The outside wasn't much different from the inside of the tank in some respects. Cold, unfeeling, the general idea that something awful had happened long ago. It was not a strange sight for West. On numerous excursions to the surface he had watched the world continue to crumble. By all respects, the earth should naturally heal itself from all but the most destructive attack. The Rain, unlike any other before it, had crippled the world...mortally wounded her skin and poisoned her blood. Nothing got better, only worst. The bunkers were necessity, no one could live on the surface without going mad or simply dying. Human ingenuity, Human creativity, Human sentience had not devised a way to expand their influence yet. Perhaps it was as it should be, a damnation on the species that did what not creature born of earth should...destroyed the world.
Now in the back of a vehicle pulsing toward the Station, West tried to focus his inner chakras, his energy, preparing himself for what he assumed he would find. Death and horror. The Surface was now a poor parody of a horror novel, everything evolving to strike fear into each other. Survival was pointless, creatures did not so much survive as outlive each other in a new global competition of who would rot last. Sabrina pushed the camera toward his face, her insipid voice cutting into his concentration like gargoyle talons. He cast an irritated glare at her, noting she had already turned her attention elsewhere. Without a doubt, her existence proved the most useless of the volunteers. Documenting what was likely a foray into a cavernous tomb was hardly his idea of inspiring. If they returned to Vladamir, would her words herald hope of everyone's survival? Or horror and the affirmation the earth was finished holding humanity as its sovereign race?
Likely the latter. The loss of contact may have been normal had the uplink been restored. As each day passed, however, hope for Estragon grew more ludicrous to hold. This was not a rescue mission, even Wake could not hope to sell the people on that illusion, this was a salvage operation into the vaults of dead and murdered.
The question was not 'if' any longer, only 'how'.
Although he questioned the sky with his eyes, nervous about the possible thread of gargoyle attacks, he found himself more oft than not scanning the rocks and spine-like ridges for hints of canine figures. He was sweating, already nervous to be in their territory. Still, there was no use in worrying and clouding his mind with paranoia would dull his performance.
Draug was a part of this mission, a boy last Westerlin saw him and with his natural dexterity and wit, had risen away form the ranks. He should have really checked the personal before coming on the mission. Of any aboard, Draug would know what he was capable of. Or perhaps he remembered Westerlin as a skilled commander. Either way, if issues arose, he would have to take action.
Closing his eyes, he pictured nothing...inky blackness and silence. Meditation came to him and he calmed his soul, he would need his reflexes for later...when they inevitably found danger.