According to Polumetis the Mad
The Prologue: My few memories of the time before (This section and first games are being reworked, need dialogue in some spots from players)
The Generators were the reason I was sent. The reason I was lying here on this table being prepped for surgery, in little better than a warehouse, in the Canadian woods.
The Coalition, in it’s vastness, it’s permeating military might, feared the Generators. Given to someone outside their influence they could be used to undermine the Coalition’s pervasive power, and leadership wanted it back under their strict supervision. According to my Coalition handler, they were engineered by the best minds of the 22nd century to create near limitless supplies of psychic and mystical energy, laws of magical thermodynamics be damned. I was to gather them, or their pieces and bring them back.
The Generators’ I still thought were myth, and had heard before a number of origin stories. Whether they were from Earth originally, or from one of the Rifts, was often debated..
The Scientist attached something violently to the base of my skull, and I went blind for a moment. I attempted to speak, but was also momentarily struck mute and paralyzed.The story was unlikely, and sounded like old timey religion to me. How this man came to hear it, I did not know, but I doubted it was the true reason the Coalition was breaking convention to change me. It stretched the bounds of credence. What I was rather sure of, was that
one or perhaps both of these devices, were in the hands of wizards and bandits now. They were simply the important magical batteries they were introduced to me as.
I was being developed along with 12 others across Coalition territory, to hunt the two wizards who possess the packages. We were to kill them, and retrieve the items they carried for use in the Coalition’s war against the dimensional beings pouring thru the tears in reality.
The Rifts opened each day it seemed then, great blue tears in the fabric of time and space. The Chaos they wrought, was what ultimately let the Coalition thrive, it’s oppressive military culture, necessitated by an existential and terrifying threat.
I was being offered the discretion of a general in the task of obtaining it. In addition to the discretion, I would be upgraded. Changed with nanites and advanced hormone treatment. I was to be strong enough to punish physically the heaviest of robot armor, and withstand or avoid the fire of any gun. In return, I would lose my sanity, and large sections of my memory.
A fair enough sounding deal at the time, then again, when I agreed, I was not on a surgical table being told a legend by a scientist whose mind veers toward the insane. He injected me again, this time the syringe stayed in, a clear large sphere atop it, the gray mass inside slowly drained down as he placed more and more into my chest arms and legs. After that my old identity and past became cloudy, my reasons largely my own.