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You are in a dark room and see nothing. The lights suddenly turn on. You see your arms are tied behind the back of a chair and your legs are bound to it. A man's face appears, and he tells you why your here. He says...?

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to finish that sentence! What does he say, why are you there, and what will happen? 

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"Life was fun while in your world, welcome to mine! Today you will fight for your life. When I untie you,there will be a lock box with a knife and gun including two clips. If you can get out alive,freedom is yours. However all of your assassins are being paid a large sum of money for your death." The man disappears into the dark and the game begins!!  

lol went way out in left field with this, but I was trying to be as creative as possible...also sorry guess this is a little more then a sentence.

Haha, I meant more than a sentence, I just didn't know how to rephrase it! Haha, I love it!

Lol thanks, it was fun. You should do one also. Curios to see where people go with this.

"Welcome to Guantanamo Bay Mr. Stokes; you were not an easy man to track down."

"I...I can't; my head...why is everything...?" he responded groggily.

"Ah, that's just the effects of the chloral hydrate, it should wear off soon enough."

   The face that seemed to hover in front of Jesse Stokes drowsy eyes struck no familiar chord in his memory, but instinctively he knew he had made the worst mistake anyone trying to support the resistance could make: He had fallen into the hands of the enemy. As he became more aware of his situation, the circumstance he found himself in became more apparent. It was a sparsely furnished room, consisting only of the metal chair he was bound to, securely fastened to the floor by a chain and a folding table against one wall with an assortment of odd looking devices and implements arranged just so. Turning his head slightly to take a subtle inventory of his surroundings, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a large, framed glass mirror built into the wall behind him. It was easy to determine that it was there for purposes of observation by a clandestine onlooker and not the superficial needs of a self conscious occupant on the non-viewing side. As his consciousness crystallized the dire condition of his current situation became overwhelmingly evident. This time, it appeared, there would be no way out.

   Not many years earlier after the reorganization began; he (like many others), understood the necessity for trying to bring order to the communities that had been left decimated by the worldwide economic collapse. At first the national guard and local authorities were seen as a godsend by people left without food, electricity and gasoline, but that soon changed when those in power at the time realized that they could never attend to the needs of an overly demanding population; there were just not enough supplies to distribute to all those in need. When the chaos that ensued lead to protests in the streets and then the anarchy that follows as earnest demands turned into a struggle for survival, the authorities soon followed up by dividing the various regions affected into sectors and declaring martial law. This, in turn, did lead to a certain level of containment, however, to those forced to live within the borders of these anarchic zones the only answer to their struggle was to escape and establish a new approach to freedom in an otherwise authoritarian world…

Ooooh, suspenseful!! I like it!


Del Huntsman said:

"Welcome to Guantanamo Bay Mr. Stokes; you were not an easy man to track down."

"I...I can't; my head...why is everything...?" he responded groggily.

"Ah, that's just the effects of the chloral hydrate, it should wear off soon enough."

   The face that seemed to hover in front of Jesse Stokes drowsy eyes struck no familiar chord in his memory, but instinctively he knew he had made the worst mistake anyone trying to support the resistance could make: He had fallen into the hands of the enemy. As he became more aware of his situation, the circumstance he found himself in became more apparent. It was a sparsely furnished room, consisting only of the metal chair he was bound to, securely fastened to the floor by a chain and a folding table against one wall with an assortment of odd looking devices and implements arranged just so. Turning his head slightly to take a subtle inventory of his surroundings, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a large, framed glass mirror built into the wall behind him. It was easy to determine that it was there for purposes of observation by a clandestine onlooker and not the superficial needs of a self conscious occupant on the non-viewing side. As his consciousness crystallized the dire condition of his current situation became overwhelmingly evident. This time, it appeared, there would be no way out.

   Not many years earlier after the reorganization began; he (like many others), understood the necessity for trying to bring order to the communities that had been left decimated by the worldwide economic collapse. At first the national guard and local authorities were seen as a godsend by people left without food, electricity and gasoline, but that soon changed when those in power at the time realized that they could never attend to the needs of an overly demanding population; there were just not enough supplies to distribute to all those in need. When the chaos that ensued lead to protests in the streets and then the anarchy that follows as earnest demands turned into a struggle for survival, the authorities soon followed up by dividing the various regions affected into sectors and declaring martial law. This, in turn, did lead to a certain level of containment, however, to those forced to live within the borders of these anarchic zones the only answer to their struggle was to escape and establish a new approach to freedom in an otherwise authoritarian world…

 @Del Huntsman, yea nice, very well put together 

I tweaked it a little here and there and added some more, it was fun to run with it. I'm not used to looking back at my first rendering and not being able to go in and work on it before hanging it out there (so to speak). But it is interesting to be able to compare it to the first offering and see how it evolves. I'm enjoying this. You had a good premise too Jon, I'd like to see where you could take it. I like the way you think Callie, there's a lot of different directions that could go.


