[A/N: So this is a sequel to my While It Sleeps AU! Yes, I'm still working on it! Just got excited about this story and had to post the first chap. It takes place after the canon events of the game. Can't wait to gush into this little AU I've had since I've played the game the first time. Let's give all our poor lads and lasses a second chance with this story. I hope you enjoy! Don't shy from any critique or advice! Thank you!]

Chapter 1: Ten Years Later

Well, no more running for you, Caz.

His blood was still heatedly rushing from Rennick's office. Not even the frigid North Sea mists could attempt in cooling it. The same mists beginning to roll in as Caz made his way to the helipad. The Beira D rigs' ambiance was coming to an end. At least in Caz's tale. It would be the last time he'd hear the whir of the cranes and clank of pipes from the deck. The hissing of the derrick. Worse yet, the laughter and cloud of men that were friends in the brief time he'd been an electrician on the rig. Rennick's bark was still rattling in his ear drums. The words 'you're fired' and 'Get off my rig!' kept repeating themselves tauntingly. His troubles onshore were not to be avoided, no matter what dismal efforts he made in trying to run. There was no room left to, anymore. The unavoidable was here. The moment Suze knew would come to pass but he was too scared to listen. Perhaps it was destiny.

He walked under the helipad with a slack in his jaunt. The memories of Billy's bludgeoned nose a sour reminder of Suze's rage. He'd be going home to the threat of divorce, the fury of the police, the unknown karma. The helipad was one of the tallest reaches on the Beira, thus being the coldest. Caz tucked his neck into the neck hole of his uniform to try to retain some warmth. He saw Archie and Gregor tuning the chopper and dreaded what was to come next. A pit in his stomach was starting to take hold. Far more aggressive than what he was prepared for. As if any moment the ground would slip out from under his boots.

Then Archie called out, "Ey, Caz! I'm guessing Rennick spoke to you, then."

"It was that obvious?"

"Don't take it too hard, mate. Consider it a blessing. Much better opportunities out there."

Gregor loaded Caz's belongings into the chopper and said, "We're gonnae miss you around here, though. Best boxer in Northern Scotland, that's the truth."

"And best electrician on the rig, you forget," said Archie in almost a scolding way to Gregor, "This place is already crumbling shite. Why he'd fire one of our only electricians is beyond me. I've learned the hard way not to question the old fud. Still… things won't be the same around here without you, Caz."

"You can spill your guts. What was the problem?" Gregor asked Caz.

Caz groaned discreetly, not wanting to open his can of worms leaving a lasting bad taste to his friends. "You know Rennick. Gets an idea in his head, he thinks the worst and fancies a stooshie before getting to the bottom of it. He gave his lungs a test, then next I knew I was fired, lads. That's about it."

"First we lose our mechanic and now you. Old man isn't thinking clearly, is he?"

Gregor said back to Archie with a smoke on his lip, "Naw. Cartier probably still in hospital. She'll be back."

"Still. Not the greatest time to be booting people off when we're already down to a skeleton crew."

"Do I got time to say my goodbyes? Run to the canteen? Roy would wanna know I'm leavin'." Caz asked over the two.

"Not likely, Caz," replied Archie regretfully, "Old man wants you off his rig, so… it's gotta be now. Don't get me in the shite with him, too."

"I'll tell the big man. Ey, he's due for his days off here soon. You two will see each other again." Gregor tried to console, but Caz knew too well his days on the mainland free were limited.

Caz sighed grievously and nodded, "Right. Well… let's do this, then."

Gregor got into the cockpit first as the co-pilot, calling back through the door cheerily, "Ey, think about the wife and kids! Wager they've missed ya! Can give that hand of yours a well needed break. The wife is always randy when the man returns to shore!"

Archie coughed a laugh and Caz scoffed grimly, "Naw. Probably randy for a foot up my arse when she sees me again."

