Platform
Held pending counsel — K1
Other servers give you an outbreak. This one gives you a filing system that was working correctly the entire time.
The original collapse.
Far enough back that the institutions rebuilt and the forms were revised. CW‑114 is on Rev. 6. Somebody sat down and improved that form five times.
The present crisis.
Begins with authorised works cutting an unrecorded ash‑bearing stratum at 2.4–3.1 m. It is not a breach of procedure. Procedure was followed.
Where you live.
One supply zone, one works site, six offices, and a line that closed twenty‑six minutes after its effective time.
| Date | Record | What happened | What was concluded |
|---|
Eight months, start to seal. Every date above is on a real document in Chapter Zero. The server opens the day after the last one.
| Source | What we take | What we refuse |
|---|
Nothing rots. No wet decay, no green, no exposed viscera. The material is pale, fine and dry to the instrument. Everything else in the genre is wet.
The set dressing is the paperwork. Every wall, gate and standpipe carries a notice that is technically correct. The city tells you it is fine, in writing, forever.
No monster is ever explained. Nothing on the server names a cause. A player who thinks they have solved it is playing correctly and is wrong.
Drawn from the post‑mortems in VB/UP/0411, not invented. Each plate pairs the presentation with a clinical render of the same stage inside the skull.
The anatomy renders are the one place in the entire system where colour is permitted: the colony is deep crimson with hot tips at its advancing front, so a reader can see not just where it is but which way it is going. Everywhere else the palette holds.
The Infected do not hunt, swarm on sight, or die from a headshot in any satisfying way — the growth continues after death, so a body on the ground is still a body that is changing. “Zombie” is survivor slang. No institution, document, medical record or official voice ever uses it.
Nothing rots. Even at Plate IV the growth itself is bone‑dry and chalk white — what is wet is the host, torn open where the organism has forced its way out. Dry growth, wet wounds. That contrast is the creature, and it is why a body on the ground still isn't finished.
DOC‑03 records the airway and the bronchi in animals, and nothing above them. Cranial involvement at Plate IV is a proposal, not the record — it explains the presentation without naming a cause, but it is new lore and needs its own decision.
At Stage I an Infected is a person with a cough who is still talking to you, still passing at the line, still filing a claim. There is no test available to a player. The horror is that the roleplay continues.
They cannot hear you.
You can hear them.
The genre standard is a creature that listens — clicks, echolocation, sound‑baiting. Ours is the opposite, and it comes straight from the record: laboured breathing, respiratory distress at end. The Infected are audible because they are suffocating. Proximity is a breath, not a growl.
Access tier is the status ladder, and it already exists in the fiction — CR‑6 refuses on the applicant's tier, not their merit.
Hi‑vis over work clothes, respirator filter type 2, gas‑test meter, permit board, hoist and breaker. The most common silhouette in the district, and the most exposed.
Four posts, relief every six hours, pass countersigned at post 1. Plain kit, no armour theatre. Force is not authorised by the order. They turn you back; they cannot make you leave.
Salvaged screen and filter media worn as improvised respirators — the one piece of kit the district produces in quantity, because CW‑207 renewed it eight times in a year.
Build reference for the map team. Overcast or sodium, no third light source. The brightest object in almost every frame is a sheet of paper.
Base doctrine is written already, in BC/SO/04L‑07: four posts, the line held continuously, not broken for weather, for daylight, or for the convenience of any body.
| Zone | Implementation alias | Holds |
|---|
Every sign is postable in‑world at a standpipe, depot gate, reservoir hoarding or district office — the four locations named in WA/PN/04L‑19. Every one of them is technically correct, and none of them threatens force — BC‑2 §3.4 does not authorise it.
Desaturated to roughly 18%, never zero. Lift the blacks slightly — this is dust in the air, not a night filter. Highlights go chalk, not white. No teal, no orange, no bloom.
The turbidity number is the dosimeter.
STALKER's dosimeter works because it turns an invisible threat into an audible one. Ours does the same job with a compliance reading — and does it better, because the number stays within limit the whole time.
The figure that matters is the one underneath: 6 / 14 determined. A parameter that has not been determined is not a parameter in exceedance. Players learn to read the second line, and that is the entire theme delivered as a UI element.
Proposed. Not canon. Faction and character canon has no source in the register at all, so everything here is a proposal for the frame — not a lock. It answers no protected mystery, names no cause, and adds no institution whose remit is to notice. Route through a proposal + decision record before any of it binds.
Image generation is unfunded at present. When credits exist, this deck takes photographic plates in eight slots: the sealed line at dusk · the yard with sheeted arisings · a standpipe with the notice posted · Gang 9 in filter type 2 · Stage II at conversational distance · the reservoir hoarding · the district office records room · Lower Cut Road, outside the line.
The forms do not degrade. The supply chain does.