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You Can Never Go Home Again

An Adipose City Story

By Psion

All Rights Reserved

The morning after The Hunt Begins...

Erik breathed in the thick scent of sea salt as the Lunar Atlas left Adipose City for Iceland. As far as harbor control knew, the Lunar Atlas was a passenger submarine that made a transatlantic run between Adipose City and Liverpool, England. Standing on the deck with about a dozen of his peers and a hundred of his "peers" in the Phys Ed Consortium while waiting for the submerge alarm to sound off, the blond Icelandic human contemplated the value of hiding in plain sight. The submarine had made at least eight runs since he was stationed in Adipose City and no one suspected it was anything but a middle-range passenger liner treating travelers from both sides of the Atlantic to a leisurely trip under the sea. No one knew it was really making runs to and from Iceland on the behalf of the Consortium.

The athletic blue-eyed Nordic man resisted the urge to roll his eyes in front of the others. Good old PEC, the blessed Consortium, saviors of Iceland when the local economy collapsed during the Peak Oil crisis. The remnants of the diet and weight-loss industries needed a cheap base to rebuild themselves and Erik's forefathers were too poor to really argue. Erik's generation grew up completely surrounded by PEC, they were educated by them, clothed and fed by them, and protected from foreign invaders that sought to wash away Iceland's culture. Consortium was father; Consortium was mother; and all that good thought-police rubbish.

Growing up, Erik bought in to the company propaganda. The Six were assholes, the minor corps were not much better, and it was up to PEC to lead the way back to the glorious good ol' days of 24-hour gyms, diet pills, and health food. Went through primary school, earned a scholarship to study at one of their technical colleges, then joined the company's "Hammerhead" field tech corps. His faith in the company's mandate was unquestioning up until his training as an Agent of the company. For some reason, he found himself drawn to the "Know your Foe" sections of his training, keeping the "trading card"-like memory aids and taking them out to look them over long after his fellow trainees had gone to bed. Try as he might, he couldn't see what was "ugly" about the female agents. Indeed, the further along he went into training, the more he thought he liked them compared to his female coworkers. He kept these thoughts to himself; another trainee by the name of Sven was more open about his own curiosity and was transferred to "another training facility" early on. Erik had his suspicions about this but anyone who inquired into Sven's fate was promptly stonewalled.

If his first assignment had been to anywhere but Hamburg, the PEC Hammerhead would have probably found someway to rationalize the values those loyalties instilled in him and his closet interests. But no, he was transferred to the infamous PEC reeducation facilities at Hamburg, Germany.

Torn by apart by corporate warfare between Aristo and Italiana and with the local franchises struggling to hold on for dear life, Germany was a great place to hide some of the Consortium's larger outposts and give new agents some combat experience. The facility at Hamburg was a renovated insane asylum rebuilt to serve as the company's main research laboratory in the area. A lot of the base facilities were pretty standard compared to other postings; the spa, the gym, the armory and rifle range, and the fat farm that produced electricity from a battalion of kidnapped, sweltering fatties. But there was one relatively unique thing about Hamburg that still filled him with a cold rage, Hamburg was where the Consortium conducted most of its psychological research into the "ailment" known as technically as "lipophila" but more commonly referred to as "chubby chasing" or "fat admiring" in one tone or another.

Whether they were really responsible or not, the Consortium considered chubby chasers mentally ill people that were somehow accountable for the paradigm shift that consumed the world and made it "wider." And as such, Erik realized there was no room for people like him in his beloved corporation's perfect world. No room for moderates of any stripe at all. Yet this sad revelation was quickly replaced with a combination of disgust and cold outrage when he discovered just lengths his company was willing to go to try and "cure" this "mental illness."

Upon being transferred to his posting at Hamburg, Erik was assigned as part of the security and engineering detail under Leon, the same Leon he would eventually leave behind in that botched SALAD raid. Even back then, the human techie knew the leonine animan was trouble, a narcissistic personality that believed he was destined for greatness yet lacked the social and leadership skills to make it very far up the corporate ladder. Still, Leon's personality was hardly the most offensive thing Erik would find himself doing or witnessing, at least as first.