The chopper was still off, but the throttling of blades was coming in hot from the mists. Archie had his hand on the switch when they caught the sound first. It stalled his turn of the engine, and their heads flicked up to track it.

"Expecting another chopper?" Caz asked curiously.

Archie barely said it. It came out in a sigh, "No."

Then the figures of not one, but three helicopters started rattling into view. Not any helicopter that would or should be seen over a Scotland oil rig. Caz recognized them from his magazines. They were Westland Scouts. Pine green and stripped in white. They were undeniably military. He was expecting the birds to fly over. Ignore their rig like it was just a platform aboard raging sea water. Simply scenery on their way to a real national threat. Then they started to take formation, flurrying the whooshing winds through Caz's hair as they circled along the rig. Their roaring engines together created a sound far outweighing that of the Beira's machinery.

Gregor squawked, "The fuck is going on?!"

Caz thought a bit impulsively. Brits finally coming for our oil. Maybe Trots was right. Then he looked out towards the mainland. Over the horizon and through the thick banks of fog were the revving of boats. Inflatable hulls. Military grade. Their rig was getting surrounded. The questions begged the answers. He huddled with Gregor and Archie as a bird came in for a tight landing next to the Beira's helicopter. He could only imagine the fright and confusion shared by the others. They could hear it undoubtedly inside a module – nevermind the deck. Not that Caz could see it, but they were surely gathering. Dropping their work in stunned gawks to the skies raging in choppers. As if the Beira was soon to be taken over in a smoke of small war. Without a reason why, Caz felt like some kind of war criminal. Just when I thought the shit-pot couldn't get anymore rank. The fuck is all of this?!

The Scout's blades kept spinning as men in militant garb heatedly stepped out. Without further warning, weapons clicked and pointed in their direction. Caz, Gregor and Archie didn't wait to ask why or what. They raised their hands and slammed their stomachs to the floor of the helipad as if anything else would send a bullet through their chests. The soldiers still barked to get on the ground – put their hands on their head. Caz had enough give to turn his head towards the deck. The choppers were hoisting down soldiers with long, roped ladders. His thoughts went to Roy. He still had no earthly clue what was happening. Roy surely didn't. He fretted what kind of fear they'd strike in the big man. Would they rough him up? Shoot him on site if he didn't do exactly what they said? Roy was always the praying man. Yet, in this moment it was all Caz could do.

One of these men seemed a bit too decorated to be a marine jughead like those holding the weapons. He came out with a face as steely as a winter dawn. Badges colouring his left breast like a mobile trophy wall. Older man leading up to his sixties. A chin creased and stubbled. His nose elongated and bent as if it had seen a few cracks. He had two or three men to his side with the three already holding weapons to Caz, Gregor and Archie. Archie began to panic, "Please! Oi! We're just working here! Whatever you want, you got it! Just don't shoot!"

The commander said, "Cuff 'em. What's the tandem's ETA?"

Caz winced as the men pulled at his arms, straining the muscles at his shoulders and joint of his elbows. "Fucking careful, eh? Jesus!"

One of the soldiers replied, "Ten out east. Should be here soon."

"We're gonna need it. This rig has well over thirty. Might need another trip when we get a head count."

Caz was suddenly pulled from the concrete like he was the weight of a child.

"The fuck is going on?! What did we do? Why is the damn military here? You can't arrest us; I know my rights!" Archie's voice varied in inflation as he too was pulled up.

The commander raised a finger to Archie's chin and yelled, "Who's in charge here? Huh? Who?!"

Archie's tongue flapped behind his teeth. His eyes stressed wide and cheeks flushed. He hesitated in even answering the simplest question. Certain it could jeopardize him later.

Caz wasn't as tedious. "Davey Rennick. He's… he's down in the Installation Module. You see it?"

The commander whipped his head around to the bright orange module close to the helipad. He made a short whistle behind his teeth. "Hendricks, Smith, and Jenkins - get those three in the Scout. You two, come with me."

