Chapter 1: Into the Camp

"Is he all right?" said a voice.

Ricky opened his eyes and looked at the ring of faces that were staring down at him. His mind felt muddled, his senses strangely narrowed, but he had by now realized that he was lying on his back, surrounded by onlookers.

He glanced from one face to the next. None were familiar.

“Yeah, back off... I’m okay."

Though in fact, he was not too sure about that at all.

Ricky pulled himself up onto his elbows as the strangers shuffled back a little. Ahead, a line of people stretched off far into the distance. There was the occasional pair or small group, but most individuals appeared to be alone. The vast majority were not looking at him, however. All had the despairing look of refugees who know that even when they arrived at their destination, they may still be turned away.

Then, Ricky realized that he had been lying on something – a rock or stick perhaps? As he slowly pulled himself to his feet, he turned to look, and saw that it was a small bundle of cash – tokens and notes. Was it his? He grasped it and thrust it into his pocket as he got to his feet. He could worry about that question later – once his memories returned.

The nearest people wordlessly let him resume his place in the line, though there were some irritated looks shot in his direction. It was vast and slow-moving, and led up to a tall wooden gate. He was near the head of the line, too, with no more than twenty others in front of him. How did he get here? He simply couldn't recall.

Feeling a momentary panic, Ricky took a moment to check that the silver chain that he always wore around his neck had not been stolen. With relief, he found that it was there; his grandmother’s ring with its mysterious white gem threaded through. Safe.

With that established, Ricky turned and looked around again, trying to figure out what the vast line of desperate-looking people were waiting for. Beyond the gate, huge concrete walls rose up, and he could see the tops of towering stone buildings beyond.

“Excuse me – what is that?” As he spoke, he tapped the shoulder of the man in front of him, a bald man in a shabby brown suit, and then pointed ahead.

“That's the city of New Baravia, bro,” came the reply. “If you’re lucky, we might make it in before they close the gates for the night.”

Ricky looked behind him at the seemingly endless line.

“Yeah, I know,” added the man. “The others will have to sleep here on the ground. But not our problem, right bro? We’re almost at the threshold to the refugee camp.”

“I guess.”

And as they had been speaking, they had advanced a little further forward, though progress was slow; each person from the front of the line was admitted individually, after which the gate swung shut; it took three or four minutes before it would open again. The evening was cool and breezy, and Ricky plunged both hands into his pockets, feeling the small bundle of money again.

“So getting in to this camp – what does that mean for us?"

The man glanced back, looking at Ricky as if he was speaking to an imbecile. "It means you made it, bro. The struggle is over. I just hope they damn well hurry up and process those people in front of us."

They waited, they shuffled forward, stopped, shuffled a little more, until at last Ricky was second in line. The sun was very low above the horizon, now, and the rutted and dirty wooden gate had been shut for around ten minutes.

Ricky had started to think that the processing of refugees was done for the night when then it opened again, and the suited bald man in front was ushered forward by a guard in a mask and a gray military uniform.

“Just one more today," grunted the guard, one hand on the gate and the other on a pistol.

“Shit," muttered Ricky, hearing and empathizing with the dismayed groans behind him. He was already wondering just how bad a night on the ground would be.

As the dirty-suited man walked through, Ricky's hand clenched around the bundle of banknotes in his pocket, and he stepped forward to the guard. “Mister," he said, holding up the money. "Sorry to interrupt, but I found this. It's not mine."

The guard glanced down only for a moment before snatching the money. "Damn right it's not. In you go, then." The guard raised his pistol and gestured for Ricky to go in.

Ricky hesitated, glancing around. The area within looked like it had once been a logging camp, but the ground around him was now bare and marshy earth, with only the occasional tree stump. There was some angry muttering from behind now.

“So, what exactly will I be doing in here?” he asked.

The guard's eyes narrowed in impatience. "You want me to send you to the back of that line? I ain’t got time for a chat.”

Ricky shook his head and hurried forward, hearing the gate slam shut behind. There were metal signs on both sides, and he noticed the phrases ‘provisional citizen status’, ‘labor camp’ and ‘no responsibility for injuries’. It was complex, and he could see that there was no way to take all of it in. Soon another guard had stepped forward, waving him onwards with a using a baton. This one was just as stern-looking, and had a bolt gun with a bayonet attachment slung around his neck.

“Up there," said the second guard tersely, pointing to a large, flat concrete platform ahead. "The transit will take you into the camp."

Ricky nodded. "And how exactly do we make it out of this camp? And become proper citizens?"

But the guard, staring straight ahead, continued to usher Ricky on.

“I mean,” Ricky persisted, hesitating and looking at the guard again, “could you give me a percentage success rate, even?"

