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| For many hours and days that pass ever soon http://sonic.spindash.net/forums/viewtopic.php?f=71&t=495 |
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| Author: | psikeout [ Fri Dec 07, 2012 12:41 pm ] |
| Post subject: | For many hours and days that pass ever soon |
His head thrummed and pulsed with the pain of a rattled brain, concussed and hazy. His vision cleared quickly and the rest of his senses sharpened along with it, albeit sooner than he would have liked. Pain pierced through his skull like a whistling knife. Rock groaned as he opened his eyes. He found himself staring straight at a big, grey wall, pressed almost against his face. He looked down and found that he was still seated in his fighter's cockpit somehow. Disoriented a moment, he looked up and around. His canopy was shattered, torn apart by this new structure, which also jutted right between his knees, and seemed to plunge out the bottom of the spacecraft. He put the pieces together: His fighter was skewered upside down on a piece of debris the size of a pillar. The realization caused him to wince back in his seat and grasp between his own legs in a harried moment of shock and realization, as if to verify that all of his... bodily assets, we shall say, were still intact. Once convinced that he was still in possession of a few important components, he let out a long sigh and deflated inside his spacesuit. He didn't feel much like moving yet. He craned his neck down a little in his helmet to snare his drinking straw in his dry mouth and take a sip of water. The sense of urgency had not yet set upon him; with his suit's life support systems apparently intact, no doubt owing to the gem hanging around his neck, he felt he had a little time to tarry. The CO2 scrubber was working, and he had a small reserve of water and a functioning filter, as well as some extra supplies in the ship. So, he just lulled his head to one side and stared into the abyss of space a moment, out across the glowing, upside-down horizon of Earth. It still looked normal enough from where he sat. He couldn't help but wonder what kinds of things were going on down on the surface—where everyone was, and whether or not his actions had the effect he intended. If he was successful, it meant myriad problems for his return—but nothing he couldn't figure out, he was certain. He finally unstrapped himself from his harness and carefully tried to rise to his feet. The canopy was stuck in place by the huge shard of debris puncturing it, however; a couple shoves did nothing. He reached down, manipulated the emergency release lever, and gave another shove. Stuck. It wasn't long before he was upside down in the fighter, his head and hands against the seat, feet kicking, slamming the detached canopy one bit higher at a time. Finally, it was far enough up that he could fit his helmet through the gap, and so, with a few supplies collected, he escaped. It was only then, when he looked over his shoulder and beyond the aft of his vehicle, that the full scope of the situation set in. What looked like some sort of enormous meteor shower of debris was raining hellfire and brimstone on the planet, and conspicuously dark, grey clouds were ballooning across the southern hemisphere. Rock looked to his immediate vicinity next to determine what he had to work with, but soon found it to be jack squat, literally nothing but huge chunks of the Typhaon lazily adrift. There was nothing useful in sight. It didn't stop him from kicking off into space to explore the wreckage, though. About an hour later, he returned to his fighter empty-handed. He had gone as far through his local field of space-garbage as he felt comfortable doing in his untethered spacesuit, which had only the barest zero-g maneuvering functionality. That meant it was time to find another means to go farther. That was why he promptly slithered into his fighter through the narrow canopy gap and set to work seeing just how much damage had been done. Another three hours later, the fighter's engines were flaring, and it was straining downward against the friction of the big, sharp piece of metal upon which it was skewered. There in the cockpit crouched Rock. He had torn the seat out, dismantled the entire floorboard (with the aid of his plasma cutter, judging by the damage), and had welded makeshift hooks into the frame to hold an array of knot-ended, frayed, high-tensile metal cables, which it looked like he had cut. He was grasping about four of them at present, two in each fist, and pulling on them with carefully metered force. It was the most literal definition of fly-by-wire: the controls had been too destroyed, and the ship's computer ravaged, so he had started it back up manually, and was controlling each of the ship's innumerable maneuvering rocket throttles manually. Soon, the ship was free, and drifting uncontrollably in a direction Rock apparently did not want to go, because he was frantically grabbing and pulling cables, cussing and spinning every which way in a hasty effort to right the ship's orientation and stop its movement. Easier said than done in a zero-friction environment with no proper controls. Another hour later, he was sitting