"It was called the Quicksilver pandemic. A parasitic organism that was offered as a sign of peace from celestial origins. These visitors from the great beyond, in the dark depths of space. The Quicksilver spread quickly infecting over, almost 90% of the planet. I was one of the lone survivors of this crisis, but even I was not completely free from this alien virus."

- Damon E. Peters

DHCP

~-~

The year was hard to remember since the beginning of the Face Wars; in these days it hardly mattered. People were haunted by thoughts that were uncontrollable; at least that is what they thought... Many would end up wandering the cities for days almost as if nothing had changed from their daily lives but there was one small factor that made them remember one crucial thing, fear... Damon Peters was one of the last to be infected as the term was coined by modern doctors at the time this all began. People would go see doctors for pain in the back of the neck. There was no physical damage in these cases so doctors would write several prescriptions a day since they too were suffering from the same ailment. What was really wrong with these people? This would not become obvious until months after the first signs would appear. Some would call it a parasite that would take shapes in their dreams, but the worst cases say that the shape was always near them, or close by. The Germans began calling it "Der GroBmann" or 'Slenderman' in English. To the Japanese they called this form of a parasite "Kuro Kiseichu," or 'Black Parasite' in English. Damon simply called it, fear...

One of the most famous cases was when a diplomat from Canada went to visit a series of countries at the world summit called "The G8/G20". He would never show up for meeting with other world leaders and when he did he declared war on all of them; the problem with this case is that his fellow Canadian Representatives could not make sense of what he was doing. As these meetings progressed the diplomat became more and more distant to a point where he would physically look weak and sick. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was always angsty, always biting his nails, sometimes to the point of bleeding. Fidgeting to the point that other representatives would give the Canadian Diplomat unsettling looks. Then what set this whole summit into a spiraling downfall was when the diplomat stood up started throwing papers everywhere, taking pens and pencils and stabbing people close by and then he turned one of them on himself in the neck in such a way that blood would squirt out hitting the injured individuals nearby. His dying words were simply "All Mighty Cube, formless and dark, the infection has begun..."

Those that were injured at the summit and had blood spatters on them were the next to go insane, but this time it was short lived due to the nature of being injured and having a completely infected man's blood on them. This is where it started... It became known as another fluid-transmitted infection but was short lived as individuals were completely isolated from cases that were obvious would begin to have symptoms. Very few people remained after the war, but this is just the beginning of what happened that fateful day... Damon Peters was a survivor of the Black Parasite, The Face Wars, since it began...

In Damon's mind it appeared like it was the late cases would describe they seen in their dreams; a black cube hollowed out and the black streams of light would shoot out from the corners giving it a lively look to it. When Damon was able to have a waking dream, it noticed him; and a sharp humming sound would resonate from the cube. The fear was apparent but a person with more self esteem, and have had a few waking dreams can overcome this "Der GroBmann" or "Kuro Kiseichu." The Slenderman or Black parasite was an entity from a realm within imagination. It was pulled from a parallel existence, it had a spiritual name called "Dark Kai". It also had some origin in space, from extra terrestrial beings that traveled with the usage of phase-shifting technology; something humanity could never comprehend a few decades ago...

It was a place in a future where the planet was dying. A city that was one of the few refuges left for humanity. A man looking for a new life in such a dreaded wasteland. Damon was looking for a new life in such a dreaded wasteland. He was one of the blessed capable of using ascension powers through the Quicksilver-like Dark Kai cube that laid dormant and Damon knew nothing about. He was waiting in line at the makeshift quartermaster desk, it was placed inside an abandoned tower-like structure that was repurposed for handing out job postings and registration. It was not long before Damon was next to be served. He was from a line of fishermen and asked the quartermaster, "One license to fish, even though its not a common trade, now-a-days."

The quartermaster replied, "You sure now? Fishin's a dyin' trade in these parts."

"Yep, its my expertise, come from a line o' Captains that fished." The quartermaster shrugged his shoulders at Damon and wrote up an issued license for Fishing.

"Just need some info to fill out yer' fishin' license." The quartermaster answered; Damon took out a side satchel made from an old saddle bad and asked,

"How much this be costin' me? Or can I barter for supplies to kick off my job?" Markus asked, preparing to negotiate.

"Any scrap metals or electronics would suffice," the quartermaster replied, gesturing his hand forward. Damon reached into his satchel and pulled out a tin cup, some metal wiring and an intact alternator.

"This should suffice," Damon added.

"Well done matey! I'll gather up your essentials fer' work and process your payment." The quartermaster took the cup and wiring in back of the shop and returned several minutes later with a duffle bag of goods that was tied into a nice package made with a woolen blanket. "Thank ye' kindly, Mister..."

"Peters."

"Yes, Mr. Peters this care pack should get ye' started in the profession you chose, with a few rations and a blanket as complimentary for all new signees."

"Been a pleasure Mr. Quartermaster." Damon thanked him, picked up his new found belongings and headed off into the building.

The section of wall behind the quartermaster's desk was ripped open and was exposed to the outside. There was a makeshift railing to help prevent anyone from falling. The weather had become temperate and warm due to the drastic change from the last war of resources, The Face Wars. The war continued to rage on, but not in this place. Where people organized their own enclave and created a somewhat stable commune. The view from the opening was spectacular and the breeze made it comfortable. Damon continued on heading out into the city. Passing by a market, Damon was asked to help set up a lunch room for orphans and refugees. Damon simply agreed to help.

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"Well met, mister!" Said the older lady, "There will be a well cooked homemade meal in it for ya!"

"Much appreciated, madam." Damon thanked in a grateful manner, since being out scavenging for most of the morning, he would work up an appetite. It did not take long as there was several volunteers helping each other out. Damon sat at a table in the front of the lunch room, after the setup and began to look through his care package.

