The Dead of Winter
Posted: Fri Oct 14, 2022 8:38 pm
Survival of the Fittest.
Twenty-four letters, as many as there are hours in the day. Four words; in some cultures, that number meant death. It fit. There was no better name for a game that revolved around the wanton slaughter of hundreds and hundreds of innocent people.
Tangent aside, the topic of focus is the game. With that in mind, continue:
Survival of the Fittest, or so we like to believe.
The scene is the exterior of the listening station. There is a single figure in the space, though no detail is yet visible. They are lying on the ground, unconscious. Then, they rise; earlier than their peers, notably. They pawed at their eyes, trying to rub the tears away. Then, they swung their bag and the daypack—labeled S091—around their shoulders and began to walk.
Enter Claire Haig.
S091: CLAIRE HAIG — GAME START
The world wasn't fair.
Claire knew that. She'd had to fight tooth and nail for every decent thing that came into her life. At times, she just figured the world had it out for her. In normal circumstances, though, there was evidence to the contrary.
Right now, it seemed like she'd been right all along.
She took a deep breath, the cold air stinging against her lungs. Then, she exhaled a cloud of white vapor. They'd left her out in the snow in some arctic hellhole, but that wasn't the coldest part. The more bitter chill was the fear running down her spine. Her hands shook, each clinging to her other arm.
Claire's eyes hurt from all the crying. She pawed at her face again, suppressing a convulsive sob with her hand. With another whine, she composed herself, but it took all of her effort to hold herself together. She felt like glass, one wrong move away from shattering. Her whole body ached with that sadness that she'd known for most of her life. Still, she couldn't just lie down and wait to die, even if part of her thought it would be the best idea.
She rifled through her bag. The usual suspects were there—rations, water, a first-aid kit—but there were other objects of use. A flashlight and a map were the most useful of these, even if she couldn't use the latter yet; after all, she had no idea where she even was. The most captivating item was the night vision goggles—the manual said AGM Global Vision NVG-50. They had rigging and everything. She couldn't defend herself with them—her heart sunk into her boots at that—but it was better than nothing.
In a way, she was glad. If she'd gotten a gun, there wasn't a lot stopping her from just making a swift exit. It was morbid, but it'd always been true: part of the reason she was even alive to be here was that she'd never had something like that in reach. That, and the paralyzing fear of not knowing what came next, were the two main factors keeping her alive. She'd take it. Not being dead, on its own, was a little victory. And for now, she wouldn't say she was winning, but she wasn't losing either.
That was enough for her.
She slipped the goggles over her cap—the rigging fit snugly—and flipped them up and out of her way. At the very least, it wasn't too heavy, and she could wear them comfortably. Again, little victories. Though her legs felt like iron, she walked towards the building, the snow crunching beneath her shoes. All she could do now was trudge forward. As hard as it was, as much as it hurt, that was all she could do.
In the distance, she saw someone clamber up to the roof, where there was also another person. She wasn't sure who either of them was. One was carrying something—a stick? Her glasses were blurry with melted snow. She drew a little cloth from her glasses case, wiped them off, then put them back on. Still, though, she couldn't get a good glimpse.
She sighed. As she kept moving, her eyes glanced toward the features of the building. It was small, with a metal exterior and many antennae sticking out from the top like spires. Her guess was a radio tower of some sort—maybe they could call for help? She doubted it.
"I wanna go home..." she murmured, knowing the futility of her words.
"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" she thought, "I'll never see home again."
Her name would end up on some memorial site, with the others that had died before her. At worst, it would just be another name. It would be nice if they added a picture of her, one where she looked nice, and gave her a little biography.
It was a difficult pill to swallow, one that she was still puzzling out in her head. Maybe it hadn't sunk in, and she'd cry her eyes out over it later. Something small reared its head in her mind. She'd never get to go to Revels with her mom this year. She hoped her mom would still be able to enjoy it with her gone.
Her heart hurt. The sorrow stalked her like a wolf on the verge of sinking its teeth into her. She let out a long, droning whine, like a hurt canine, and kept moving. The tears streamed down her face again. God, this sucked. She didn't even have the words to describe it.
Eventually, she arrived at the building. Her hand hovered around the doorknob, but she hesitated for a moment; if she walked in, someone could kill her where she stood. They—They wouldn't do that so fast, would they? No, it'd happened before, she was sure. People are going to do whatever they can to keep themselves alive. That's human nature, basic self-preservation.
She couldn't just live in fear, though. She had to keep going. So, with a glower, she clambered up the ladder, step by step, towards the other two. Maybe, just maybe, the pendulum would swing in her favor.