in the cockpit ("sitting" used loosely in the zero-gravity environment, more just floating there above where the seat used to be), a ballpoint pen and pad of paper in hand. A dreadful time to be doing math homework, but circumstances dictated it necessary; he knew the location of the nearest space elevator platform in geosynchronous orbit, but to get there without botching his ship's own orbit and either crashing into the atmosphere or flying off into space was easier said than done. After all, the torn-up vessel could give out on him at any moment, so every movement had to be precise, with minimal correction. Nearly twelve hours later, he was drifting past where there once was a space elevator, but instead was empty space. The structure had been broken and collapsed, and the station itself was already drifting off, out of orbit. Rock sighed, staring out the canopy-less opening of the Chimera fighter's cockpit with disappointment etched into his face beneath his gold-dusted visor. Thought I'd keep a journal a long time ago, but I kept losing it. I guess now's as good of a time as any to start up again. I've been adrift in orbit for a little less than a day now. Having to face a different reality, now. I might not have any way home. I'm okay on air and water for the moment, but I can't spend another day like this. I need to start thinking long term. With that EMP, nothing's going to be operational anymore. I considered going back to ARK, but I'm not sure what I'll find there, and I'm not sure I can even make it there in time. Vince's casino is in a closer orbit, though, so that's what I'm drifting toward now. If I'm lucky, it's still intact. Not operational, but intact, and full of air and supplies. May be full of people, too, but I'll burn that bridge when I get to it. I wish I could just see that you're okay, Layla. I don't even know what you must be going through right now. I know you can handle it, whatever it is, but I still didn't mean to lie to you, or hurt you. I'm not giving up on getting back. It just may take me a while. But it always ends up this way, doesn't it? With me lost, you looking for me. Even today you protected me, with what you left me, and you don't even know it. I love you. I hope that if you ever get to read these notes, it's together, with me. |
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| Author: | psikeout [ Wed Dec 12, 2012 10:40 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: For many hours and days that pass ever soon |
The space station, Vince's casino, the first privately-owned, privately-launched business in Earth orbit, was supposed to be a ball of neon in the sky. It had touted alleged visibility with the naked eye at one point, but now, it was but a mottled grey discus, cluttered, covered in unlit panels and tubes, and dark windows. Like I had imagined, Vince's place was not operational when I arrived a couple hours ago. No power to be spoken of. Like I had hoped, however, it was intact, with no visible hull breaches. It was easily the most promising sight I'd yet seen. The primate gingerly tugged two cables, firing the thrusters that would flip his ship to face the way it came, then two more cables to counter-thrust and stop the rotation. It took some back-and-forth adjustments and some looking over his shoulder to check his attitude versus the approaching station, but he eventually managed to stabilize the fighter with its tail toward Vince's. Another gentle pull at a cluster of cables fired the primary rear thrusters and began the deceleration process. I knew it'd be too much trouble to try any proper docking without power or computer assistance, so I parked the fighter outside. My landing gear was torn up, but one of the magnetic legs survived, and that was enough to stay anchored for excursion. Or incursion. Whatever you want to call it. I guess they called it invasion. Rock cupped his hands between the face of his helmet and the surface of a thick, thick pane of armored window glass as he tried to peek into the station's depths. Poker tables sat abandoned in the foreground; boxy silhouettes of slot machines haunted the background. A gaunt, feline face robbed Rock of a year or so of his lifespan when it suddenly appeared from the shadows on the other side of the glass, staring back at him discerningly. Once Rock swallowed his heart back down where it belonged, thankful for the fact that no one could see his reaction through his visor, he waved to the strange person inside. Said person did not wave back. Rock pointed toward the nearest airlock, and curved his pointing gesture to suggest, in point-speak, "let me in" — but the cat on the other side of the glass shook his head. It actually kind of surprised me when the jackass on the other side of the glass decided he wouldn't let me in. It wasn't an "I don't know how to open the door" kind of thing, or an "I'm afraid to open the airlock" kind of thing. This was just plain bad hospitality. It's #&*$in' cold out in space, you know? Not the kind of place you wanna raise your kids. Still, I gave it another shot. Politely. Rock drew an intrepid breath, calmly pressed his hands together pleadingly, and made a leering nod in a fairly universal expression of "please." The