[center][h2]Everyone's Starting Point[/h2][/center]

When the first bomb shelters began taking applicants, people scoffed, some laughed outright. [i]It would never come to nuclear war[/i], they said. Remember Hiroshima, remember Nagasaki! [i]We're a civilized world[/i], they said. When the first bombs landed, the laughter ended abruptly. It was as if someone had lifted the needle on the vinyl record of life as we know it. The music stopped, the party was over.

Shelters popped up more and more often, in more and more places. Far from laughing, people were desperate to get inside at this point. Currency was still currency in some places; Americans especially rejected the idea that the dollar bill could ever be supplanted or suppressed. In other places, the barter system was employed, to varying degrees. Artwork, virgin daughters, promises that would chill the spine of Satan - no earthly possession was considered too valuable, no oath was too sacrosanct.

The 'Castle Movement' that had begun in the previous decade, once considered the paranoid folly of men with too much money and not enough sense, had seen a sharp uptick in participants, with medieval-style castles springing up in mountain passes, river valleys, and rocky canyons - anywhere defensible. Stone and steel walls were erected in fortification, while tunnels and channels were burrowed underground, forging shelters where people could live on, where the human race could survive and propagate should the worst come to pass.

Perhaps it is one such bomb shelter you reside in, crowded in with family, friends, or perfect strangers with little air and even less food. The fortified basements of elementary schools, the catacombs beneath a Gothic church. Or perhaps you somehow scored a more lofty place to hold out for the end of days. A wealthy castle-baron's child, or a possessor of some secret that secured you a place within the durable stone walls, complete with fresh air, hydroponic gardens, and a slice of normalcy amid the chaos. Even still, perhaps you were unfortunate enough to be granted access to neither, and have been making your own way on the mean streets, ever fearful that the next sunrise you see will be your last.

Whatever your particular circumstances may be, they're about to change, and drastically. When the helicopter arrives, it does so with an urgency that cannot be mere efficiency. Rotors still spinning, men in all-black tactical gear spill forth, guns at the ready, securing the immediate area. One calls out, and his words are your name. You've been chosen. The Black Dawn Academy emblem on their shoulders is all the confirmation needed - none of them take their hands off their guns to flash a badge.

[b]The decision is yours:[/b] Will you go, or will you stay? The men bid you to make haste, though none will say what the hurry is, there is no mistaking the fact that if you tarry overlong or seem uncertain, they will leave you behind. The helicopter doors remain open, the wind from the rotors whipping leaves and debris in a maelstrom of sound and wind around the predatory air transport. You have fifteen minutes to gather your belongings, say your goodbyes, and board the helicopter, or risk losing your one and only chance at a new lease on life at
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