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A battered, half scorched journal alongside a beige-green folder filled with various documents and photos strewn upon a spacious, luxurious oaken desk.

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Liberty Hall Laboratories, Dublin, Ireland
Day 4132, 14.00 eRT

He fled the nest. Seems almost ironic to be writing this at his desk but we fought hard to get here. The bastard even left us a note, like he'd planned for us to go berserk. I f*cked it away without reading. Such a smug asshole. We'll still get him. I don't think anyone could have imagined how berserk we'd all end up going though. No one could have planned for this. The M.P's downstairs haven't even breached yet an it's been over two hours since it all went down. There's three helicopters at a safe distance, lightening up the room we're posted up in. There'll be no shoots fired, no empty threats and definitely none of those sirens if they've managed to get the memo about that downstairs.

It was worse than what we assumed. We had all agreed we'd patches of amnesia, odd bouts of aimless aggression and other weird and horrid symptoms. Operation Rasa Blank was run by Dr. Feidhlim O'Ceallaigh here in Liberty Hall Labs. We all remember him fondly (he got shot holding back Fogarthy's minions). I remember there was some light invasive surgery, like getting your brain pierced. I'm kidding, of course. After a blackout surgery, I recall going back to the barrack feeling better than usual. However another test that Dr. Fogarthy ran afterwards, we all remembered was called something like "Field Test Eagles Freedom". It must have piggy-backed off Dr. O'Ceallaighs work with Operation Rasa Blank. We all remember those Mark. III Vorpal Sirens, the feeling like you're drowning in death, clawing through bloody bodies to get to air.. Christ some of us that are left can't even talk about it without feeling sick. Whatever Fogarthy did to us it stuck like a virus and it seems like his little Militia have undergone the same treatment. Cpt. Petrov seems to be Fogarthy's special prototype.

The lanky streak-o-piss was quite the challenge to bring down. He certainly knew how to cover himself and get behind others in the range of sight so it took a while before Winters could get him in range. He blew his leg off from nearly 800 metres. I'd call bullshit too if I wasn't listening to it going down over the radio, co-ordinates and all. He didn't even scream when we cartirised his stump with hot aliuminium lattice. He just went white, with a look of far off dread in his eyes, like his pain was happening on the moon or something. It was an odd reaction, I gotta say.

After young Séan was finally restrained (Young Séán has been duped/drugged by Petrov and won't change his mind about it.) Murph went straight for Petrov's remaining eye. None of us really wanted to stand between Murph and his pray so it just kind of happened. Murph got started with a surgical needle. But Petrov didn't even flinch, even as it pierced through the film. He kinda just hummed in pain. He's tied to a chair near me as I'm writing this. I think even if I set him on fire he'd just sit there staring into space. Speaking of odd and cruel without her.. here'ss_ Okay, Murph wants a shot at the last few pages. Relax!

- Commander T. F. Mac Allistar, Rasa Blank

F*ckin' Commander of what Mac Allistar? There is no Rasa Blank, or Eagles Freedom. Fogarthy is gone. We'll never catch him now. He could be anywhere. What are you even saying about Séan? He's just shell-shocked. Leave your soap opera at home. Petrov must have taken something, it'll wear off and I'll get him singing soon enough. Here Quigley will know what's what.

Actually one sec though, Dr. O'Ceallaigh is dead and he fought well. His truth dies with him and to some extent so does ours? I won't give up though, still. I can't explain why. I'm no Hemingway. I'm not an Italian Nurse. Alright, my turn's up, I'm sure wide-eyes Quigley wants a turn to write now. Get his dopey face right in the book. I can't believe he made it this far. I suppose luck is part of the game.

- Murph, Centre Back for Mancester United

Typical Murph, he farts on the Journal, then he writes the first part in small lettering before handing it to me. He's like a bold child. I'm J. Quigely, former I.N.L.A Rifleman. Rasa Blank Generalissimo now? No way Mac Allistar is calling our little band of misfits his own. But I raked through the text and yeah Mac Allistar is right without question! Fogarthy is behind Operation Rasa Blanks infiltration and all that other stuff. Murph is pissed off we have to wait up here until Internal Services come for Petrov. His death could cause, "an international incident". It hasn't stopped Murph playing Doctor with his weirdly lifeless body. He's breathing but he's only barely with us. In fairness Murph kicked ten shades of shit out of him but that doesn't seem to be the reason he's so out of it. Shit, does that mean he's been deactivated!? Like a piece of code, from up on high? That's what was in that "Pay to Play: Simulacra of Nations" book Mac Allistar gave us. They can't do that to us yet, surely? If someone's making this, surely they care! Right!?

J. Quigley, Rasa Blank, Generalissimo of Nothing and Nowhere

Okay, by the sounds of it my brothers have breached the lab and are making off with our tango. Probably best to leave this all here. I guess it's fair you find out what you know we know? We'll be taking Petrov with us to ransom to the highest bidder. That's any nation really. Or we'll probably just pimp him out with all that Scopolamine you've been dosing him with, I guess we have that stash now too and also if the press ask, we're called Rasa Blank, not for you but for us. Our guy on the inside will have us so shuffled back out into rotation you'll never find us. We are coming for you Fogarthy!

Corporal Clare O'Malley, Irish Army, Regiment 6 & Test Subject/Comrade of Rasa Blank


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