cat rolled his eyes. Rock jutted his head further forward, the silent, pantomimed form of "c'mon." The cat leaned closer, donned a fake smile, and shook his head crisply, left, then right, then left again. No, is no, is no, he said. Rock summarily presented the middle fingers of each of his hands, pressing his knuckles up against the glass to ensure their clear visibility. Mostly politely. Hell. Okay, I wasn't gettin' anywhere, anyway. I didn't really need them to open the place up for me, anyway. Like any soundly-constructed space station, the airlock overrides are on the outside. Because, you know, no sane, remotely sociable person uses airlocks to keep people outside. In space. Asshole. Whatever, I guess this guy didn't know that, or didn't expect me to know how to get in there and operate the manual override. But I did, and, I did. And I opened it. The searing blade of Rock's plasma knife plunged violently through the second door of the airlock, causing a loud hiss as air rushed in around it. I may have taken a little artistic license with the specifics of the procedure, though. Like the part where you're supposed to just open a valve to repressurize the chamber. I had a point to make, though. |
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| Author: | psikeout [ Sun Dec 16, 2012 11:31 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: For many hours and days that pass ever soon |
The door, doorframe, and wall was riddled with bullet dings. A stream of blood, dark and molasses-like in the poor lighting, gleamed, arcing through amid scattering, warbling globs and droplets. Followed, the floating trail expanded into wide-spread spatters, painting the walls along with red bootprints. It all led to a mangled, torn apart corpse, floating, twisting slowly; one feline ear stood tall, the other missing completely. A gun floated freely; as it drifted by, it bumped into the the foot of another body, which itself was tangled up in yet another body. The corridor's length was pockmarked where bullets had struck, but not penetrated, and littered with floating bodies, brass, and automatics. A light flickered, bathing the corridor in a glow alternatively bluish, purplish, and reddish, surrounding a helmeted silhouette hovering amid the carnage. I didn't expect them to have guns. The possibility had entered my mind, but I overestimated my own Chimera port authorities. It was more naive of me than I normally like to admit. Luckily none of the walls or windows were breached. They were using frangible ammo, which also failed to pierce my EVA suit. I'll be damned if it didn't hurt like about twenty bee stings, though. Rock kicked a body away from himself, wrenching his plasma knife from it with another bubbling trail of half-vaporizing blood. Gunfire again erupted, this time from a darkened doorway. Rock's suit was peppered; he flailed and jerked to one side, kicking off the floor toward a wall. Another kick, and he soared forward, across the hall again, but this time in a shallow angle toward his attacker. Wall to window, window to ceiling, ceiling to floor, he launched and kicked and spun his way through zero gravity with an uncommon grace and comfort, even as shots rang out all around him, some striking him. It only took a couple seconds. Though movement through a zero-gravity environment may have seemed like a slow affair to the common imagination, that was only because of the level of caution normally associated with it. Using all of his strength and just barreling along, he actually moved faster than he could have likely even sprinted to the guy. Blood went everywhere. It was a little confusing at first. I thought it was a little strange that there'd be resistance on board but no obvious patrons. The place was actually desolate apart from the staff. In a short moment of respite, Rock froze in place, anchored by his magboots, and caught his breath, keeping his back pressed against a wall for cover. Directly in front of him was a window; out it, he saw something move, like a shadow across the curtain of stars. There turned out to be many. He squinted. It took his eyes a second to adjust and focus, but when they did, he discovered the mystery of the missing guests. The staff had jettisoned all their guests. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why. They knew a hundred people would use up air and resources a lot faster than ten, and that their supplies were very limited. It's basic survival. But death by airlock, really? Was that necessary? And they sure didn't spend long deliberating on the matter, either. They had their minds made up to kill all these people in a day or two. Rock's glove creaked audibly as he gripped his knife tighter. There was a clunk and a scuffing sound to his left; his head jerked that way quickly, and he made eye contact with a terrified-looking dealer who floated there trembling in his vest and bowtie, a knife from the ship's kitchen in his hand. He tried to leap away. All it meant was that he got stabbed in the back instead of the front. I guess it merits mention that, if I wasn't already sufficiently motivated to kill everybody on the station—which I'll admit I was, I don't really need that much justification—what I saw cleared up