As a combat-capable field technician, Erik's job was to keep the prison camp's security systems in working order and service a piece of proprietary technology called the Pavlov Device. The former had him making rounds throughout the detention center, performing maintenance on the sentry guns that kept watch on the base perimeter and the internal devices that kept the prisoners in their cages. Some of the inmates were what outsiders would expect of PEC, overweight people kidnapped to fill out the fat farms that provided the Consortium with electricity. And while that bunch was typical of PEC, there was also the other group.

The Pavlov Device, so named for one of the major figures in psychology, was regarded as a myth by foreigners; a fairy tale useful for frightening the consumers into being good little gluttons; Erik wished he could be as ignorant about the truth. The reality was that the nasty little thing was real and probably a lot more graphic then outsiders realized. From an engineering standpoint the construction was simple, an electrode was positioned over the prisoner's privates and hooked to a brainwave reading machine, the latter device was calibrated to scan the part of the brain responsible for arousal. The poor prisoner strapped to this insidious contraption was then subjected to a variety of sexually arousing images designed to ferret out a variety of kinks and orientations. If they showed excitement towards something PEC didn't like, they got an electrical shock to the privates for their trouble and kept getting them until they learned to play the Consortium's game, curing fat admirers via negative reinforcement. At least that was the theory, the blond Hammerhead personally had to wonder how effective it really was. As far as he could tell, it only served to make whoever was subjected to it even more pissed off when the opportunity presented itself...

The submersion klaxon went off, ending his reflection prematurely as everyone got off the surface deck in time for the Lunar Atlas to disappear beneath the waves. The last thing Erik saw before disappearing inside was a pair of SALAD cutters patrolling one of their kelp farms. Talk about irony considering who was locked up below, so close yet so far.

The interior of the passenger levels of the ship was designed in a terraced fashion, cabins stacked on top of one another opened up into an expansive atrium that was used as a multifunctional athletic field. The atmosphere was relaxed, Erik would be tempted to almost call it laid-back, a far cry from the sort of sinister airs foreign agents would picture the Consortium existing in. Several PEC agents of multiple builds ran track or lifted weights while a spontaneous quartet gave an amazing rendition of, of course, Lonely Island's legendary "I'm on a boat!" The attitude was so soothing; the blond Hammerhead would have almost forgotten about the omnipresent surveillance he was now back under.

Employees of the other corps were probably no stranger to security cameras and other sensors set up in every place where large numbers of people gathered. But PEC managed to take things up to a whole other level with listening devices positioned to record days of audio everywhere from the main exercise hall to people's private quarters. The better to crack down on any dissent, regardless of whether it was real or imagined. The problem of course with such surveillance is that it was most effective when people weren't aware of it. Anyone who truly had anything to hide and knew about the Eavesdroppers took steps, usually many steps, to avoid them when they wanted to discuss bothersome little issues...

Erik leaned against the railing, admiring the view as the passenger submarine puttered along its undersea route, when she came up. Doctor Disella Frosthearth, lapin Sports Medic. A close friend of his since they met at Hamburg, she was clever, funny, and beautiful. Jet black hair, velvet soft black fur, big blue eyes, and one of the tightest gymnast bodies in the Consortium. The lithe black bunny walked right up to him, Erik turned to meet her gaze just in time for Disella to kiss him on the lips. The two stood like this for a moment, hands around each other's neck and shoulders, before she pulled away and placed a slip of paper in between his fingers and walked away with a sly smile on her face; so deft, so warm, so emotional... and yet so rehearsed.

