>>5322176Unsure of what propelled it, the Vilhena IV Express impressively zipped along and out of sight. The only way you could describe it was falling in reverse. But even that left you more confused. The Hole welcomes you home. The familiar sights of dull grey and abyss black aren't new to you, the well known feeling of boots meeting smashed black primordial stone sends a shiver down your spine. Scattered around like sand, rocks emerge at odd and unwarranted angles. Cast about by some unseen creator long before man had returned to reclaim the lowly place. The sky littered with an impenetrable foggy haze. You could tell you weren't at the same facility you had grown up in, you had a vague understanding of where it could be. Up above somewhere, clinging to the craggly walls of the massive crater. You were deep. Further than you had ever been, within the womb of the ministry, far beyond any pressing eyes.
The Officer who met you did so wearing the common kill team mask. One you might commonly find assigned along with a skin tight combat suit that closely mimicked diving suits. You were given a number, a new name when training at the blacksite. Seven, you were the seventh to arrive. They didn't bother giving you a mask, Herr Stumpfegger reassures you that their cautious behavior was simple to protect themselves. The uneven and gravelly ground of the Hole made the intense exercise regime harder than it has to be. The low valley landscapes keep the cold temperatures low, the sun struggling to reach so far down. Each gust of howling wind threatens to freeze the steaming sweat as it settles on your hot body. Your own breath almost blinded you as you fought for air, like a rampaging bull. Heavy bursts of condensation ploom from your nostrils in great swirling clouds. "Hurry the fuck up Seven!" The lead Officer shouts, you grunt in response, increasing your pace and ignoring the pain that follows as you close the few feet separating you.
Without bothering to turn and inspect the other pilots, the sound of Six and Two footsteps reassures you that you weren't alone with the slave driver. Four's whining had stopped, the poor bastard had slipped on the mossy black pebbles further up the moor and had almost broken his ass in the process.
