Big Things Have Small Beginnings is a neo-noir scifi RPG, based on the works of Ridley Scott (think: the brilliant mind behind the films Alien, Blade Runner, and Prometheus). We're set in the year 2093, thirty years before Ripley's ship took off. Weyland Industries, the face of new technology and advanced space travel, funded Project Prometheus. They set out to discovered the origins of mankind...and found so much more. Mankind is now reeling with the new discovery. Meanwhile, infections are spreading in other colonies, the military outpost is training in the event of an alien attack, and rescue ships have been sent out to find Prometheus. The space race is over; now, it's a race for survival.
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There is nothing truly comparable to the feeling of an alien host latching onto your body and mutating everything that you are from the ground up.
First there's the physical pain. The paranoia. The nagging in your gut when you know something's just not fucking right but maybe, just maybe, you can sweat it off. Sleep it off. Feel better in the morning. Just as long as you stick around long enough to find what you're looking for. Then, fine. Take me, alien host. But give me a glimpse. Give me what I came here for.
I've been informed that there was a boost in my natural aggression. A resistance to physical injury and pain. An inhuman endurance. I guess it's true, but I don't know how much of it I buy. I'm used to responding with anger. Anger or alcohol. I would've made a good soldier. Fire me up and tell me what to aim at. I thought about it, for a while. But I couldn't stand the meatheads.
What was I saying? Sorry. It's this...thing. Let's try that again.
I get bits and pieces of things. It's like being asleep all over again. I get images. Memories. Scraps of things. Most of them are attached to Ellie. Like our first mission together. Kissing in caves. Pinning her to the ground to the tune of dripping stalactites and her echoed breath. I guess that gave David something to think about.
Other memories. The reeling end of the honeymoon phase when two passionate personalities clash. One fight--I don't even remember what we were fighting about. I mean, that's how these things go, right? All I remember was that it had something to do with images in the caves and Engineers but, most importantly, religion. I left, I got drunk and I did something impulsive. I got a cross tattooed to my shoulder. When I showed it off, I said something stupid like: it's a promise. When you show me God exists, I'll believe you.
Remind me never to get drunk.
My father was a scientist. My father was also a drunk. He left when I was seven and, when I'm being really honest with myself, sometimes I hope my reckless behavior will drag him out of his cave. If nothing else, maybe he could ride the coattails of my success. That's what scientists do, right? Say they're proud of each other. Say I'm sorry your mother fell into a depression. Say I'm sorry your little sister makes terrible choices when it comes to men because I never gave her the father figure she needed.
Pain. It flairs up inside of me and I feel like sludge is thudding sticky and wet through my heart. Do I think occasionally a few have to suffer for the sake of science? Absolutely. Sign me up. But don't try to tell me this was part of God's plan. I would stand toe-to-toe and look Him in His eyes and ask Him why. Why did He create us? Why did He leave us? What was my purpose--except to disappoint my wayward father, conceive a dead child, and serve as a host to some alien life form?
The truth is, I don't even know what I am anymore. If I'm even the same person. The same physical structure, maybe, but inside...inside, I feel like it's still inside of me. Like it's crawling up my spine and playing with my head. My mother used to put me to sleep with stories of Jesus' trials, perishing in the burning hot sand. Trials, they call it. Tests of faith. Sadism. That's the word I'd use. Sadistic games played with creations He hates.
I wanted to change things. I wanted to change the world. A positive change. Something people could really hold onto. Something that would really bring us together on a fundamental, biological level. A change I can feel when I'm with Ellie. That together, we can create something. Something big. Something important. She's my soulmate, I know that. I'll hang onto that until my dying day. But when I feel the painkillers numb my skin and I hear my breath whistle in and out of me in a raspy hiss all I can think is: in whose image am I created now?
HOLLOWAY, CHARLIE B., 35 | INDEPENDENT | LOGAN MARSHALL-GREEN