It contained some basic materials required for survival in this wasteland, such as some antibiotics, clothing, and a waterskin. There was a small switchblade for protection and for preparing any survival need, such as gutting or carving. The free meal was not fancy and only consisted of a chili and bread with a bottle of water to fill the belly and quench the thirst. Damon soon finished his meal and packed up his things, moving on he looked for a place to stay for a while and sleep if needed. After some time of wandering the streets, Damon came upon a run down building only a few storeys high. The place was housing a small group of about 30-40 people. There was a mix matched kitchen on the main floor, several rooms in the above floors. On the second floor there was a cleared space that became a gym with no more than a small weight bench and some rattled practice dummies. Damon checked in at the counter and asked for a room.

"Good afternoon, I would like a place to stay for a while."

"Very good sir," the elderly gentleman said, "We have plenty of room."

"Is there any limit to how long one person can stay in this place?" Damon asked curiously to know if the place only housed temporary tenants.

"It does not matter sir, as long as you contribute to efforts around the property."

"Very good, my man." Damon replied happily.

"Also, there is one small requirement for tenancy." The Elderly gentleman interrupted. "We require all tenants to attend a fitness class to keep residency."

"Works for me," Damon replied knowing he would maintain a fitness schedule, regardless.

"Very good sir, that will be 50 coin, or equivalent valued trade." Damon once again reached into his satchel and pulled out a small bag of coin, "The last of this month's earnings my man."

"Yes, very good sir." the elderly gentleman took the pouch of coin and walked behind an antique cash register, the only few old relics that still worked in this desolate wasteland. In moments Damon had become registered as a permanent resident and was given the schedule for the Fitness class. Heading up the stairs to the fourth floor into the eighth room at the back of the building. There was no keys as most rooms were shared equally and only locked from the inside. Damon knocked on the door and turned the knob, opening the door to an empty room with two small cots placed at the back of the room, on opposite sides. Damon took the cot on the left and placed his items at the top of the bed. He laid down and soon fell into sleep dreaming of days gone by... and of days to come...

Damon woke up the next morning, with thoughts of the past haunting his morning haze over his mind. After shaking the morning blues from his head, Damon collected up his equipment and newly acquired license to fish. Now his next task was to head down to the wharf and hope to scrounge up a crew, or join one at the very least. Heading down the stairs and out passed the reception desk, nodding off the old gentleman. This would become a common occurrence for Damon. With a not and a slight wave of Damon's hand, he was out the door. Walking to the south end of the city where water cut through the landscape. Damon reached the docks in no time. He checked in at the Harbormaster's office, to see if he could find a boat or at least a crew to work with.

"What ya here 'fer boy?" the scruffy harbormaster addressed Damon.

"I'm here to see if I can fetch myself a vessel or some work." Damon replied as he pulled out his fishing registry and dropped it in front of the harbormaster.

"Let's see here, boy..." The harbormaster picked up Damon's license. "...Very good, you are captain rank?" The harbormaster asked curiously.

"Well, I was born and raised in a small fishing family, we had a fleet of 5 small boats, using a small diesel engine, if that helps." Damon replied confidently. With the wasteland like city as Myd'raal, your origins carried enough professional weight to work.

"Good enough 'fer me, boy..." The harbormaster agreed. "Mind you all wharf owned boats are captained."

"Is there any captain that ports here that have openings?" Damon replied.

"Well there is one independent that has openings." The harbormaster trailed off.

"Is there some sort of catch?" Damon asked a little concerned with the harbormaster's reaction.

"No boy... not so much a catch... Capt. Raz'ir is... What we landlubbers call unique..." The harbormaster trailed off again.

"I've seen some eccentrics myself, Mister..." Damon replied with an open ended question.

"Ye' can call me Ol' Gray." The harbormaster Gray answered. "Now crazy Raz'ir is captain o' the Shadow's Crossing." Old Gray pulled out a notice from his desk stamped it with Myd'raal's Harbormaster Seal. Giving it a signature and handed the notice to Damon. "Will that be all, boy?" Old Gray harbormaster asked in his most official way.

"These are dire times, I'm all set then Ol' Gray." Damon finally answered after tugging on his satchel strap.

"Very good Damon, here is your license, head to port 8 to meet up with one o' Shadow's Crossing deckhand." Old Gray answered. "On 'yer way boy! Capt. Raz'ir don't tolerate tardiness." With that, Old Gray pointed down the wharf toward its furthest end from the Harbormaster's office.

The papers Old Gray handed Damon were more like a detective file than an application for crewmanship. Damon began flipping through the file and kept an eye on the port markings...:

Raz'ir J. Quartermane

Captain of the Shadow's Crossing

Ship Roster:

First Mate - Deceased - Daniel Doker - Unknown Circumstance.

Crow's Nest Scout - Deceased - Robbie Roper - Unknown Circumstance.

Rope Wrangler Deckhand - Deceased - Jacob Marely - Unknown Circumstance.

The list went on to say how many incidents the ship and crew had encountered... They all ended in sorrow... 42 times:

- 10 Run a-ground

- 10 Shipwrecks (Ship refurbishments)

- 10 Encounters with Piracy

- 10 Under fire/In Battles

- 2 Unlawful Smugglings

Current Living Roster:

Captain: Raz'ir J. Quartermane

Deckhand 2: Chef Buzz Belmont

Scout/Navigator: Quinn Alexander III

First Mate:

Second Mate: Maurice Daniels

Deckhand 1: Damon Peters (New recruit)

Crow's Nest Scout:

Kitchenhand: Sybil

"What am I getting myself into..." Damon thought hopelessly, it was his only option if he were to continue to pursue the family legacy.