At this point, the guard turned to look him in the face for the first time. “Maybe when you get the ‘commodation you can ask some questions. Now get your stinkin’ ass up onto that there train.”

With a shrug, Ricky moved forward and took the small steps of concrete steps that led up to the platform-vehicle, squeezed onto the edge, and sat down. The vehicle certainly seemed full, he thought, glancing across it. Fifty new refugees, perhaps? Some must have been waiting there for hours as the new arrivals were slowly processed.

He hurried on, and pulled himself up.

The transit was in no hurry, however, and a further five minutes passed before it finally shuddered and began to move off, though no engine or driver was visible. The bald and suited man that he had spoken to in the line was nearby; he grabbed hold of Ricky’s sleeve as the flat vehicle began to move. There was nothing else to hold on to, and the transit jolted alarmingly every thirty yards or so. After a couple of such jolts, Ricky shrugged and did the same, clinging on to his neighbors.

In every direction, Ricky could the same thing – stumps of trees and bare earth. Occasionally, as the vehicle rolled along its rails, they passed a waterway or marshy area, but otherwise the surroundings were uniform.

To the right ran the city wall. They were not, it was clear, inside New Baravia here, but rather at the foot of the city walls. A place for refugees. It seemed that they would have to work their way in.

There were buildings here, too – residences presumably. These were located almost exclusively to the left of the tracks, and they stretched back a very long way across the desolate wasteland. Ricky’s eyes scanned across them as he moved. Building after building, each separated by perhaps fifty yards of wasteland from the next. In the main they were of two types – one a lower concrete style, and the other tall and gray, like an oversized canvas tent.

They also passed many workers, all of whom were either digging in the earth or slashing at tree stumps. What exactly were they doing? It wasn’t obvious from here. What Ricky could see is that they wore uniforms of various colors. Red was the most common by far, followed by yellow and orange. Very occasionally, a worker in green or blue could be seen. In contrast, his fellow new arrivals on the platform were all wearing ordinary clothes – dirty, ragged and unique.

“What’s your name, man?” asked Ricky of the bald man nearest him.

The man moved his head around slowly, with no sign of recognition. “Uh... Paco. Paco Cesar Luis.”

The man's accent reminded Ricky of the family who had once lived downstairs from him. “Hey, Paco. So, where you from?“

“Old World. You?”

“Yeah, Old World. North coast of Europe, specifically.”

“Oh, damn. Bad luck. So how’d you get here?”

Ricky sniffed, looking around. His memories were still hazy, but it was starting to come back to him – his youth in the attic, leaving town, travelling for many weeks towards the Atlantic. “Ship,” he said at last. “Worked on it for a spell. I have some training as a mechanic.”

“Oh. Useful. You bring anyone along?”

He shook his head. “I was with my grandmother back home, but she didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Paco.

“What about you?”

Paco raised his free hand and pointed at his chest. “All alone. Wife and three kids at home. My plan is that when earn my place as a citizen of New Baravia and earn a few drubes, I’ll be able to send for them.”

Ricky nodded. In their current situation Paco’s plan felt over-optimistic, but he wouldn't be the one to say so.

After around twenty minutes, the platform-vehicle slowed and came to a standstill. Another guard came over, gesturing at the passengers to get off. Ricky rose and leapt off willingly, his muscles tense from sitting and clutching at his fellow passengers; he staggered a little as he landed on the ground below.

Soon they were marching in the direction that had been indicated by the latest guard. Their route ran further alongside further rails, and Ricky noticed that this section were badly rusted up – unusable. He looked around at Paco. “It would have been a shorter walk if they had maintained these rails here too.”

Paco shrugged. “What do you know about rails?”

“I told you – mechanic. As a young man I was part of a team that fixed railway engines. Long ago now.”

Most of the workers that they were passing were fully focused on their manual labor. Their red clothes were soaked, their heads slumped forward, staring at the ground. As he spoke to Paco, however, Ricky noticed one woman close by in a blue outfit who stood tall, watching them closely, and he got the impression that she had been listening. He broke off from talking, nodded slightly to her, and hurried on.

Before long, the new arrivals came to a halt in front of one of the concrete buildings. Yet another almost indistinguishable guard was stationed in front of a pair of sliding double doors. Being now near the front of the group, Ricky approached him.

“So... this is where we are going to live?”

This guard motioned his head fractionally towards the doors without a word.

Paco stepped up. “Come on, I think we are expected to go inside,” he said quietly. “In my experience, the quickest way forward is to stay under the radar.” The bald man then shuffled meekly forward, and as he did so, the double doors slid open in response.