     "Welcome to Guantanamo Bay Mr. Stokes; you were not an easy man to track down."
     "I...I can't; my head...why is everything...?" he responded groggily.
     "Ah, that's just the effects of the chloral hydrate, it should wear off soon enough."
      The face that seemed to hover in front of Jesse Stokes drowsy eyes struck no familiar chord in his memory, but instinctively he knew he had made the worst mistake anyone trying to support the resistance could make: He had fallen into the hands of the enemy. As his consciousness crystallized the dire condition of his circumstance became overwhelmingly apparent. He was in a sparsely furnished room, consisting only of the metal chair he was bound to and a folding table that was set up against one wall. On the surface of the table was an array of what looked like—surgical implements—arranged just so. The walls and ceiling were a sterile white, which gave the room a clinical look, except for the floor; it was painted industrial grey. Just beyond the fatigue clad stranger that was standing before him there was a metal door in the middle of the wall, which was the same color as the floor, with a square window about three quarters of the way up. He noticed the checkered pattern of wire that ran diagonally through the small pane of reinforced glass. Turning his head slightly to take a subtle inventory of his surroundings, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a large, rectangular framed mirror built into the wall behind him. It was easy to determine that it was there for purposes of observation by a clandestine onlooker and not the superficial needs of a titivating occupant on the non-viewing side. After gathering what information was available from the setting he found himself in—there was no use denying what was manifestly evident: This time, it appeared, there would be no way out.
     Not many years earlier after the reorganization had began; he (like many others), understood the necessity for trying to bring order to the communities that had been left decimated by the worldwide economic collapse. At first the national guard and local authorities were seen as a godsend by people left without food, electricity and gasoline; but that soon changed when those in power at the time realized that they could never attend to the needs of an overly demanding population. There were just not enough supplies to distribute to all those in need. When the chaos that ensued lead to protests in the streets and then the anarchy that follows when earnest demands turn into a struggle for survival, the authorities soon followed up by dividing the various regions affected into sectors and declaring martial law. This, in turn, did lead to a certain level of containment, however, to those forced to live within the borders of these anarchic zones the only answer to their struggle was to escape and establish a new approach to freedom in an otherwise authoritarian world…

     Jesse Stokes had no desire to even be part of a resistance effort, let alone lead one. It was a position he found himself thrust into when the others he had followed were either killed or taken prisoner. The FEMA operatives who were ordered to capture or eliminate all those dissenters who took it upon themselves to leave the confines of the camps were relentless when it came to carrying out their assignment. Those who had been unwilling to follow the instructions put forth by the agency charged with managing the emergency were lumped into the same category as those who chose to rebel and leave the camps. Any “runner” still unaccounted for was labeled a DTC or Domestic Terror Collaborator. It was important to assign the proper nomenclature so that the authorities could employ less restrictive tactics in order to accomplish their mission. The Patriot Act may not have been designed as a way to bypass the rights of the citizenry for the purpose of "lawful" expedience, but the “Terrorist” classification did provide a somewhat malleable interpretation, which in turn allowed for certain conveniences when it came to rounding up the DTC’s still at large.

Darn, should have made that "surgical instruments"; didn't register at the time until I came back and looked at it again. That's the way it goes though.

Anyway:

"...that was set up against one wall. On the surface of the table was an array of what looked like—surgical implements instruments—arranged just so. The walls and ceiling were a sterile white, which gave the room a clinical look, except for the floor; it was painted industrial grey. Just beyond the fatigue clad stranger that was standing before him there was a metal door in the middle of the wall, which was the same color as the floor, with a square window about three quarters of the way up. He noticed the checkered pattern of wire that ran diagonally through the small pane of reinforced glass."

That's better.

Oops:

At first the national guard National Guard and local authorities were seen as a godsend by people left without food, electricity and gasoline;

I like this guy Jesse Stokes. I hope I'm not abusing the intention of the game. Here's a little more:

     Jesse was among those who had not yet found their relief within the confines of a FEMA camp. The effects of the financial crisis had less of an impact on the people in the more remote areas of the country. They were used to not relying on the conveniences offered up by a neatly arranged, commercially oriented suburban community.  Stark, New Hampshire was not exactly considered to be the epitome of a modern day metropolis—and they liked it that way.  When the National Guard envoys rolled into town bringing news of the Governor’s dictate that all citizens of Stark were to report to a FEMA support station in Concord, the immediate reaction was one of unbridled disbelief.  The sentiment was conveyed plainly in the callous tone Jesse took when the two guardsmen showed up at city hall to convey the message.

     He was in the midst of coordinating festivities for the up-coming celebration of John Stark Day (the town’s namesake), which consisted of a rather elaborate picnic in the town square; that is, as elaborate a gathering as could be had in a town of four hundred and seventy three people.  To their credit, nearly the whole town shows up every year.  The only thing more patriotic then hoisting the replica of the John Stark thirteen star flag up the pole to commence the festivities is biting into a thick strip of Martha Stark’s peppered moose jerky (Martha being a direct descendent of the namesake).