As Caz was shoved to the chopper he barely managed to ask, "You gonnae tell us what this is about or… fuck! Watch it!"

The commander and his two soldiers made an urgent march to the module as Caz, Archie and Gregor were contained in the bird. Down in the deck and Processing Quad men in Cadal blue and orange were being restrained to the floor by a brigade of UK's military. Sharp yells and barking orders rang through the rig now. The place was a song of chaos if nothing else. Now resembling more of a Navy base than that of an oil rig. It was a ruthless siege. The soldiers acting on pure instinct rather than mercy.

Innes and Muir, the two most hardworking deck workers were soon cornered by military forces. Innes squalled and barked on the reason for their siege or why it was happening. He had his hands raised shakily as he was backed against a cargo container. The soldier's voice far out carried his own. Innes weakly fell to the ground as the soldier began to nudge the gun violently towards him. As Innes' demands were left unanswered, he let the soldier restrain him. Muir was far less compliant. Cussing and struggling like any typical Scot. Then a swift kick walloped his side, stealing Muir's air from his lungs.

"For god's sake, Muir! Stop! Stay down!" Innes called, gritting his teeth against the solid concrete floor.

Innes cried in pain as they slapped handcuffs on his wrists. Muir snapped again, "Innes! Be fucking careful, ya cunts! He's just an old bloke, what's he gonnae do to you, huh?!"

As Muir and Innes were pulled up and shoved to the cargo lift, a struggling and cawing Addair soon followed. He too was cuffed and being herded by soldiers. As well as many of the deck and pipe workers.

"I may be on a Scot rig but I'm a Brit, ya 'ere me! A Brit! I'm a fucking patriot! Stop… fucking manhandling me like a fucking prom date, ya wanker! I'm goin'!"

Addair's boisterous roar faded as he was sent up a flight of steps. A string of men from Administration were restrained and taken up to the helipad. Including Trots, Scooby and Finlay. She had a contusion on her left cheek bone. A courtesy of the UK military when she refused her arrest. She shambled dejectedly to the helipad against the soldier's pull. Soon a rift of fog turned up the rig, itself. The shelf revealed a colossal tandem rotor storming down to the rig. Able to carry close to fifty people if not more. It nearly took the space of the helipad, knocking Archie's bird over to its side like a figurine.

The Beira's workers were being herded into the tandem like cattle. More decorated officers began to parade around the helipad as the siege carried on. The battling voices and intemperate flare of militance humbling floorhands and petrol engineers like they were terrorists. The commander made his way to the Installation Module, where Rennick was already outside his office with his arms raised high. At seeing the garbed men stomp up the steps he backed into the crates.

"On your knees!"

Rennick had his heated words already prepped and ready. "What the fuck is this about?! What're you all doin' on my rig?!"

"Now! On your knees now!"

"Get your guns out of me face! I didnae do fuck all!"

Rennick's voice left quick and air pushed from his throat when a punch threw into his gut. He buckled to the grated floor outside his office then, grabbing for his stomach. The commander ordered, "Get him up!" He came up the steps behind his soldiers. They threw Rennick up against the walls of the module and shackled him in cuffs. The force left a singular crack in the left lense of his glasses. Rennick made eye contact with the commander then. "The fuck is this, huh? You think you can take Scotland's oil, do you?"

"Who are you working for? Who sent you out here?"

"Cadal, you fucking roaster. Look around!"

The commander glanced to the emblems along the Beira, and the more he saw, the worse his brows furrowed. He glanced back to Rennick with a scorn in his glare. "That's bullshit. Cadal hasn't operated in years. Who do you work for and how did you get this rig?!"

"I built it! Cadal… we built it! We're licensed to be here and we're under code, for fuck sakes! Been licensed since 1972! Go in there and see for yourself! The paperwork is there!"

The commander made one last churning glower before ordering to his men, "Take him with the rest. Once he gets to base, get him straight into interrogation."

"Yes, Commander Brantley."