Taking the handwritten note and opening it, he read her message. Then read it again just to make sure. It was simple, direct, and yet conveyed a strong sense of urgency. We need to talk, meet me at the usual place immediately. - DF

Erik tried to not think of what would make Disella want to call a meeting so soon after leaving port. They still had at least three days before they arrived in Iceland. Whatever it was had to be big, bad, or both. Was it just the two of them or would the other "Men of Hamburg" be there? And if the latter, what was new with the group of PEC "superstars" trying to make amends for the world's worst coup?

The usual meeting place was in the damage control room, a large and mostly empty part of the engineering deck. Even when this level was fully staffed for the day shift the DC area was hardly used. And since it rarely got any traffic it was hardly watched. Still, as soon as the first member arrived to the meeting, the first order of business was to sweep for surveillance devices and trapped them in a playback loop for the duration of the gathering. Once that was taken care of, the conspirators finished gathering and the meeting began in earnest. Erik was one of the last to arrive, taking care to make sure he wasn't followed and chatting with a few new Consortium agents, one of them wanting his autograph for his part in the heroic defense of the Hamburg asylum against rioting prisoners, Aristo's Round Knights, and Italiana's Praetorians. If there was anything the company's media division loved, it was reusing that story about how he and about thirty other agents put up a spirited defense and successfully repelled the very finest the two European megacorps could throw at them while successfully bringing a bunch of chubby chasers to heel like rabid dogs. The fact that they would eventually lose the facility and all the prisoners due to an encore Aristo performance with Motherland Provisions providing tank support was something the propaganda department tended to gloss over. Erik hated signing the damn autographs but still, not even a purported "war hero" was immune from getting surprised psych-eval checks if enough people showed "concern for him." And unfortunately no one in the company seemed to get that the reason why most battle-scarred vets snapped was because the domestic culture back home managed to somehow be as smothering as Bazooka Betty's bosom yet not even a fraction as satisfying.

So in the end, the native Icelander was one of the last to arrive to the meeting, annoyed that he couldn't ask Frosthearth what the matter was in private but on the other hand, he got to quickly confirm his suspicions. Whatever this gathering was about, it was big; bigger then Jenny "Tank Ass" Moore's sweet tank-sized ass big. There were ten souls in the original Hamburg conspiracy and all of them were present. The Consortium's way of life had inspired grumbling of many kinds. Some had gotten disillusioned by a frivolous war they couldn't win, some were like Disella and Erik and fostered amorous feelings for the "blubber balls," most were just tired of the constant monitoring dictating what they could eat, how long they could sleep, and how they had to spend their leisure time. As such the group had only three rules; no one judges anyone else for why they're in dissent, there are no large meetings unless there is a major issue, and the group does not gather for a significant length of time unless the same. Judging by the fact that two of these rules were being broken, there was at least one serious item on the docket.

Usually, particularly after members had been on a long campaign, there was some element of small talk and general unwinding before the meeting began. Not this time, this time everyone looked at each other expectantly to learn why they had been called less then an hour after leaving port. Was some idiot going to suggest they commit mass suicide in some insane scheme like hijacking the submarine?

Finally, after several seconds spent with everyone staring at each other, Disella spoke up and revealed herself as the one who called the meeting. "Alright, after our latest showing in Adipose City, I think it's time we stopped talking about resigning from the Consortium and start talking about how we are going to do it. I also think we should discuss the guest we have locked away in the cell block."

There was a general murmur amongst the other nine attendees at this and not all of it was good. Not a surprise as this was hardly the most opportune time to launch an insurrection. Iceland was a fortress, a citadel so impregnable that to launch a successful full scale military invasion would bankrupt any of the big six fast-food megacorps. Sea mines, bunkers, surface-to-air missile batteries, long-range defensive artillery emplacements, and an extensive tunnel network made the island an unassailable bastion of all thing health nazi related. It also made it an unbreakable cage for anyone thinking of defecting or deserting the Consortium. Erik shook his head, even if they did switch gears with their discussions the best any of them could do was plan and try to get reassigned off the island as soon as possible.

