[314 / 103 / 68]
Quoted By:
>>Summer, 76 A.C. (After Cataclysm) [2517 AD]
Old Man Larkin tells it the best. The story of how the world ended.
Not that he makes a habit of telling it. The semi-retired roughneck has to be either sufficiently boozed, or in a melancholic mood. Sometimes it takes a potent combination of both, when the weather outside gets really nasty, and he’s had enough alcohol to curdle his liver. It’s a depressing story, but on the Duck, there’s only so many ways for the workers to stave off boredom.
But he had lived through it. He had the burns and the frostbite to challenge anyone calling him a fraud, as well as the temper to back it up. No one knows exactly how old he is, but he’s at the age where he has little left to live for, and even less to lose.
“I remember it clearly, the day of the Scouring,” Larkin mutters, cowing the assembled riggers into silence. “I’ll never be able to forget it. I can’t forget it, no matter how much I drink…”
The mess is as silent as it can be to accommodate thirty off-duty roughnecks, and the cafeteria staff serving them dinner. You stand off to the side, nursing a bowl of protein stew. Larkin’s tale is one you’d heard several times over, but there’s still some novelty in watching the rooks and greenhorns react.
The curtains are drawn shut, but the gathering storm can both be heard and felt. The Duck sways with every passing gust of wind, and buffet of the high ocean tide against the struts and legs. A mild storm, Karl Kolter claims, but one that the entirety of the oil rig will feel for the next few hours.
A perfect mood to backdrop Larkin’s story.
The old man’s eyes, half-blinded by cataracts, go glassy as he rasps: “I was a small child, living in Florida, barely knee-high in height, and kindergarten recess had just ended. Mrs. Severe was reading out of <span class="mu-i">Mister Popper’s Penguins</span> when the announcement came over the 7G. Miss Daria Beisner of NPR, ever the consummate professional, was reporting in a panicked voice that the sun had exploded, and that we were all going to die.”
He chuckles darkly, somehow heard over the dull muttering of the riggers. His hands are clasped tightly, and the flickering, overhead light casts long shadows across his worn face. The next words come with a bitter cynicism.
“Of course, it didn’t explode. We’re all still here, aren’t we? That would have been a mercy, killing us all at once. No, what happened was something I later learned was a <span class="mu-i">coronal mass ejection</span>. But for little five-year-old me, it might as well have exploded. And there by the grace of God and the NASA scientists, we had three days to make peace with ourselves before the radiation hit the planet and killed us all.
(cont.)
Old Man Larkin tells it the best. The story of how the world ended.
Not that he makes a habit of telling it. The semi-retired roughneck has to be either sufficiently boozed, or in a melancholic mood. Sometimes it takes a potent combination of both, when the weather outside gets really nasty, and he’s had enough alcohol to curdle his liver. It’s a depressing story, but on the Duck, there’s only so many ways for the workers to stave off boredom.
But he had lived through it. He had the burns and the frostbite to challenge anyone calling him a fraud, as well as the temper to back it up. No one knows exactly how old he is, but he’s at the age where he has little left to live for, and even less to lose.
“I remember it clearly, the day of the Scouring,” Larkin mutters, cowing the assembled riggers into silence. “I’ll never be able to forget it. I can’t forget it, no matter how much I drink…”
The mess is as silent as it can be to accommodate thirty off-duty roughnecks, and the cafeteria staff serving them dinner. You stand off to the side, nursing a bowl of protein stew. Larkin’s tale is one you’d heard several times over, but there’s still some novelty in watching the rooks and greenhorns react.
The curtains are drawn shut, but the gathering storm can both be heard and felt. The Duck sways with every passing gust of wind, and buffet of the high ocean tide against the struts and legs. A mild storm, Karl Kolter claims, but one that the entirety of the oil rig will feel for the next few hours.
A perfect mood to backdrop Larkin’s story.
The old man’s eyes, half-blinded by cataracts, go glassy as he rasps: “I was a small child, living in Florida, barely knee-high in height, and kindergarten recess had just ended. Mrs. Severe was reading out of <span class="mu-i">Mister Popper’s Penguins</span> when the announcement came over the 7G. Miss Daria Beisner of NPR, ever the consummate professional, was reporting in a panicked voice that the sun had exploded, and that we were all going to die.”
He chuckles darkly, somehow heard over the dull muttering of the riggers. His hands are clasped tightly, and the flickering, overhead light casts long shadows across his worn face. The next words come with a bitter cynicism.
“Of course, it didn’t explode. We’re all still here, aren’t we? That would have been a mercy, killing us all at once. No, what happened was something I later learned was a <span class="mu-i">coronal mass ejection</span>. But for little five-year-old me, it might as well have exploded. And there by the grace of God and the NASA scientists, we had three days to make peace with ourselves before the radiation hit the planet and killed us all.
(cont.)