Rennick protested as he was shoved from the rails and to the steps, "Oi! You lot are gonna be in the shit for this! We're government funded! This is Scotland's fucking oil!"

Rennick's voice faded as Brantley was left with solitude before his office. He drifted inside to the shelves and desk shaking against the throttle of the tandem rotor on the helipad. Every piece of Rennick's office left Brantley with further questions. As he said, the paperwork was there and correct. Seemingly correct. But a crucial detail was shudderingly wrong. Curiously and mortifyingly wrong. Each date on the sheets of paper curled another wrinkle to Brantley's forehead. As well as the name and model of the rig. The titles of office who signed the paperwork. Brantley pulled on his radio, "Jefferson. We're gonna need forensic analysts up here. All paperwork and relative information confiscated, understand?"

"Understood. Got everyone boarded the chopper. Got a sector scouring the legs for any stragglers. So far, it's clear. Looks like a skeleton crew, many back on the mainland for the holidays. Probably won't need a second trip, after all. Permission to transport the fugitives to base?" The radio rasped back.

"Permission granted. Don't tell them anything until we have this figured out."

"Yes, sir."

As the radio clicked out, Brantley pulled a parchment to his end of the desk. A letter from the Strathclyde Police sparked his attention. He read it fully, going over it over and over as if it could offer some kind of explanation. All it did was raise further questions. He radioed again, "Jefferson, you got a Cameron McLeary on the bird?"

"Nah. He went with Smith and the others. Two others on board. I believe an Archie Grant and Gregor Freeland were also taken with the Scout back to base."

"Ring Smith. I want to talk to him."

"Yes, sir."

The tandem rotor pulled through the North Sea winds like a bullet. No resistance apart from the godly fury of the rotors shaking the entirety of the belly. The crew could barely hear each other over the roar. Roy called up to one of the soldiers, "Excuse me? Excuse me! There was a Cameron McLeary on board the Beira, I don't see him here."

The soldier remained angrily silent, holding his AK with a clenched grip.

"Ah, fuck off. You show up like bloody bats outta hell for no rhyme or reason. No cause! Drag us on a damn military bird taking us God knows where. You can at least tell me the well-bein' of my mate!"

"Shut up!"

The soldier's shout was loud enough it startled the other crew along the seating. Finlay and Brodie stared worryingly for Roy, discreetly telling him with their eyes to not say another word.

Trots was less discreet. "War criminals, the lot of them. That's what this is! A bloody war. Which means we're prisoners of war. When Scotland's government gets wind of it, it'll be the third coming. Greedy pricks."

"For fuck sakes, Campbell," sighed Gibbo as he struggled with his cuffs, "Not now." He too had a fresh bruise under his right eye.

"I told you. That's all I'm gonnae say. I told you!"

O'Connor hissed beside Trots, "Ivan!"

Trots grievously rolled his eyes and curled a scowl to Rennick, who sat across from the way with his head low. "What do you have to say about this, hm? It's your rig, as you've so fondly said in the past. It's shite. An absolute load of shite, Davey. I've been telling you for months. If you had listened to our demands maybe this wouldnae be happenin'!"

Rennick whipped his glare up in a hurry. "Oh, shut your fucking flapping gob, Trots! I donnae hear it! You're like a broken fuckin' record."

"What're you gonnae do? This is your rig, so these are your men! What're you gonna do for 'em? You gonna protect them?!"

The soldier bellowed aloud, propping his AK up like a threat. "I said shut it! All of you!"

The crew fell silent then, with Trots giving one last scowl to Rennick before hanging his head with the others. The flight was long and boisterously loud. Leaving a lasting headache in every occupied seat that wasn't military. When the chopper began to decline, and the rotor started to slow, their was a collective panic just brimming at the surface. It was shared with the Beira crew, who were direly trying to stay quiet.

