Hecatoncheires
un jour je serai de retour près de toi
Original poster
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FOLKLORE MEMBER
[bg=white]
NOT TOO LONG FROM NOW...
The blasting wind of Alaska's wasteland laughs in my ears as I drip crimson into the snow.
I guess I don't really have any right to be surprised that this is how it ends for me.
My footsteps are sluggish, heavy, my legs growing more and more unwieldy with each step. One hand presses against my thick parka jacket, applying pointless pressure to a wound I'm never going to have the chance to recover from. The other is locked tight around my final insurance policy. There's a reassuring weight to it, and I'm grateful for the small amount of calm it brings.
Ragged breaths are all I have left now, deep and desperate gasps of air; it's as if my lungs know what's coming soon, and are working on over-drive to savour every last gulp. I want to run, to burst off in a flurry of snow and push as far ahead as I can. But there's only so far sheer determination can carry you. Sooner or later biology kicks in and you learn that there are limits to the human condition.
I just wish the same rules could apply to the things chasing me.
But they lost the right to be human a long time ago.
Their laughter echoes above the mockery of the wind, cutting in and out amidst the howling air to create a disturbing effect. They're close now. Bastards are probably just following the blood trail. No need for them to rush ahead, they know I'm not going anywhere. No doubt they're enjoying this, going by the shouting.
Desperately, I try to force my legs on...
...but instead they buckle and I find myself on my knees, the snow around me beginning to stain a deep shade of crimson. Sighing, I unclench my grasp from the last thing I have left to me, reading the grubby, faded words printed onto the side of it.
My other hand moves from the wound on my side, coming away coated in blood. Behind me are furious footsteps rushing through the snow, that hideous fucking laughter only they can do so well.
My free hand grip's the grenade's pin.
Nowhere to run.[/bg]
NOT TOO LONG FROM NOW...
The blasting wind of Alaska's wasteland laughs in my ears as I drip crimson into the snow.
I guess I don't really have any right to be surprised that this is how it ends for me.
My footsteps are sluggish, heavy, my legs growing more and more unwieldy with each step. One hand presses against my thick parka jacket, applying pointless pressure to a wound I'm never going to have the chance to recover from. The other is locked tight around my final insurance policy. There's a reassuring weight to it, and I'm grateful for the small amount of calm it brings.
Ragged breaths are all I have left now, deep and desperate gasps of air; it's as if my lungs know what's coming soon, and are working on over-drive to savour every last gulp. I want to run, to burst off in a flurry of snow and push as far ahead as I can. But there's only so far sheer determination can carry you. Sooner or later biology kicks in and you learn that there are limits to the human condition.
I just wish the same rules could apply to the things chasing me.
But they lost the right to be human a long time ago.
Their laughter echoes above the mockery of the wind, cutting in and out amidst the howling air to create a disturbing effect. They're close now. Bastards are probably just following the blood trail. No need for them to rush ahead, they know I'm not going anywhere. No doubt they're enjoying this, going by the shouting.
Desperately, I try to force my legs on...
...but instead they buckle and I find myself on my knees, the snow around me beginning to stain a deep shade of crimson. Sighing, I unclench my grasp from the last thing I have left to me, reading the grubby, faded words printed onto the side of it.
GRENADE*HAND*FRAG*DELAY*M67
My other hand moves from the wound on my side, coming away coated in blood. Behind me are furious footsteps rushing through the snow, that hideous fucking laughter only they can do so well.
My free hand grip's the grenade's pin.
Nowhere to run.
NOW...
The Rig is never quiet.
The sounds of the fifty-odd survivors, moving through their day-to-day routines. The buzzing and humming of the machinery that has managed to survive the ravages of salt-laden sea air, water filters and other devices working away at tasks most of the residents do not understand but have figured it best to leave alone lest something important gets broken. The groaning of rusted metal, the frame of the oil platform itself contributing to the noise.
It's a reassuring sound. A sound that the people aboard have come to associate with safety. Sanctuary. A place where one can lay their head down without fear of what might happen to them in their sleep. Somewhere with fellow survivors to depend upon, weapons to defend themselves with, the sea to keep the ravages of the mainland from reaching them. Though the brutal temperatures of the open areas and walkways aren't anyone's definition of ideal, the cold itself is a reassurance too.
Very little can survive in such a climate without the power of their new home.
Not even the things that overran the lives they once led twelve months ago, and who still lurk out in the ruins of civilisation...
I used to love the peace and quiet.
Strange, thinking back to it.
Being alone with my thoughts was a leisure-time activity for me, the mull things over, think things out, to reflect and consider. Those moments alone in my chopper, nothing but me, my stereo (naturally blasting out Johnny Cash tracks like there was no tomorrow) and a big old ocean below me for company. No-one to have to talk to, to respond to. No nervous server techie who's never been on an offshore site before in need of constant reassurance.
"Used to", mind.
My love for silence is dead, like so many other things these days.
Yet silence is all I'm left with at the top of our makeshift crow's nest, staring out across the open waters with nothing but the howling wind, the biting cold and my own thoughts to keep me occupied. We may be out in the middle of the Cook Inlet, just off the coast of one of the most vast and isolated parts of what used to be the United States of America, but these days the saying "better safe than sorry" has never been more applicable.
Because if you get caught unprepared by the things out there now, you're going to be very, very fucking sorry.