Ricky shot another enquiring look towards the guard, pointing inside as he did so. With a kick to the ass, the guard propelled him onwards.

Ricky found himself staggering forward, doing his best to keep his feet. Righting himself a few yards inside, he began to walk forward and look around, while the remainder of the new arrivals followed him in. The interior was uniform, with gray concrete floors and walls. The ceiling was painted white.

“Best keep going, I guess,” muttered Paco.

Soon, Ricky saw two androids approaching, both hovering just above the concrete floor, and with multiple metal limbs and screen-like faces. One approached him. “Proceed to cleansing area thirty-five.” Ricky noticed that one of its many limbs was pointing at a door which had that number upon it.

He moved forward and found himself in an area around eight foot square, again bare and with a concrete floor, but this time with several metal drains inset. There was another door on the far side. Soon the android had followed him inside – as had half a dozen other refugees.

“Remove your clothing. New clothing will provided after decontamination.”

With that said, the android left through the further door. As soon as it had done so, acrid water began to jet from the ceiling, and Ricky covered his face. He had only just begun unbuttoning his shirt, but he rapidly removed and threw aside the rest of his garments, closing his eyes against the painful acidic liquid.

Minutes later, Ricky and Paco were striding through to another open area at the rear of the building. This time they were greeted by a pair of guards without masks, an oldish man standing up, and a young woman sitting behind a desk.

“Newcomers,” said the standing guard, who sported a bushy reddish beard flecked with white. “You begin work tomorrow. By night, refugees sleep in one of the pods that you can see to my right.”

Ricky looked up, and saw that the wall indicated was covered with small square doors – dozens of them in all, some much higher than others, and two sliding aluminum ladders could also be seen.

“You are not permitted outside except during work hours,” continued the guard, scratching at his head as he spoke. “If you wish, you can alleviate your boredom by accessing the Dark Framework while you rest overnight. As the hour is late, you will enter a pod now, and begin work tomorrow. Line up!”

The man then stood back, and shortly Ricky was being handed a mask-like headset and a slip of card by the seated guard, a slender woman with a scar that ran down her forehead. “Sign here," said the guard. "But remember, the headset remains the city's property, so you're only renting it."

Ricky signed his name, took the headset, then paused. "Renting. For how long?"

She shrugged. "Relax – nobody in the camp earns money. They only way you'll be liable for the rental bill is if you find one of the keys."

Ricky sniffed, turning the metal-and-glass mask over in his hands. "Keys? Tell me about that."

The young woman peered at Ricky as if he was a bug that had landed on her lunch. “Refugee, the information you need is inside the Dark Framework game itself. All you need to know is that keys are the only realistic way of getting to go from being a refugee here to a citizen of that city out there.” As she spoke, she pointed in what Ricky assumed was the direction of the New Baravia city wall. “Now get your ass over to the pods. Next!”

Grumbling, Ricky moved over to the wall with its huge bank of small square doors, each one concealing a coffin-sized game pod. It would be uncomfortable and claustrophobic at first, he was fairly sure.

The older guard was now waiting for him there, and to Ricky's surprise, the man smiled faintly. “You’re in CV4,” said the guard. “And that means climbing to the top.”

Ricky grunted. He pulled at the mask; it had a red elastic strap, short and stretchy. "This looks like it will dig hard into my face, man."

"Yeah, it’s uncomfortable as all hell at first, though you won't notice a thing once you're inside the game.” Looking up, the guard pulled over one of the sliding ladders that led up to the column of pods, and pointed in the direction of the bottom rung. “Now get moving.”

“Fine.”

Ricky gave the man a baleful look while putting one booted foot on the first rung. It occurred to him that this particular guard looked at least slightly more friendly than the others. “So, how do you actually join this Dark Framework thing?”

“There’s a button on the side of the mask, buddy,” said the guard. “But lie down first, close the door, and get yourself comfortable.”

“Got it. Any, uh.... advice, before I start?”

The man narrowed his eyes – a hint of a smile. “Be careful. It’s a simulation, but there are many threats to overcome if you are going to find a key. Find people you trust.”

Ricky snorted at this. “Ok, man. You know, I’ve travelled many thousands of miles to become a refugee outside of New Baravia. I know how to keep myself safe, and I don’t need other people to do so.”

“All the same,” said the guard, stepping back. “It’s a constant fight. But there are good people, too. Seek out allies, a guild, and be true to yourself.”

As Ricky was sliding into the pod, he was still wondering what exactly the guard had meant by ‘guild’. He sighed, and then pulled the mask over his face, taking a moment to adjust it.

Too tight, he realized. He adjusted it.

Okay.

That was better.

Then Ricky hit the button, and the interior of the pod disappeared.