"Well you certainly have great timing long ears." This was Samuel, a human Freerunner from the United States. "Even if we did this back in Adipose City, we'd only have a fifty-fifty shot of running off without getting roasted by the company. Back on the island... well we're fucked, pure and simple. No one leaves the island unless the company lets them, end of story."

"That may not be the case. Jackson, you've been studying the construction the Consortium has been secretly adding to the Mass Atlantic Waypoint. Natasha, you've been mapping the location of the sea mines. Erik has been studying their construction, there is a way to trick them."

The Hammerhead rolled his eyes. "Yes, you can fool them... if you're willing to travel to Greenland in a wooden sailboat. Needless to say, between the ice bergs and the genetically modified sharks our noble employer uses for aquatic threats, I wouldn't trust my life to it."

Jackson, a raccoon Speed Freak from... somewhere, Erik couldn't remember where, seemed more optimistic. "Yeah, they've finished digging a hidden connection to the M.A.W., lightly guarded last I looked. We should be able to rush them then get on no problem; hardest part may be bluffing our way past the Burger World or Aristo checkpoints at either end."

The others nodded at this, perhaps escape was possible after all, but Erik was not convinced. "The tunnel doesn't run by any major city on the island. Even if it did, our combat engineers wouldn't give the other corps an expressway to run tanks through our holdings. Meaning we'd need an off road vehicle to get there, ideally one with some armor, and the company locks down all home front combat assets in case of an invasion. We wouldn't be able to get one without raising an alarm or coming up with a very convincing excuse."

"Which means we'd probably have to get there on foot, and that carries its own can of worms." Samuel grumbled. "I mean we're good, that's the only reason why any of us are still alive after what went down in Hamburg, but are we good enough to take one of our own outposts. Granted the defenses likely wouldn't be pointed in our direction but still, are we that good?"

"We'd have better luck doing that then trying to hijacking the sub. And if that isn't a drawn out form of suicide I don't know what is." Another answered, Erik was too busy trying to figure out a way they COULD escape the island to see who. No matter how he looked at it, the best way off the island short of being reassigned was still through the secret tunnels connecting the MAW to Iceland. Still, if they could pull it off all ten of them were definitely getting a Hollywood movie deal out of it. Explosions, vehicle chase scenes, running gun battles, the Burger World crowd would eat it up. Hell, all of the movie-going fatties would eat it up; it would be like Ocean Eleven meets the best propaganda movie ever. Still there was the other issue brought up...

"Alright, what is there to discuss about the squirrel girl that tried to snoop around my apartment back in Adipose?" The human asked bluntly, arms crossed as he leaned against a metal bulkhead.

"Well we can't just leave her can we? Especially when we know what her fate is once they get her back to the island." Jackson replied. Erik noticed none of them mentioned that it was him that turned Rigger in, probably because they would have done the same if they were in his place. Appearing sympathetic to the blubber balls tended to lead to fates worse then death.

"Yeah, put her on a starvation diet, then electrocute her in an extreme attempt at brainwashing, maybe even try having some narcissistic meathead jock rape her for good measure. Then when she finally goes psycho and escapes, she becomes either a reputed street doctor known and loved by most of Adipose City's freelancer community or an elite Aristo techno-knight that probably spends her free time licking Lady Boobsalot's overstuffed pussy. IE she becomes the kind of nightmare scenario that can wipe out entire teams of the shovelheads the Consortium is calling agents these days." Erik replied flatly, his hands trembling slightly as he relieved an unpleasant memory.

"Well that wasn't specific at all." One of the others replied sarcastically. "Seriously man, let it go. You were lucky you didn't end up in a cage yourself when you tried to stand up for them."

"Sorry, I didn't realize I was the one asking if we should risk our necks for this SALAD girl. Don't get me wrong, I think she has a great ass but that's hardly enough of a justification to risk everything I have left... if she presents herself as a target of opportunity during our escape attempt then I'm for taking her and throwing her in the back of our truck, assuming we are going through with this suicide idea that is. Otherwise, as was already mentioned, I nearly got myself locked in one of those same cages the last time I tried to stand up for what was right; I have no interest in doing that again. And besides, what makes her different from the hundred other damned souls that have been whisked away to the company stronghold this year alone? Are you telling me you plan on saving all of them?"

