The Cardinal Directive: Mission Log #21

Hands of Ebony

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>> ERROR: Due to prior CATASTROPHIC SYSTEM FAILURE, this file has suffered some amount of CORRUPTION
>> System still in process of restoration 
>> Play anyway? 
>> ... 
>> Confirmed. Now Playing Mission Log #21

The video feed at Piket Rock briefly resumes, a camera panning slowly side to side as it watches over the LAHC loading dock. Alison’s sled remains where she left it, a heap of tired metal in one corner with some kind of foil blanket laid atop it.

Just as the audio clears, the visual glitches and goes black.

Then returns elsewhere.

---

Sebastian wiped the camera’s lens, inserting it back into his harness. “It’s fine. Must have just jostled it loose.”

It was only half true. The other half was the healing wound in his chest aching in protest as he climbed.

Alison hopped down next to him, rubbing at her arm. The bags under her eyes had drawn themselves deeper upon her face, carving their protest into her skin. It hadn’t been easy sleeping after what they’d seen, but they had set aside a few hours to at least try. They wouldn’t get far without it, but at the same time they couldn’t risk getting caught in the night.

Like prey fleeing predators, they had to keep moving and hope they were further ahead than they felt.

It was Alison’s idea to affix a rope to the top of the cliff so they could have a way back up. Nice to see her finally contributing.

They both turned, facing the forest before them.

In truth, “forest” was not an exact word for it, only the closest thing they had for comparison. The “trees” stretched from floor to ceiling, sprawling, tangled roots covering the ground and branches re-entering the dirt above. A few of the branches hadn’t made it that far, hanging like an oak.

These trees were barren of leaves or fruit, just spindly collections of empty branches.

Even from here, they could make out that the bark was an unnatural, char-black color, though there were no other signs of a fire.

The moss grew thicker the closer they got, coating large patches of the ground and hanging from the ceiling. A few had grown up parts of the trees, outlining their silhouettes in the heavy, orange-lit fog.

Distantly, he could still hear that uniform hum.