The automation of flesh will cease for all those underneath the nightmare someday:
But what happens to our corpses when the last remainders of hope are returning to mother earth?
The Stench of Decay
It is a well known (through rarely implemented fact) that our friends left underneath the bleeding sky tend to get rank with the ripening of their flesh by insect, bacteria and the natural horrors of that ill-remembered trauma known as time!
The scent of human decay (even in such a post-human society!) is hardwired to garner disgust in even the most hardened of bastards. It is a scent like acetone mixed with the foulest disease, something primordially despised like a lashing of pain: Sorrow should grow when this intoxicating scent reaches the airways of the living.
The Liverish, born of a hellish existence toiling to death within Liver-Failures factories has plagued their flesh with sores and ghastly scarring. Be it the fact that their noses have simply fallen off or the nostrils are inflamed by phlegm from chemical-induced plague? They are used to this scent of death and it's effects are lessened to an extent.
Especially true of those who serve as Sanitars of the reigning Kommadant: For they find the scent as fresh and inviting as vinegar-soaked fleshcakes! They will never find this scent disgusting, it is a payday for them. A cruel reminder of their cultural death from Socialism to Kapitalism.
However, their neighbors have not obtained this mercy. Kidneystans cold-weather means the dead rarely reach the pustulant effervescent states of decay those of Liver-Failure are doomed to enter. And while Arrhythmian's may have committed atrocities in their virtual electroshock devil-machines: Few have seen the truly dead stare accusingly up at them, smelled the sweet-decay upon their stimulant-ruined airways or lived anything but vicariously for their daily suffering.
From Nothing to Something
But what do we do with our friends after they've passed the abysmal eye? Why we recycle them!
Organ-harvesting, the butchering and consumption of forbidden flesh and their destruction must be performed night religiously: Else the dead will damn us with Rot.
Survivors of IN3 remember Rot. Rot is Rot. And it is everpresent and everloathing of life. Those who embrace it's love may find other, more profane uses for our friends, a crime against the status-quo that we should kill them for.
Rotting for You
But how should our newly deceased friends turn from a amalgamation of Solta's hate and Mothers vitriol into a beautiful display of entropy in our concrete nightmare?
FRESH - The Corpse has yet to violated for anything more than it's organs, pocket-goodies and other trinkets better served in the hands of their killer. However, this delightfully fresh-state is soon to return to it's truer form:
DECAYING - The Corpse should obtain a horribly pale visage as the blood flow is staunched and the return to the soil begins. Corpses at this point shouldn't have obtained anything but the slightest odor as the corpse releases refuse and other fluids as the biological secretion's cease and the last cells die away. It is likely rigor-mortis has stricken the victims eyes nigh permanently open at this point, and as such should cause physical discomfort to view. Not that anyone would have the decency to allow the corpse to sleep a this point.
ROTTING - The Corpse has finally achieved metamorphism from post-human to animated flesh-amalgamation as the insects and vile buggers dig homes and turn them into little more than a nest. The skin turns to browns, blacks, greens and blues as the various bacterial colonies create life from their wasted existence and the bloat begins to cause crackling 'pops' like pork-fat being rendered into a rotted suet. At this stage the corpse has the iconic scent of death and cannot be stomached- It's mere visage should remind the Prole's of their eventual fate.
DESICCATED - The Flesh no longer appears animated by the maggots within it's flesh, for it has achieved the final and most beautiful state of death within the Nightmare. The soft-tissues have been consumed and now only the tough membrane of skin grips tightly to the bones, whom have lost their marrow to the suckling of the little flesh-friends the corpse has likely managed to charismatically invite with but the scent of it's 'home'.
The corpse at this point is beyond the work of the Sanitar's recycling machines, it is best that you bring the wrath of the flame to it and begin again: You do not wish to know what such rot does to the inner-workings of the mechanical heartbeat. Kommadant's mercy on anyone who must witness this decay, for the Sanitar should be beaten with a reed for their failures at allowing a corpse to achieve this state.