One by one they were loaded off to a military airfield and led into a behemoth base. The yard was filled with tanks, trucks and jets, as well as choppers also coming in for landing from the Beira exploit. Once inside, they were taken to a room with the likeness of a gymnasium. More accurately a shelter. Brimming in bunked cots and shelves for storage. As well as several restrooms along the corridor. It was diligently guarded by armed personnel. Many of them weren't aware of the surveillance glaring them down.

Brodie glanced over the space for a moment, before flicking his eyes up to the soldier at his side and asking, "How… long are we meant to be here? What even is this?"

"Safekeeping for refugees. It's not being used, so you lot are using it." The soldier said back crassly.

"Why are we using it?"

"Can't tell ya. Alls I know is you lot made a mistake trying to drill under the radar."

"We weren't under the radar. We've been out there for months. Only just started drilling two weeks ago. We… we're Cadal, we're a Scottish rig."

The soldier scoffed, "Out there for months. Sure, pal. Save it for the investigator, would ya? Make yourself at home, you'll likely be here a while."

As the guard walked off, another came from the entry with Archie. Finlay pressed off her cot, and Roy turned around a bunk corner. Brodie joined them as they went straight to Archie's attention.

"What's goin' on, Archie? They talk to you?" Finlay asked.

"Aye, they did. They're talking to Caz and Gregor, still."

Roy made a sound of relief. "Caz is right?"

"Yeah, he's fine. I mean… I hope he's fine. We were taken off the rig first. They reckon we were out there illegally."

Brodie asked in disbelief, "They think we're stealing oil?"

"Aye."

Finlay raised, "That's a loada' shite. They canny pull that. Cadal is Scotland owned and we were in Scotland's waters."

"They say Cadal hasn't been around for years. They wouldnae believe me when I said we've been out there for months and with no problems. They said they would have seen us."

"The fuck are they doin'? This doesnae make a lick a sense, none of it."

Roy chimed in, "So what is it then? They want us out so they can get Britain owned rigs out there, do they? Why all the theatrics then? If this is politics why rain a shitstorm down on us for just doing what we're hired to do?"

Archie said it a bit more reserved, "They weren't concerned about the oil."

"Whatd'you mean?" Finlay croaked weakly.

"I mean they had no qualms about why we were out there. They were more concerned with… how we were out there."

Caz sat across from an empty seat. A sheet of steel tabletop before him in a white tiled room. One dim fluorescent light above his seating. The walls were blanketed in shadow. The cuffs still burned into his wrists that were now shackled along the table. He called out impatiently, "Hello?! Let's get this fucking over with then, come on!"

The room gave a chill. Unlike any he'd ever felt. As if he was underwater.

"Don't let me die, Caz!"

Caz made a sharp wince. "Gregor?" He blinked and it felt like a dream. A glimpse into some kind of nightmare. His head bowed over the helipad edge. Why? Gregor was there. But why was he there? He couldn't recall it. Only the feeling, but he couldn't recall why. It was such fear that nearly brought sweat to his upper lip.

Then an echo of the door opening behind him. It followed with clapping footsteps. Authoritative and demanding footsteps, even given their slow pace. Caz preened his head back to see the decorated man he saw on the helipad. The Commander. He was not speaking, but his glare said enough. That Caz was in trouble. Yet, the reason behind it was lost.

"Is Gregor alright?"

Brantley nodded, "He's fine, yes. You should be a bit more concerned for yourself, don't you think?"

"What'd I do?"

"You were involved in an assault. In 75, do you remember that?"

Caz scoffed, "Aye, happened a few months back."

"What else do you remember?" Brantley sat down tidily before Caz.

He raised a brow, "Uh. What're trying to ask? I remember what? You… brought hell down the Beira because of my assault? Armed forces must be bored, eh?"

"Answer the question. Everything after the assault, what can you recall?"

"I… took a leccy job on the Beira D Rig. Rennick hired me. I've been working there since September. I was… fired this morning. I was on my way home until you all showed up."

"That's it? That's all you can remember?"