Thus this crow's nest was rigged up, up on one of the de-activated drill cranes of the production platform, allowing anyone sat there a nice, sweeping view of the seas around our new home: the perfect early warning system for unwanted visitors. Where it's less perfect, naturally, is in it's ability to keep the cold off you. Though the interior of the Rig may be nice and heated (one of the bonuses of living in a facility that can extract fuel from below the ocean's surface on demand), out here there's nothing to spare you from the wrath of the wind except thick clothing. And even that will only get you so far.
My teeth chatter as I raise up my left hand and brush the frosting from my old watch to check the time. Not long to 3pm. Not long until my replacement clambers their way up here and I can enjoy the sensation of having the feeling return to my extremities. The technically-minded fellows of this place (mostly Frank and Vasili, though, given that no-one else would have the nuts to pull such a stunt) have welded a walkway and safety rail onto the crane, meaning that it's never too much of a struggle to get up and down here anymore.
Unless the weather decides it doesn't feel like playing ball.
If there's one thing I've learned in the six or so years I've spent on oil rigs, it's that there's nothing in the world mankind can do if Mother Nature were to suddenly decide to remove this hunk of steel and ingenuity from her ocean.
So here I sit, staring out at the sea. Trying to avoid the sight of the mainland. Trying to keep the cold out. And desperately trying to keep my mind from wandering. You don't want your mind straying these days.
Like as not you won't enjoy what it settles on.
Strange, thinking back to it.
Being alone with my thoughts was a leisure-time activity for me, the mull things over, think things out, to reflect and consider. Those moments alone in my chopper, nothing but me, my stereo (naturally blasting out Johnny Cash tracks like there was no tomorrow) and a big old ocean below me for company. No-one to have to talk to, to respond to. No nervous server techie who's never been on an offshore site before in need of constant reassurance.
"Used to", mind.
My love for silence is dead, like so many other things these days.
Yet silence is all I'm left with at the top of our makeshift crow's nest, staring out across the open waters with nothing but the howling wind, the biting cold and my own thoughts to keep me occupied. We may be out in the middle of the Cook Inlet, just off the coast of one of the most vast and isolated parts of what used to be the United States of America, but these days the saying "better safe than sorry" has never been more applicable.
Because if you get caught unprepared by the things out there now, you're going to be very, very fucking sorry.
Thus this crow's nest was rigged up, up on one of the de-activated drill cranes of the production platform, allowing anyone sat there a nice, sweeping view of the seas around our new home: the perfect early warning system for unwanted visitors. Where it's less perfect, naturally, is in it's ability to keep the cold off you. Though the interior of the Rig may be nice and heated (one of the bonuses of living in a facility that can extract fuel from below the ocean's surface on demand), out here there's nothing to spare you from the wrath of the wind except thick clothing. And even that will only get you so far.
My teeth chatter as I raise up my left hand and brush the frosting from my old watch to check the time. Not long to 3pm. Not long until my replacement clambers their way up here and I can enjoy the sensation of having the feeling return to my extremities. The technically-minded fellows of this place (mostly Frank and Vasili, though, given that no-one else would have the nuts to pull such a stunt) have welded a walkway and safety rail onto the crane, meaning that it's never too much of a struggle to get up and down here anymore.
Unless the weather decides it doesn't feel like playing ball.
If there's one thing I've learned in the six or so years I've spent on oil rigs, it's that there's nothing in the world mankind can do if Mother Nature were to suddenly decide to remove this hunk of steel and ingenuity from her ocean.
So here I sit, staring out at the sea. Trying to avoid the sight of the mainland. Trying to keep the cold out. And desperately trying to keep my mind from wandering. You don't want your mind straying these days.
Like as not you won't enjoy what it settles on.
Down on the bottom walkway of the Rig's living quarters, wrapped in a mix and match assortment of jumpers, jackets and a home-made poncho, Dominika Aliyev is attempting to discern how to use of the makeshift fishing rods put in place to help bolster the food supplies.
The Russian teenager isn't meeting with much luck.
Of the six members of the Aliyev family, Dominika and her father tend to be the only ones the rest of the survivors on board the platform have much contact with. Largely because they are the only two who know both English and Russian. The rest of the family, consisting of Dominika's two younger brothers and mother, tend to keep to themselves, and in a facility designed to house just under two hundred employees now home to barely a quarter of that number it's an easy thing to do.
Not the eldest daughter, however. She possesses both an inquisitive mind and a surprisingly droll sense of humour, and always seem keen to chat with the other survivors of the Rig. At this moment in time, however, her face is locked in an expression of concentration intermixed with frustration, as she attempts to manoeuvre the improvised fishing rod into position.
She's not meeting with a lot of success, which apparently prompts her irritated hiss of,
"Yebat, pochemu ne eto rabotayet?"
The Russian teenager isn't meeting with much luck.
Of the six members of the Aliyev family, Dominika and her father tend to be the only ones the rest of the survivors on board the platform have much contact with. Largely because they are the only two who know both English and Russian. The rest of the family, consisting of Dominika's two younger brothers and mother, tend to keep to themselves, and in a facility designed to house just under two hundred employees now home to barely a quarter of that number it's an easy thing to do.
Not the eldest daughter, however. She possesses both an inquisitive mind and a surprisingly droll sense of humour, and always seem keen to chat with the other survivors of the Rig. At this moment in time, however, her face is locked in an expression of concentration intermixed with frustration, as she attempts to manoeuvre the improvised fishing rod into position.
She's not meeting with a lot of success, which apparently prompts her irritated hiss of,
"Yebat, pochemu ne eto rabotayet?"