Hi, guys. =) Hope that you're well and having a blast. Is it possible to retire, and yet have less free time than ever?
40
Globe Studios shuttle CM-27:
Directly after inspection and breakfast… a tense business, even though John somehow managed to hide his contraband transmitter… the teams had been packed right onto their transports and launched. Virgil and Scott, Penny, TinTin and Max in one craft, as usual. (Right?) The GDF Navy and musical teams in their own.
None of the modified shuttles had viewports or screens, and Maxton's terse, smirk-y briefing ("Survive long enough to reach shard 2, then find your way back to the pick-up zone.") wasn't very informative. Hours had passed, to the low, droning whine of jet engines; the occasional rattle of turbulence.
Virgil should have been working on strategy. Only, he found himself still in the grip of physical stress and emotional trash-fire. Something had happened. He felt it clean down to his aching bones, and so did the others. Scott had immediately started planning with Dad, while John used repurposed personal gear and a circuit pen to access government files. All this while Virgil… just fought to clear up his head-space.
He was confused by visions of roiling water and flood-battered corpses. By over-stressed muscles, even though all he'd done was fall out of bed. Might've just been a really bad dream, but something inside him said no. That they'd somehow switched tracks like a runaway train. How, though? What in the name of utter disaster had happened?
Virgil took a deep breath, forcing himself back to here and now. The passenger cabin was dim, warm and noisy. Hardly conductive to thought. Scott sat across from him, drumming impatient fingers and shifting position; pretty obviously fighting the urge to take over. It would have been easy to let him. More comfortable, even. But Virgil had been placed in charge by family vote and by Triumph contract. He'd been given a job and he'd see it through to the end, no matter the personal cost.
Glancing over at Penny, TinTin and Max, the big pilot cleared his throat and marshalled his thoughts, saying,
"Don't have much information about our destination or challenges, except for the gear we were offered."
Penny smiled slightly, cocking her head to one side.
"And a very good job it was that we emerged victorious from the first round, as equipment, this time, was assigned a point value."
They'd had to buy their gear based on experience points. As the International Rescue team had been first to the shard, they'd been given 10,000 XP to go shopping with, as well as the right to block needed gear from the others. The Deth Chix had scored a solid 5,000 XP, while the Navy brought up the rear with 2,500 and very last choice.
Nothing much should have been left. Only, first IR, then the rock group had refused to buy up or block what others might need. Yeah, you played hard and you played to succeed… but you played like a winner, not a back-stabbing cheat.
More important than in-game money and prices had been the goods on offer, though. Weapons and basic survival gear were expected. New to the selection was mountain equipment; head lamps, climbing ropes, backpacks, helmets, trail food, machetes and snake-bite kits. (Plenty of those.)
TinTin looked up from sorting her gear, dark eyes thoughtful, mouth slightly pursed.
"If I had to guess from our choice of supplies, I would say we were headed for some sort of forested mountain or cave," she suggested.
Max backed her up with a chirp, flashing a swift course/altimeter reading onto the grey, curving bulkhead. They were climbing steadily, Virgil noticed; headed a few degrees east of due south. Information like that would have got them in serious trouble, had Max not been jamming their "quiescent" video drones.
Anyone peeking through one of those darkened lenses would have seen only closed eyes and bodies in calm, centered rest. Heard nothing but unison breathing, thanks to a doctored video loop. Knowing all this, Virgil gave his adopted sister a smile.
"We'll find out for sure when we get there," he told her, working out time, speed and distance equations inside his head. South or Central America, he figured. "The important thing is to stay alert and together, till we've gotten our bearings. Max, you're in charge of the map. As soon as they flash it up, take a picture and scan our surroundings. Scott, your detail's the perimeter. If we're out in the actual wilderness, local fauna could be an issue. I don't like all those first aid and snake bite kits. Crap like that makes me paranoid."
His brother started to say something, paused, and then settled for nodding. TinTin waited for Scott to sit back again before she spoke up. She'd been hauled from her second semester at the Institute to take part in this farce. She'd come because they needed her, because she hadn't been left an orphan back when it counted. Now, as the shuttle's engine noise changed and its nose began to pitch downward, the girl said,
"Whatever the setting, it must have been chosen for maximum impact and drama, to boost the show's ratings. We should face only implied or staged danger."
"Maybe," cut in Scott, his thick brows drawing down over turbulent eyes. "But accidents happen, and injuries make a good story. Maxton knows that, and the studio's got metric tons of insurance and lawyers."
He would have said more, but the shuttle nosed all at once steeply downward, disrupting their pre-game huddle. One of the engines coughed and fell silent. The other suddenly revved, causing the shuttle to wobble, then spin.
Their video drones came to life, lenses grown red as the eyes of a beast at campfire's edge. Shrill, blaring alarms tore the air, sounding like battling cats.
"Crash positions!" snapped Virgil, as Max lashed out with steely cables and netting, trying to fasten them down. "Buddy up, as soon as we're safe on the ground!"
He'd been in rough landings before, but never in aircraft this small or fragile. Part of the script, attack, or genuine mechanical failure? No way to tell, and not his concern, at the moment.
His buddy was Lady Penelope. Scott's was TinTin, with Max assigned to their gear and their med kits. No one left behind, and nothing important abandoned, just like in sim, or a mission.
Meanwhile, their ride was clearly in trouble. The shuttle plunged like a rock, spinning and lurching; its port engine repeatedly flaming to life, only to loudly misfire time after time. Head tucked down between his knees, hands at the back of his neck, fingers laced, stomach rising to choke him, Virgil whispered his Granddad's old prayer: "Lord, dead men can't fix what they done wrong. 'Preciate a little help, here," and left it at that.
The nose pitched up for a moment. Then came a sudden, tremendous crunch and slithering bounce. Both engines roared, as branches or planks snapped all around them, outside. The tail slewed around. One of those slender wings tore off, flipping them violently upside-down.
Inside the passenger cabin, lights failed and chemical smoke filled the air. Still moving, still sliding downward with noise like splintering cannon-fire, the shuttle blew her hatch, letting in lashing branches and ghostly- pale mist.
Virgil would have thrown up. Only, he couldn't. He was in charge.
"Call out," he grated, as their shuttle lurched earthward.
"Scott!"
"Penelope Creighton-Ward."
"Tanusha!"
"Squeeeeeeeee-beep-beep-screech-grind!"
Plus, the five video drones, lunging and twisting like flies in Max's dense crash webbing. Virgil ignored them.
"Copy that. Figure we're up in the canopy, not certain how high," he shouted, over the noise of that ongoing crash. It might have been safer to ride out the landing, but then hungry red flames licked in through an air vent. Engine fire, most likely.
"Everyone out!" ordered Virgil, as Max retracted his webbing. The aircraft fell-slid-twisted and rolled, coming apart as it dropped to the sodden, moss-covered ground. Two more explosive concussions went off in the distance. The other teams?
No way to tell, and no time to find out. Here and now, all they could do was fight to get out of a fiery death-trap.