"Aye, I mean there's parts in between. I mean, you wannae know about the shite I took this morning, too? The last chug I had? What is this? Why do you need to know?"

Brantley forward over the table, making Caz lean back with a chill up his spine. "How did you all get off the rig when it exploded?"

"What?"

"And how did you get your hands on another one? Not just another one… an exact replica. Why blow it up? Where have you been these lost years?"

Caz suddenly erupted, "The absolute fuck are you talking about?! You're aff your fuckin' heid, mate! Whad you mean 'blow it up'? If anyone blew up the fuckin' rig, it was you lot when you dragged us off it!"

"What's your full name?"

"Cameron Edwin McLeary. The fuck is this?!"

"Place of birth and mother's maiden name?"

"Glasglow and Scott. You gonnae tell me the fuck you're on about?"

"Social security number."

"I ain't telling you that!"

"Then how am I supposed to know you're really you?"

Caz went stunned at the question, certain the man before him was taking the piss. Bullying him with foolish questions to soften him for the real blow. But the expression on Brantley's face did not confirm it. It was intangible to read. Almost as if Brantley was just as scared as him.

Caz sighed down to the table, "6371 654 6540."

Brantley looked down to the papers on his lap to confirm and slowly peeled his eyes from the numbers. They returned to Caz in a bloodshot glare. Caz muttered sullenly, "You gonnae tell me what is going on? I… I deserve to know that much. I have a family. I have two weans and a wife."

Brantley's glare softened. His brows shook and leaned back. He still kept a stern and steady glare. Caz's chest gripped tight. The sweat in his palms went cold. "Please."

"You're Cameron Edwin McLeary," said Brantley almost startlingly, "You lived on 65th Oak End Lane, Unit 659. You were 35 years old… or still are. You have two children, Cait Elizabeth and Maidie Ann McLeary. Your wife is Susan Dawn McLeary, maiden name Lafferty. You were an electrician on the Beira D oil rig before it exploded from unknown causes in 1975 December 26th. You, as well as the others on the rig were presumed dead after diligent attempts of search and rescue deemed there were no survivors aboard the Beira D Rig on January 24th 1976."

Caz fumbled for words as he began to shake, "What are you…"

Brantley then slapped a news article on the table, twirling it for Caz to read and pushing it up for his view. He tapped a finger on the headline. National Tragedy: A Scottish Rig Explodes in the North Sea Leaving No Survivors.

Caz went slack jawed as he read on further. Hoping in some way to discredit it. He found his name as well as a few others, including Brodie, Roy, Alex, Trots, and Rennick on the death toll list. A mention from Davey Henderson stating he was on leave when the tragedy happened. That he was so close to death. That he grieves for the friends he lost. That he believes and prays this will be a turning point for the safety measurements needed to ensure this kind of disaster never happens again.

"This… this canny be… you're taking the piss, right? This isn't…"

"You have no memory of this?"

"No! Why would I have memory of something that never fuckin' happen! My wife, my kids are waiting for me, I need to get hame…"

He blinked again and another voice blared in his head. 'We got you, man! We got you!'

Caz mumbled a whimper, battling the tears behind his eyelids, "The… fuck is happenin…"

"Cameron," said Brantley as he leaned into the table again, "I don't know how else to say this other than to just say it. The Beira D Rig owned by Cadal blew up ten years ago. The date is December 26th 1985. You and your crewmates have been dead for ten years. For some reason… you're back. We don't understand why or how. But… we're trying to figure that out. Anything you can tell me, and I mean anything at all, will greatly help us in finding answers. The rig blew up… but how? What happened on that rig?"

As tears slowly started to gather, he could hear Suze's voice in his head. You sort this! You sort this or I will leave you, you understand me?

Then his own voice, far louder than her's. I'm sorry, Suze. I'm so… so sorry. He flinched at the flick of a lighter.

"Cameron! You gotta talk to me, man."

Caz looked up to Brantley, letting his tears fall down his cheeks.

"You're full of shite."