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Post by PEANUT on Jun 24, 2008 13:07:14 GMT -5
 CHRONO-DISPLACEMENT
- a genetic disorder that causes humans to spontaneously time-travel, their current self being thrown to a time in their past or future
- symptoms: frequent migraines and unprompted disappearances from the present and reappearances at any other time in their lives
- punishable by law
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Dean Forrester had no idea. He didn’t know that there was something slightly off with the repeated ACTGs in his DNA. Hell, he probably didn’t know what DNA is. His ignorance caused his own demise and someone else’s death. Pity since all he had to do was to not drive but it’s that simple thing that triggered a brewing war. He had disappeared once before, just once, the week before. He shrugged it off as a dream, a pretty realistic one at that but he thought nothing of it since he only ‘dreamt’ it for, oh, five minutes? That’s no big deal at all. Five minutes doesn’t matter since he was safely tucked away in bed when it happened, he wasn’t in a car or anything. His hands weren’t on a steering wheel when it happened the first time. Sadly, his sweaty palms were on the reigns of his old Volkswagen Beetle when the second time came ‘round. Just his luck, he was on a little neighbourhood road in the city where kids unfortunately (for Dean) like to cross the road on their bikes without looking left and right.
He wasn’t intoxicated when a flicker of a nanosecond was all it took for him to flash in and out of the present. When he finally did comeback from having a momentary few minutes spent with his old dog from childhood, his homecoming consisted of hitting the asphalt sidewalk hard and opening his eyes to see his car still running but somehow stuck in place. A glance downward and a squinting of the eyes showed Mr. Forrester that it was a ten year-old child wedged in between a bike and his car that stopped it from moving. He saw red. Not with anger but with the blood that gushed out like a river. The biggest mistake of his life, no doubt. He had hit a child, with an audience of passers-by as witnesses... but oh, crap. Of all kids, did he really have to hit the Prime Minister’s son?
Answer: No, he didn’t. He didn’t have a choice on who he was going to hit with his car and he didn’t have a choice on whether he was going to be in the car when it happened.
When the police heard that and the testimonies from witnesses that he had simply vanished then re-emerged outside of the car, Dean Forrester found himself shoved into a white coat and branded a lab rat. Er, at least he’s famous? He was a medical marvel, an illegal one.
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The Prime Minister’s rage over his son’s death reached the White House quicker than anyone can imagine. The news of the tragic death in his family rattled the nation but caused a panic. It got everyone thinking: What if they’re more of them? Someone was brave enough to ask and it’s a yes. There are more and some of them don’t quite know what it is yet. Even without the knowledge of what they really are, what condition they have, they must run for their lives. The government was consumed by paranoia because of the possibilities that came with chrono-displacement disorder, as it was named after the scientists had prodded through Forrester’s genes. They just can’t have all these time-travelers walking around, now, could they? What if they were to disappear and end up killing someone again? This wasn’t something they were just going to let slip.
CDPs (chrono-displaced people) swiftly became feared, ostracized and looked upon. They posed a threat. They were made of crappy, messed up genes that could kill. Accident or no accident, it was a disease. It had to be eradicated, extinguished from the Earth. The cure? Well, they found one. Sort of. The friendly men in the white lab coats thought that they’d tamper with your genetic code in order to stop the ‘infected’ from traveling. How? If a gene was missing, they’d reconstruct one from the genes one already has and put it in. If a slight tweak had to be made in the order of ACTGs, they were going to reorder it. The catch is they don’t come back as good as they were before coming in to be ‘treated’. Some of them have complete personality changes, lapses in memory, complete amnesia, become more susceptible to other illnesses and some are found to suffer from body aches and irrational fears, psychological negatives. They might come out looking the same, talking with the same voice, but somehow something’s different.
You have a cure but how do you know which one is which? How does one tell the chrono-displaced from the regular human being? In all honesty, you can’t tell unless they’re abilities are revealed by evil neighbours, backstabbing friends or vile enemies. When you find an urge within yourself to report a CDP, who are you going to call? No, not Ghostbusters. You call the Stopwatch, a special branch in the army that’s dedicated to track CPDs down and force them into getting treatment. Should they refuse, they’ll be shot down with tranquilizers and shipped off to the ‘hospital’ to get cured. They look at it as a peaceful rehabilitation process.
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The CDPs along with their loved ones work towards keeping themselves alive. Not only is it prohibited to know that you have chrono-displacement disorder and reject submitting to treatment but it’s also unlawful to know about it and not tipping information to the government. They try and maintain their image of being a normal human being but accidents do happen, as Dean Forrester found out. In the meantime, they go on like the rest of us. They have relationships, apply for jobs, pay their rent, go to school, run, hide... all those good stuff. The CDPs long to be considered normal, for the CDP-hunting to stop. Feeling preyed on, it’s in any human’s nature to want to strike back and to band together... and that they did. They formed the Cronus Union, a whole group of educated CDPs that work towards gearing up for the struggle that lay ahead of them and their immediate loved ones. With the minutes passing by fast, each hour counting more and more, the CDPs stand side by side with a will to fight these
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