The automation of flesh will cease for all those underneath the nightmare someday: But what happens to our corpses when the last remainders of hope are returning to mother earth?
The Stench of Decay It is a well known (through rarely implemented fact) that our friends left underneath the bleeding sky tend to get rank with the ripening of their flesh by insect, bacteria and the natural horrors of that ill-remembered trauma known as time!
The scent of human decay (even in such a post-human society!) is hardwired to garner disgust in even the most hardened of bastards. It is a scent like acetone mixed with the foulest disease, something primordially despised like a lashing of pain: Sorrow should grow when this intoxicating scent reaches the airways of the living.
The Liverish, born of a hellish existence toiling to death within Liver-Failures factories has plagued their flesh with sores and ghastly scarring. Be it the fact that their noses have simply fallen off or the nostrils are inflamed by phlegm from chemical-induced plague? They are used to this scent of death and it's effects are lessened to an extent. Especially true of those who serve as Sanitars of the reigning Kommadant: For they find the scent as fresh and inviting as vinegar-soaked fleshcakes! They will never find this scent disgusting, it is a payday for them. A cruel reminder of their cultural death from Socialism to Kapitalism.
However, their neighbors have not obtained this mercy. Kidneystans cold-weather means the dead rarely reach the pustulant effervescent states of decay those of Liver-Failure are doomed to enter. And while Arrhythmian's may have committed atrocities in their virtual electroshock devil-machines: Few have seen the truly dead stare accusingly up at them, smelled the sweet-decay upon their stimulant-ruined airways or lived anything but vicariously for their daily suffering.
From Nothing to Something But what do we do with our friends after they've passed the abysmal eye? Why we recycle them!
Organ-harvesting, the butchering and consumption of forbidden flesh and their destruction must be performed night religiously: Else the dead will damn us with Rot. Survivors of IN3 remember Rot. Rot is Rot. And it is everpresent and everloathing of life. Those who embrace it's love may find other, more profane uses for our friends, a crime against the status-quo that we should kill them for.
Rotting for You
But how should our newly deceased friends turn from a amalgamation of Solta's hate and Mothers vitriol into a beautiful display of entropy in our concrete nightmare?
FRESH - The Corpse has yet to violated for anything more than it's organs, pocket-goodies and other trinkets better served in the hands of their killer. However, this delightfully fresh-state is soon to return to it's truer form:
DECAYING - The Corpse should obtain a horribly pale visage as the blood flow is staunched and the return to the soil begins. Corpses at this point shouldn't have obtained anything but the slightest odor as the corpse releases refuse and other fluids as the biological secretion's cease and the last cells die away. It is likely rigor-mortis has stricken the victims eyes nigh permanently open at this point, and as such should cause physical discomfort to view. Not that anyone would have the decency to allow the corpse to sleep a this point.
ROTTING - The Corpse has finally achieved metamorphism from post-human to animated flesh-amalgamation as the insects and vile buggers dig homes and turn them into little more than a nest. The skin turns to browns, blacks, greens and blues as the various bacterial colonies create life from their wasted existence and the bloat begins to cause crackling 'pops' like pork-fat being rendered into a rotted suet. At this stage the corpse has the iconic scent of death and cannot be stomached- It's mere visage should remind the Prole's of their eventual fate.
DESICCATED - The Flesh no longer appears animated by the maggots within it's flesh, for it has achieved the final and most beautiful state of death within the Nightmare. The soft-tissues have been consumed and now only the tough membrane of skin grips tightly to the bones, whom have lost their marrow to the suckling of the little flesh-friends the corpse has likely managed to charismatically invite with but the scent of it's 'home'. The corpse at this point is beyond the work of the Sanitar's recycling machines, it is best that you bring the wrath of the flame to it and begin again: You do not wish to know what such rot does to the inner-workings of the mechanical heartbeat. Kommadant's mercy on anyone who must witness this decay, for the Sanitar should be beaten with a reed for their failures at allowing a corpse to achieve this state.