S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED IN "Transmitter Failure."
Twenty-four letters, as many as there are hours in the day. Four words; in some cultures, that number meant death. It fit. There was no better name for a game that revolved around the wanton slaughter of hundreds and hundreds of innocent people.
Tangent aside, the topic of focus is the game. With that in mind, continue:
Survival of the Fittest, or so we like to believe.
The scene is the exterior of the listening station. There is a single figure in the space, though no detail is yet visible. They are lying on the ground, unconscious. Then, they rise; earlier than their peers, notably. They pawed at their eyes, trying to rub the tears away. Then, they swung their bag and the daypack—labeled S091—around their shoulders and began to walk.
Enter Claire Haig.
S091: CLAIRE HAIG — GAME START
The world wasn't fair.
Claire knew that. She'd had to fight tooth and nail for every decent thing that came into her life. At times, she just figured the world had it out for her. In normal circumstances, though, there was evidence to the contrary.
Right now, it seemed like she'd been right all along.
She took a deep breath, the cold air stinging against her lungs. Then, she exhaled a cloud of white vapor. They'd left her out in the snow in some arctic hellhole, but that wasn't the coldest part. The more bitter chill was the fear running down her spine. Her hands shook, each clinging to her other arm.
Claire's eyes hurt from all the crying. She pawed at her face again, suppressing a convulsive sob with her hand. With another whine, she composed herself, but it took all of her effort to hold herself together. She felt like glass, one wrong move away from shattering. Her whole body ached with that sadness that she'd known for most of her life. Still, she couldn't just lie down and wait to die, even if part of her thought it would be the best idea.
She rifled through her bag. The usual suspects were there—rations, water, a first-aid kit—but there were other objects of use. A flashlight and a map were the most useful of these, even if she couldn't use the latter yet; after all, she had no idea where she even was. The most captivating item was the night vision goggles—the manual said AGM Global Vision NVG-50. They had rigging and everything. She couldn't defend herself with them—her heart sunk into her boots at that—but it was better than nothing.
In a way, she was glad. If she'd gotten a gun, there wasn't a lot stopping her from just making a swift exit. It was morbid, but it'd always been true: part of the reason she was even alive to be here was that she'd never had something like that in reach. That, and the paralyzing fear of not knowing what came next, were the two main factors keeping her alive. She'd take it. Not being dead, on its own, was a little victory. And for now, she wouldn't say she was winning, but she wasn't losing either.
That was enough for her.
She slipped the goggles over her cap—the rigging fit snugly—and flipped them up and out of her way. At the very least, it wasn't too heavy, and she could wear them comfortably. Again, little victories. Though her legs felt like iron, she walked towards the building, the snow crunching beneath her shoes. All she could do now was trudge forward. As hard as it was, as much as it hurt, that was all she could do.
In the distance, she saw someone clamber up to the roof, where there was also another person. She wasn't sure who either of them was. One was carrying something—a stick? Her glasses were blurry with melted snow. She drew a little cloth from her glasses case, wiped them off, then put them back on. Still, though, she couldn't get a good glimpse.
She sighed. As she kept moving, her eyes glanced toward the features of the building. It was small, with a metal exterior and many antennae sticking out from the top like spires. Her guess was a radio tower of some sort—maybe they could call for help? She doubted it.
"I wanna go home..." she murmured, knowing the futility of her words.
"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" she thought, "I'll never see home again."
Her name would end up on some memorial site, with the others that had died before her. At worst, it would just be another name. It would be nice if they added a picture of her, one where she looked nice, and gave her a little biography.
It was a difficult pill to swallow, one that she was still puzzling out in her head. Maybe it hadn't sunk in, and she'd cry her eyes out over it later. Something small reared its head in her mind. She'd never get to go to Revels with her mom this year. She hoped her mom would still be able to enjoy it with her gone.
Her heart hurt. The sorrow stalked her like a wolf on the verge of sinking its teeth into her. She let out a long, droning whine, like a hurt canine, and kept moving. The tears streamed down her face again. God, this sucked. She didn't even have the words to describe it.
Eventually, she arrived at the building. Her hand hovered around the doorknob, but she hesitated for a moment; if she walked in, someone could kill her where she stood. They—They wouldn't do that so fast, would they? No, it'd happened before, she was sure. People are going to do whatever they can to keep themselves alive. That's human nature, basic self-preservation.
She couldn't just live in fear, though. She had to keep going. So, with a glower, she clambered up the ladder, step by step, towards the other two. Maybe, just maybe, the pendulum would swing in her favor.
S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED IN "Transmitter Failure."