     The two young men in fatigues stood in front of a vacant desk in the rather austere lobby area on the bottom floor of a two story brick building.  It was one of those buildings often seen in New England that would typically boast that at some point, a certain first President might have spent the night.  The sparsely decorated room with its plank flooring, high ceilings and circa nineteenth century crown molding gave them a feeling of having stepped back in time.   Looking past the desk they noticed an official placard on a half opened, well worn oak door that read, “Mayor”; just below it suspended by a string looped over a nail was a small blackboard.  Written on the board in white chalk was the name, Jesse Stokes.  The guardsmen stood for a moment not knowing whether it was appropriate to bypass the desk or not and then took it upon themselves to see if the office was occupied.  Pushing the door open, they quietly stepped inside to find Jesse staring at a crudely drawn diagram he was holding in his hand.  It was a depiction of how vendor booths would be set up in the park for the big day.

     “Uh, excuse me sir, there was no one at the desk outside your office.”

     Not looking up from the diagram, he spoke casually, “Marie’s out for the afternoon; won’t be in until tomorrow. Her kid’s got the runs or something.” His voice trailed off as he continued directing his attention to the diagram. After pulling the paper closer to his face, as if to verify a detail, he voiced his bewilderment, “Now what the hell is Lester gunna’ do with a dunking station full of jello?”

     “No sir, we’re not here to see…Mary,” the other one said, unsure about the name he heard.  “We’re looking for whoever’s in charge of the town.  We have orders from our commanding officer.”

     “Huh?” Jesse responded, pulling his eyes away from the diagram for the first time to look at the two men.  He was somewhat taken aback by their Army attire, and his immediate impulse was to size the two guardsmen up.

     “Orders sir, we’re notifying each town’s leadership in this sector that everyone’s been instructed to find their way to Concord in the next three days,” the young man replied.

     At that point Jesse shifted his full attention away from the piece of paper he held in his hand to the two standing before him and with an expression of incredulity said the first thing that popped into his head, “What the f*ck are you talking about?”

     The two were not prepared for the profanity and received the harsh reference by pulling in their chins abruptly; then, after the initial shock of the verbal assault receded the other one said, “Um, evacuation sir. Didn’t you hear on the news that the authorities want everyone to move to a central location in their sectors--for the census?”

     “Central point in their sectors for a census?” he replied, still not sure what he was being ordered to do.  “What sectors?”

     “The sectors in each state sir, yours is in Concord.”

     “Wait a minute.  Are you telling me you want everyone in Stark to go to Concord?”

     “That’s right sir.”

     As he stared at the two young National Guardsmen, he took a minute to process what they were saying and then decided to mine them for a little more information.

     “Now why would we want to do that?” he inquired.

     “Well, that’s where all the supplies are being shipped to; you know, foodstuffs and that sort of thing.”

     “We got foodstuffs, hell, most of us shoot our foodstuffs around here; or catch it in the river.”

     Not knowing quite how else to get the point across, one of the guardsmen tried to put it in perspective for Jesse, “It’s an order sir; everyone’s got to follow the orders.”

     “Boy, what’s your name?”

     “Specialist Ron Kimber, sir.”

     “Well, Specialist Ron Kimber sir, I know you’re just doing your job, but I think you need to understand where you are.  First of all, I’m a civilian, and that means I don’t have to take orders, or sh*t, from anyone. Secondly, you’re in the backwoods of New Hampshire for Christ’s sake, people don’t live out here because they like to take orders.  Thirdly, you’re not only in the backwoods, you’re in STARK.”

     Offended by the implication that they didn’t know where they were, one of the men responded sarcastically, “We know we’re in Stark, sir.”

     “Well, I don’t doubt that son, but do you know where the town got the name Stark?”

     The two looked at each other with a genuine lack of interest and then back at Jesse.

     “No, sir,” said Ron.

     “Well, John Stark was in the Army just like you, only it was a couple hundred years or so ago.  He’s pretty famous for making known a sentiment that is pretty important to the people up here; you might say he’s kind of a hero of ours.  He had a way of thinking that many shared back in his day and it actually carried forward from there.  We liked it so much we made it the state motto not too long ago. You boys are from New Hampshire aren’t you?”

     The two young guardsmen looked at each other again for a brief moment and then, at the same time, had the realization of what Jesse was referring to. 

     Jesse saw the light go on in their expressions, “That’s right fellows, you got it now.”

     “You mean ‘Live free or Die’, don’t you sir.”

     “I sure as hell do my friend.”

Some edits:

He was in the midst of coordinating festivities for the up-coming celebration of John Stark Day (the town’s namesake), which consisted of a rather elaborate picnic in the town square; that is, as elaborate a gathering as could be had in a town of four hundred and seventy three people.  To their credit, nearly the whole town shows showed up every year, for as far back as Jesse could remember.  The only thing more patriotic then hoisting the replica of the John Stark thirteen star flag up the pole to commence the festivities is was biting into a thick strip of Martha Stark’s peppered moose jerky (Martha being a direct descendent of the namesake).

Some more edits:

Looking past the desk, they noticed an official placard on a half opened open, well worn oak door that read, “Mayor”;

...


Written on the board In white chalk letters printed neatly on the board, was the name, Jesse Stokes.


...


Pushing the door all the way open, they quietly stepped inside to find Jesse staring at a crudely drawn diagram he was holding in his hand.

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