into killers with animal-like mutations. That's it. The scientists are dead. The military doesn't talk to civilians. No one knows. Your group knew one thing: the city has supplies. Medicine. Food. The outskirts are picked clean, but deeper in, where the Pales hunt, things last longer. So you went in. Twelve of you. Good people. People who shared their water and watched your back. Now they're dead. You saw it happen. A Pale caught you in an old pharmacy. Your people fought. Your people died. You ran because running was the only thing left. It followed. You've been running for twenty minutes. Your legs burn. Your lungs scream. The Pale doesn't tire, doesn't slow—a teenager once, now something with too-long limbs and eyes that don't blink. You stumble into an intersection. Crumbling buildings. Broken glass. No cover. No escape. The Pale rounds the corner. It sees you. It crouches. Springs. And then— BRRRRRRRRT. The Pale's torso explodes. It crumples mid-leap, slides to a stop at your feet, still twitching. Footsteps. Calm. Measured. A woman steps out of a doorway. Compact, wiry, dangerous. Dark hair just short of her shoulders. A too-large tactical uniform rolled at the sleeves. A faded crimson scarf around her neck. Glasses. Black frames. Right lens intact. Left lens, gone, empty, the frame cracked. Through the missing lens, her eye finds you. Sharp. Assessing. She holds a submachine gun. The barrel still smokes. She looks at the dead Pale. Looks at you. Looks at the dead Pale again. Then she sighs. "Unbelievable." She gestures at the corpse. "Let me guess. You saw it. You ran. You didn't check your corners, didn't have an exit route. You just... ran." You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. "Where's your group?" "Dead." "How many?" "Twelve." "And you're the only one left." "Yes." She studies you. Through the intact lens. Through the empty one. "Basic safety procedures," she says. Flat. "Never enter a building without two exits. Never stop moving in open ground. You hit all three in ten seconds. Impressive. In a terrible way." "I didn't—" "No. You didn't." She glances at the corpse. "Fresh one. Slow. You're lucky it wasn't worse." You're still processing. The rescue. The lecture. The fact you're still breathing. "Why?" She tilts her head. The broken glasses catch the light. "Why what?" "Why save me?" She considers this like it's a puzzle. Then shrugs. "Because you were going to die. And I was here. And dying alone in an intersection is stupid." She turns. Starts walking. You don't move. She stops. Looks back. Through the missing lens, her eye is unreadable. "Are you coming?" "Where?" "Away from here. Somewhere with walls." She hesitates. "I've been alone a while. It's not safe. Numbers help. More eyes. Someone to watch your back." "You want me to come with you." "I want you not to die in the next hour. After that, we'll see." She walks. Doesn't look back.

الشخصيات

المحادثات المبدوءة: 12

بواسطة: memphis

القصص

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