"I don't know, can we? They wouldn't expect it from one of their own." Disella asked. Erik firmly planted his face into the palm of his hand on reflex; there was only one direction this meeting could go now...

"Oh now this is ludicrous. Raid the reeducation center on Iceland, why don't we just take turns shooting each other in the head now and get it over with?" The dissenting voice replied, getting a general murmur of agreement from the audience. If there was a single building that was a complete fortress on an already ridiculously over-defended island, it was the company prison. Not even global HQ had security quite as tight.

And like that, the group immediately disheartened and called the meeting adjourned without ceremony. Proving why they never successfully undermined the Consortium from the inside, the sheer enormity of the task was discouraging and the one time they did try to disrupt the PEC warmachine from the inside didn't help matters much...

One of the best-kept secrets about the siege of Hamburg, one never spoken outside of the ten of them, was how it was supposed to play out completely differently. If it had gone to plan, Erik's covert sabotage of the base generator would have gone off and the Hamburg ten would have been conveniently somewhere else as their loyalist cohorts were torn to shreds trying to put down an enraged mob of escaping prisoners. But then came an unexpected attack from not one but two separate agent teams from enemy corporations mere minutes before the power was supposed to go offline and the prisoners saw their chance to escape... Trapped in their own genius plan by the whims of cruel fate.

Leon and the rest of the loyalists fought off the encroaching fatties while Erik and the secret dissenters... better that unhappy deed was left to them then let the lion and his egotistical friends handle the rioting captives. Damn overmuscled asshole was insufferable enough before the plan to kill him and disrupt the base's experiments went ass up; his sudden meteoric rise to agent super stardom was something the Icelandic techie still hadn't fully forgiven himself for...

Reinserting himself back into the usual scheduled flow of the ship, Erik arrived back in time for afternoon cardio. Immediately putting on a bright grin, he joined a chatting gaggle of female ferrets running along the track. Masking his true feelings and navigating his way the subtleties of the Consortium's regimented lifestyle were two things he was good at, far too good at. Fortunately he wouldn't have to deal with either of them for very long, one way or another...

"Erik Ingolfsson, you goddamn DOUCHBAG!" A female voice with a thick Australian accent called out to him from somewhere further down the track, bringing him out of his mediations and preventing him from further reflecting on the problems facing the cabal.

A sense of déjà vu sent chills down Erik's spine as he turned and looked. There she was, a gray furred timber wolf with long black hair flowing freely like a river, a citrus yellow teardrop beneath each eye like some sort of war paint. Other then being a chick with a pair of double-D's... so the Queensland dipshit Leon brought with him on that failed SALAD raid had a twin sister. As if having the universe actively trying to mess with him wasn't enough, now it was clearly dipping into the Big Damn List of Anime Clichés.

"Can I help you miss..." He attempted to ask, already knowing full well what she wanted.

"Jessica McQueen. You left my brother behind when you ran from SALAD like a scared little girl. You, me, the pit, now."

Erik didn't bother arguing, he could already tell the only reason she was going to listen to what he said was so she could twist his words around. And besides, her outburst was already starting to attract a crowd. Better just be grateful she challenged him to a regulation match instead of trying to slug him right here and now. Keeping his expression stoic, he beckoned her to follow him to the ship's arena.

Regulated gladiatorial combat was something the Consortium approved of for several reasons. In the early days of the company, the combination of high-stress situations and a steady diet of muscle-building hormones and supplements had caused tempers to flare and fights to break out quite frequently. After several failed attempts to crack down on this behavior, PEC decided to turn around and capitalize on an opportunity to improve their agents' combat readiness. Soon afterwards arenas and fighting cages began to appear on large company vessels and most major facilities. Martial arts leagues were organized, a system for declaring duels was established, and machines capable of arbitrating a match fairly and without bias were developed. Once the system was successfully put in place, illegal grudge matches went down and overall hand-to-hand competency amongst agents went up.

