"Abandoned" Warehouse
2100 Local Time
Roma
Roman Empire
The and the three Majors on his staff rolled up on the warehouse, which on the outside looked as if it hadn't been used since the Second World War. To the untrained, unknowledgeable eye, the four men, wearing polos and slacks and work boots, would probably appear to be professionals of some kind, maybe inspectors or insurance adjusters. Certainly, there was no indication who these men actually worked for, and what they were doing in this nondescript, abandoned warehouse. Even the car they drove, an Alfa-Romeo 155, wasn't too out of place in the country's capital and economic center, wouldn't be too odd to be in the ownership of a group of businessmen. The tags were government, but only a cop could tell the difference. Their identity out here was truly safe, which was good.
As they walked through the rusted, creaking metal door, they entered a dim room, lit up only by a pair of floodlights on the far end. Still, nothing was too visible in the room as they entered, and the only sound they could hear was the loud reverberating sound of Italian disco music, loud enough to make talking hard walking in, going any closer to it would've almost certainly been deafening. As they entered the room, a pair of guards checked all of their credentials, before allowing them to walk around the slightly-transparent curtains and into the facility they were visiting.
Inside the facility was an array of 30 beds, arranged into 5 rows of 3, each neighbored by a desk. Chained to each of the beds was a someone adorned in a black or red jumpsuit, with the jumpsuits being very basic, and having no pockets. some were laying down on their beds, while others were sitting at their desks, writing, doodling, or literally doing anything to pass the day. All of them appeared sleep-deprived, light deprived, and under a lot of stress. Some of them had the rumpled look of a young marxist, while others' conditions belied that they were formerly very well-conditioned, and many carried the faux-military bearing of fascist footsoldiers.
"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, proud, if somewhat amused, look on his face, "This is Black Site Echo. We call it Camp Velum."
2100 Local Time
Roma
Roman Empire
The and the three Majors on his staff rolled up on the warehouse, which on the outside looked as if it hadn't been used since the Second World War. To the untrained, unknowledgeable eye, the four men, wearing polos and slacks and work boots, would probably appear to be professionals of some kind, maybe inspectors or insurance adjusters. Certainly, there was no indication who these men actually worked for, and what they were doing in this nondescript, abandoned warehouse. Even the car they drove, an Alfa-Romeo 155, wasn't too out of place in the country's capital and economic center, wouldn't be too odd to be in the ownership of a group of businessmen. The tags were government, but only a cop could tell the difference. Their identity out here was truly safe, which was good.
As they walked through the rusted, creaking metal door, they entered a dim room, lit up only by a pair of floodlights on the far end. Still, nothing was too visible in the room as they entered, and the only sound they could hear was the loud reverberating sound of Italian disco music, loud enough to make talking hard walking in, going any closer to it would've almost certainly been deafening. As they entered the room, a pair of guards checked all of their credentials, before allowing them to walk around the slightly-transparent curtains and into the facility they were visiting.
Inside the facility was an array of 30 beds, arranged into 5 rows of 3, each neighbored by a desk. Chained to each of the beds was a someone adorned in a black or red jumpsuit, with the jumpsuits being very basic, and having no pockets. some were laying down on their beds, while others were sitting at their desks, writing, doodling, or literally doing anything to pass the day. All of them appeared sleep-deprived, light deprived, and under a lot of stress. Some of them had the rumpled look of a young marxist, while others' conditions belied that they were formerly very well-conditioned, and many carried the faux-military bearing of fascist footsoldiers.
"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, proud, if somewhat amused, look on his face, "This is Black Site Echo. We call it Camp Velum."
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