Free Crysis: Escalation by Gavin G. Smith

overload. Information scrolled down Prophet’s vision, describing the chemical process of rot. It was biotelemetry telling him that he was sat in a
stinking alley full of garbage.
    There was someone else in the alley with him. Even as disorientated as he was, Prophet was shocked that he’d somehow managed to go from a nanosuited god-of-war to being blindsided in an
alley. The man was well built, hair shaved at the sides, flat on top, green eyes but otherwise surprisingly non-descript. He looked to be in his early twenties. The jeans and t-shirt, despite the
chill in the air, did nothing to disguise the man’s military bearing. Prophet could make out the bottom of the winged skull tattoo. The skull had a diving regulator in its mouth and the words
Swift, Silent, Deadly
underneath it.
    ‘Fucking jarhead . . .’ Prophet managed.
    ‘Screw you, you army puke,’ the other man said, without a trace of feeling.
    The empty bottle he had thrown exploded against the wall of the alley. Prophet found himself alone. He pushed himself to his feet with difficulty. He staggered a bit but he could feel himself
recovering. Presumably this was the suit working out how to deal with his bizarre situation.
    Prophet became more alert with every step he took. He looked out of the alleyway. The alleyway led onto a rain-soaked boardwalk. Beyond the boardwalk was a beach, and then a dark rough sea.
    The suit’s nav-systems had been trying to tell him for a while but it took the boardwalk, all the neon and garish casino fronts, to drive it home: Atlantic City.
As if things
weren’t bad enough
, Prophet thought,
I’m in Jersey
.
    It must have been late because there were very few people on the boardwalk. Still feeling a little disoriented, he decided that he wanted to see the ocean. He engaged the stealth mode, the
lensing field ghosting him, and he crossed the street.
    Glancing behind him, footage from a Macronet feed in the window of a bar caught his eye. He linked to the net with a thought, searched for the footage and had it downloaded to the HUD. He saw
CELL military contractors brutalising and executing victims of the Manhattan virus. It cut to footage of Hargreave-Rasch board members being escorted through crowds of reporters. The headline read:
Hargreave-Rasch’s board members to face congressional hearing over Manhattan Crisis
.
    Prophet figured that mismanagement was what they called war crimes these days. He believed that the board members should be punished for what they had done, but he didn’t hold out much
hope. The system was too corrupt, and Hargreave-Rasch’s PR were already spinning the New York events.
    He reached the beach without drawing too much attention to his hulking form.
Mission, have to get back on the mission.
For the first time in a long time the mission was his. He
wasn’t doing what other people were telling him. And for the first time in a long time, he knew the mission was right. It was a simple matter of survival.
    He was almost thinking straight now. The pain in his head had been a constant since New York, but the nausea and the acid burn in his stomach was gone. He’d always enjoyed looking at the
ocean but tonight it disquieted him. He didn’t like water anymore.
    ‘You’re back again, huh, mister?’
    Prophet turned to find himself looking down at a young girl, maybe ten- to twelve-years-old, smiling at him. She was dirty, her clothes were ragged, and she had dark hair and green eyes.
    What was going on? Where’d she come from?!
Then Prophet realised that he was somewhere new.
    He checked the GPS. Somewhere in Ventnor City. The information came scrolling down the HUD for the asking. A working class neighbourhood that gangs and drugs were slowly claiming, thanks to the
Double Dip Recession. He couldn’t remember ever having been here before but the girl definitely seemed to recognise him.
    He was stood in some trees out the back of a series of panel board houses that might have been nice