...:: * ::... 

tuesday, 12th october, 22 o.d.
barrowdown flats, eastside

Can't feel my fingers. White fleshcicles, with splintered dirty nails.
The heater's been on 24-7, but cold comes in through the cracks.
Breath's a spray of fine ice motes, even at mid-sun. It'd be pretty
if it didn't burn like hellfire.
   Daylight lasts barely five hours now, and with each cycle, night
grows longer, darker. Soon we'll be swallowed in total darkness...
will anyone still be here when the light returns? If it returns.
   In bed this morning, I held my hand to the light. Saw bone and
cartilage, veins bathed in pale red-gold flesh. So beautiful. I could
almost see the blood pulsing inside like thick honey.
   I tire so freaking fast now. Two hours and I'm wasted; weak as
a two-penny kitten. Gotta rest, head down 'til the spots fade.
   I meet Kuresh tonight. Taking the ogtram to Candlewick South,
then sledding it the rest of the way. He promised to wear a body
wrap. Made a big deal out of it. So bloody lame. He doesn't get that
I'm used to him. At least you can see his deformity. Not like mine.
What will he do when he finds out...run away? Inform the jags? Or
worse, stay...with that sick pity glistening in those pale green eyes
while he tries to cure me. Eventually the fear will come...it always
does. Always. Slowly at first, then more and more, 'til it's all you
can see in his face.
   Hell, what's it matter. We're all on borrowed time.
   Innis says so. And Innis doesn't lie.
   Maybe we'll find a way inside tonight...
   It's possible. Stranger things have happened.
   And I've lived to see a few of them.

...:: * ::... 

Wednesday, 13th october, 22 o.d.
barrowdown flats, eastside

Bad scene. Ran into a rogue patrol last night 'round 12 hour—Stygian Guard, they call themselves. Travel in packs, like the vermin they are. Godless, brainless, dickless zealots. Ought to be put down, the lot of 'em. Higher purpose, my sweet white ass. If I were stronger, I'd do it. No charge. Hell, I'd enjoy it. A lot more than cowering in some whig-infested hole, waiting while they messed with a doxy. What was she doing out there alone. Such a pretty wee thing. Had to be underage. Not much left of her now. More offal for the wildogs.
   After they left, Kuresh and I searched the southeast boundary, all the way to the Gash, looking for something—anything—that'd point to the way in. No joy. Nicht. That leaves maybe a third of the line now to scout. shit. I know it's there. I can feel it.
   We'll try again in a couple cycles. I got things I have to do first. Alone.

Can't get the doxy out of my mind. I hear her whimpering like the scratchy backtrack on a warped holovid. And the silence. That gorawful silence after. Playing over and over and over.
   Screw this.

~e.