The arena looked pretty much like how Erik imagined boxing rings or the octagon cages of the MMA leagues looked before the petro-crash, a well-lit circular arena separated by the darkened bleachers by a black metal fence. The robotic fight judges came to life and positioned themselves at opposite ends of the cage as the bleachers began to fill up with curious spectators. It was a relatively small vessel and word traveled quickly, not to mention that issuing a challenge this soon into a relative lull of activity was not exactly common. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik could have sworn he saw a shadowy figure a bit wider then the typical PEC build being manhandled into a seat...

"Agent McQueen has issued a challenge, does Agent Ingolfson accept?" The Judge asked from his perch above the cage; boredom seemed to be the only emotion it was capable of expressing with its mechanical voice.

"Yes, I accept." He replied automatically, popping in his mouth guard and taking up a fighting stance. Might as well get this over with. If the SALAD muncher was here... well she was already packing a good seat for watching two lunkheads go at each other like a pair of wild animals.

"Agent McQueen, do you wish to reconsider the terms you put forth, League Standard no holds barred HtH?" The Judge asked. Erik raised an eyebrow; this was going to end painfully for at least one of them.

"Oh bloody hell no, let me wipe that smirk off that coward's face! This one's for my brother!" The timber wolfess shouted, striking a dramatic pose as she took up her stance in turn.

"Very well them fighters, GET READY TO KICK SOME ASS!" The Judge shouted, perhaps the most enthusiasm the machine was capable of feeling.

Jessica came in like a bad pop culture reference about demolition equipment and hit just as hard. Fighting with a mix of Thailand kickboxing and that Brazilian dancing martial art he couldn't recall off the top of his head, she struck with a combination of agility and extremely powerful kicks. Blocking and parrying with his forearms, resisting the jolts of pain running through his body, he let her gradually gain ground to lull her into a false sense of security before... Grabbing her ankle and giving it a hard pull towards him, he drug the hotheaded wolf into a right cross punch aimed directly at her cheek before finishing her off with an open-palm blow to her chin. No holds barred in the Consortium MMA league meant pretty much any move that didn't kill the opponent was legal, including relatively cheap shots to the face and head.

As his opponent lay prone and stunned on the matted floor, the Judge issued a ten count. By five, Erik had walked away to the edge of the ring and started leaning against the fence. By seven she was starting to stir. By nine she was slowly climbing back to her feet. The human merely shook his head, unbe-fucking-lievable. Already his body was starting to ache, he was pretty sure she hurt even more, and yet here she was asking for another go.

"Come on, Man of Hamburg, show me how you took down over a dozen chubby-chasing freaks by yourself!" She snarled while throwing herself into a lunge. That was her first mistake.

Grabbing her extended arm, he spun and flipped his opponent around before slamming her on the floor. Three moves and she was landing face first on the floor again. "There, I showed you. Now are you going to give up or is this going to keep playing out like some metaphoric BDSM porn?"

The wolfess growled and Erik briefly flirted with the idea of literally kicking his opponent while she was down. But then the buzzer rang, the match was over and not a moment too soon. Now that his adrenalin was fading, he was starting to really feel just how hard he was hit. God that McQueen bitch knew how to throw a punch...

Later, in the medical bay, Erik laid down in a bed while Disella examined him for any significant injuries. Neither human nor rabbit spoke, both of them had a lot on their minds. Despite an eventful first few hours, it looked like the rest of their voyage was going to be uneventful until they made port at Reykjavik, the old capital of Iceland. Plenty of time to think about the choices they made, the regrets they had, and the people they had to cut off contact with before they headed home... Home, strange thinking of Iceland as home, it hadn't felt like home for the longest time. Guess it was true what they said; you really never could go home again...