Thread: âOverexposureâ - Survivor00 & darkangel76

It was going to be a long day. Arthur held out the tin cup for a refill, one cup just simply not enough to keep him running. Tucker nodded silently, scooping up the kettle and pouring him a second cup of the oily-black drink. ??Thanks, Tuck.? He grunted out, looking down at his haggard reflection bending and distorting in the steaming liquid before lifting it to his lips and taking another long sip of the strong brew. Without Virgil's gin to add some flavor, it tasted far more burnt than before, but he slugged it down all the same. Couldn't afford to be picky, and burnt chicory root was better than nothing at all. Even with the heat of the fire bathing his face, and the heat of the coffee pooling in his gut, he could still feel the bite of cold surface air against the back of his neck. You couldn't escape it. Arthur set the cup down on the bench beside him, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt. He gave the collection of salvagers a quick nod, and eased out of their ranks to grab some breakfast. Nearly every Station had collected some sort of livestock, pigs, chickens, that sort of thing. He'd even visited one station that ate dog meat. He'd never been old enough to have a dog as a pet, but it still felt awkward. It had tasted rather gamey as well. Art coughed savagely again, before spitting a wad of bloody phlegm onto the floor. That...probably wasn't good, but his throat felt clearer now, at least. He trekked through the bazaar once more, past a podium where a group of people were watching a man preach about seeing the 'promised' land, where the bombs had not hit, urging people to join him in an exodus. Many watched him because he broke the banality of their day, few seemed as excited as he about the concept. Arthur ducked through a low doorway into the dining hall, the rich scents of cooked meat rising into the air and making his mouth water. People's diets weren't as varied as they once used to be. Meals usually consisted of a mixed stew of meat and leeks, maybe with some potatoes or mushrooms. They needed to make enough to serve several dozen people, maybe more, so specific meals had become a thing of the past. The air was thick with smoke from dozens of lit cigarettes, a dull roar of voices, all underneath the tinny wail of some cassette player spewing music into the air. He eased into the end of the line, grabbing a bowl from the pile of dishes. Someone elbowed beside him, and he grunted, butting back to give himself some room. The line was slow to move, but he made his way there eventually. ??Good morning, Arthur.? An older woman smiled tiredly at him from behind a steaming pot of some kind of porridge. ??Come to get breakfast, have we?? She took his bowl and ladled a scoop of the thick substance into it before handing it back to him. Arthur took the bowl, looking down at the porridge and hiding his look of distaste, ??Morning, Aunt Kathrine. ? He smiled at her. A friend of his parents since before the war, 'Aunt' Kathrine had been the closest he had to a family once his father passed away. She didn't like the idea of him going to the surface, but frankly, neither did he. Yet it was his job nonetheless. ??Yeah. Coffee's not going to do much today.? He said with a sigh. The person behind him bawled about him holding up the line, and he looked apologetically to her, before moving on. Someone dropped a single poached egg on top of the porridge, as well as a slice of bacon, and waved him on. As far as meals went, it wasn't bad. He made his way back out to the gathering of salvagers around the fire pit, taking back his place on the bench and using a spoon to scoop the poached egg into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and sighed in satisfaction. That might have helped more than the coffee did. The bacon quickly went next, and the porridge, while horrendously bland, filled him up better than he had expected. He finished the whole meal in only a few minutes, washing it down with the rest of his coffee, feeling revitalized, his spirits lifted. Only to be sent crashing down when the intercom drowned out even the crowds of the bazaar. ?? All salvage teams, report to the armory and staging grounds, immediately! All salvage teams! ? ??Fuck.? He spat quietly, pushing up off the bench once more, joined by the others. They all seemed to wear the same grim expression. Would they make it back from the surface, or would they remain there for eternity as ghosts amongst the radiation? ??I need to get my gear, guys, I'll meet you at the platform...? He said, jogging to his room. They didn't like it when you held up an excursion, so he had to hurry, despite every instinct telling him not to. The suit he had to wear was cumbersome and heavy, even though he was sure it didn't do much to protect him from the radiation. The armored vest he hefted over his body was even heavier, and he grunted as the extra weight jerked at his spine. Over top of that , he pulled on his backpack, loaded with extra ammunition, filters, a Universal Charger, and his sketchpad and other personal possessions. He fitted the loops and pouches on his jacket with extra magazines, filters, and an Army-grade medkit. He looked at himself in the shard of mirror on the wall, before he sighed, and hung the gas-mask over his neck, where it would be in quick reach if he needed it. He lumbered out of his room, extinguishing the lamp and absently wondering if he would ever light it again. His suited form must have made an imposing sight, for people moved out of the way as he approached, the stairs creaking beneath his boots as he stomped up to the Bazaar. The salvagers and sentries had abandoned their tables, some having left meals unfinished. His boots clumped harshly on the bare tile, and he headed out towards the armory. ??Come on, Arthur, hurry up! Don't want to get the Winch all wound up, do you?? A voice called from beyond the door, followed by a chorus of chuckles and he hurried himself more. The armory was a small room, lit brightly by an electric lamp. A number of guns were hung on the wall, and the tables were stocked with the tools needed to maintain them. ??Ah! Arthur. Running late again, huh?? Fletcher chuckled, reaching down and placing the clunky, Metro-built SMG on the table before him. ??Here's your Bastard.? He chuckled. ??Try to keep the action clear, that's what jammed it last time.? ??Blame that on the fucking snoutface that pinned me to the ground.? Arthur replied, picking up the firearm and looping it around a leather strap on his jacket. Bastards were notoriously prone to jamming and overheating. Add their low accuracy to that list, and the only reason the gun was popular was because it was cheap to buy and make, and it could throw out a lot of bullets in a short period of time. The next gun laid out before him was far more welcome. His shotgun. It hardly ever failed him. He tossed the sling over his neck, the weapon thumping against his side. ??And last, but not least.? Fletcher placed the old revolver on the table. Arthur scooped it up, checked to see if it was loaded, and holstered it. ??Thanks, Fletcher.? He said, carrying at least 50lbs of gear on his back, now. Still, he was sadly used to the weight. He eased out the door towards the station platform where they gathered, a railcar waiting to take them out. Everyone else was there, Virgil, Flint, Tucker, Danny. She was a...peculiar one. Daughter of two of Mriya's doctors, somehow ended up being a medic on a salvage team. Of course, it's not like they didn't appreciate her medical talents. ??Took you long enough, Arthur.? 'Colonel' Winchester ?? otherwise known as the 'Winch', by many of the salvagers, chided him, like he was a schoolboy late for class. ??Once again, you're late, and have delayed this entire operation.? ??Forgive me for not wanting to rush to an uncertain death, Colonel.? Arthur muttered, even though he pulled himself into a lazy salute. The man treated them as if though they were soldiers, trying to relive his old 'glory days' of military command before they had boiled away the world. Although, rumors were that Winchester had never seen an officer's ranks before the bombs fell. He could have been a janitor, for all they knew. But they all followed his orders, to a degree.