turnsheet_bureau:2:power_to_the_people [Contagion]

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======Power to the People======


There’s a click as the door shuts behind you.

The dusty bulbs take a moment to power up, a low buzz emanating as they flicker into life. You blink, once, at the door leading to the makeshift infirmary, before moving past it.

The corridor to the generator is tidier than the rest of the substation, with a trail wiped clean of grime by Eddy’s careful footprints. You feel it before you hear it. A rhythmic thudding through the floor, the pumping of valves.

You turn the corner -- and close your eyes.

The afterimage glows on your eyelids, that pulsing mass of metal. The rattling wheezing still rings in your ears.

You clench your left fist, hard, and breathe.

When you open your eyes, it is with surgical precision that you examine the equipment before you. A wire here, a… carbonater there? Or something like that anyway. Turning to the shelves, they are remarkably bare, exposing the crumbling plaster which fails to conceal crumbling brick. The entire room is… functional. Not out of any particular neatness, but rather a lack of anything to make a mess. Every trinket here seems likely to be missed. Then again, with everything else going on… who would have time to miss it?

Anyway, you can always say you needed it for the comms power...

You startle, though your hands are far from red, at a sound from near the entrance.

You see the gun first, the barrel poking round the corner. Juno's head follows, eyes apprehensive. Her gaze turns to you, and relaxes, giving you a slight nod before her footsteps recede back down the corridor.

After a moment--

You turn back to your work. You spot two wires emerging from a drain, labelled “PYLON I/O DO NOT TOUCH”.

You touch them.

A shudder passes up your right arm. A burst of static crackles in your ears.\\
//9c8c55a51fd2de0156e8//\\
But it’s what you came here to do.\\
//2391a1f59107a1895a75//\\
An excuse would be suspicious.\\
//6f4e008fa179cfc723a2//\\
It cannot hurt more than losing it.

The trembling in your arm does not dissipate until several seconds after you release the wire. You begin the work of splicing together those delicate strands, weaving and webbing until it is ready to be threaded into circulation.

Two nerve endings hang loose from the cabling.

You gently secure one under your right sleeve. Again, your arm twitches, but this time it feels more controlled. The other end you wrap around your right ear so that it rests, tickling your cheekbone.

The iron lung throbs, your right fist clenching in response. Your left hand can’t quite reach, so you half-nudge-half-kick the connector into position and -- 

A door creaks open.

//You see the guns before you see the panic-tinged eyes, slick with modernity compared to your battered old rifle.//

Footsteps, quick.

//A figure you don’t recognise but you know is -- was -- a friend, dragged out from behind the crumbling wall.//

An intake of breath.

//The barrel of a gun turns to you; you stand -- whether to drop your weapon or fire it you don’t have time to decide and --//

Bang.

//You feel it before you hear it.//

Everything goes dark.

The only sound is the hum of the generator. And then a voice, crackling through the air:

//"Hello! Hello hello! This is Zephyr broadcasting out of the Sanctuary... The walls held, we're ok. If you got separated, I hope you're still alive. If you can hear this folks, please respond!"//

{[]}{{tag>writeup2 gm_ben complete}}