any reservations. They died. And I made it painful for them. I can't say I'm particularly proud of it, because, really, I don't think they were any kind of hardened criminal associates of Vince's. They just seemed like technicians, stewards, maybe a couple rent-a-cops. But they deserved it. Back to being alone. Ah well. More air for me. It's been three months. Recent "events" led to me losing a lot of my stuff. I thought I had lost this journal, but here it is. I abandoned the casino after a few weeks. Once I emptied their shuttle's tanks, I had oxygen enough to last, but the CO2 scrubbers were nearing the end of their useful life, and the build-up was going to become a concern soon. My stomach was the real last straw, though. The stupid luxury accommodations meant most of their food was fresh, so it spoiled quickly. So, I went someplace I knew would have supplies enough to last a long time—the last place I really wanted to go. Yeah. You think ARK's creepy? $%@&. Try it in the dark, without electricity. There's things living in here. Things, not people. There's air enough to last me a lifetime just by sheer volume, but I can't stay here. I'm not afraid. I've been through worse. It's just... wearing on me at this point? I mean, maybe I just need a break from it, I guess? There has to be somewhere else I can go out here, somewhere that the sum of my existence isn't evading predatory science lab monsters in a creaking, groaning, survival-f$#*ing-horror nightmare colony. My suit's got so much tape repair I'm not sure it'll hold up. I've already lost my gun, lost my knife... I think I would've lost my mind if I hadn't already. Y'know, like, a longass mother#$*%ing bitchass time ago. Yeah, see? Ass, twice, same sentence. $%@&, I can't even cuss right anymore. For serious though, I gotta get outta here, no question about it. I'll take as much air and as many supplies as I can attach to my ship and see what I can find. |
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| Author: | psikeout [ Mon Dec 17, 2012 7:42 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: For many hours and days that pass ever soon |
A thick debris field, remnants of the Typhaon, drifted in complete silence and darkness, shadowed from the sun by the Earth, soaring as but scattered, invisible shadows in its night sky. A battered shuttle, upon which Rock's fighter was parked and magnetically anchored, sat nestled in a particularly large fragment of hull, wedged into what looked like it used to be some sort of cargo area. Within the dark shuttle was a silvery, foil-like mound. A heap of emergency blankets had been clustered together as tightly as could be managed without the aid of gravity, wrapped around a nestled figure, the head of which poked out with its charred, fractured helmet. A soft, pinkish light emanated from inside the gold visor. Not sure how long it's been now. I ran out of air? I think. I made a misstep, a miscalculation in trajectory. Got me stranded for a long time. I didn't die, though. I got very warm inside, at my core, and started to feel Separated. Trying to rein it in. It's always strange when I reach this point. When I get so hurt I should be dead, or when I stop breathing and I should be dead. Any of the times I should be dead, but I'm not. I act strange, I feel strange. I guess I write strange too. Reining it in. Gotta stay with it. I'm running on "auxiliary" power now, I guess you could say. My consciousness is in the drive. My awareness is in the drive. I have my body here, and it moves and responds, it writes, but it's like pulling strings and watching things happen, not being in direct control. And I've lost track of time. I think I stopped breathing last week, or last month, or... I don't even know. This piece of debris is on a decaying orbit. Dead or alive, I should find myself on Earth within the week. I've wedged myself in tight, so I don't think I'll burn up. It'd be almost nice, though. It's so cold out here right now. Am I numb because it's cold, or because I should be dead? How can I be so cold outside and feel so hot inside? It stings constantly. I was lying when I wrote I wasn't afraid. People think I'm fearless or invincible so much that it's easy to buy into that and pretend I am, too. I feel everything, though. I feel it more than normal people do. I'm aware of so much. I don't just notice everything, I feel everything. Normal people shut down when they feel too much, when it hurts too much. They have shock. They can go into shock, and just shut off, and it's a blessing, I think. But I can't help staying awake through it all, and I feel it times ten. I've been shot and stabbed and burned and beaten so many times, and it's always so hard not to just... stop, curl up and scream at it all, but I know I can't. I'm not allowed to, because I have to keep going. It isn't strength or will, it's just the only option, and I take it. I keep taking it. That's why I'm doing this now. I have to get back to Earth. I'm going to wish I was dead by the time this is over. I might not have a body left once the reentry's done, but I have to try. This is the last I'm going to write, Layla. I have to get back home to you now. |
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