[ It's colder, out on the ice. On King William's Land, the cold was sharp and biting. Out here, it's a wetter thing, a chill that seeps in and soaks your bones. Back at Terror Camp, Hickey dug his scarf out of the wreckage of his old tent, and he's worn it ever since. It doesn't help.
They can't afford the energy to set up a full camp each night. Instead, it's bare essentials: three tents, and Diggle's makeshift kitchen. Tonight, it's two tents—this floe is too awkward to risk hauling more than that out of the boat.
These are the reasons Hickey will give should Angelo comment on the new arrangement in their tent. With Manson and now Hodgson packed in with them, there's little room for personal space. Hickey is doing a kindness, sparing Angelo having to deal with the other men by slotting himself in as a buffer. Angelo even gets to continue to hug his precious tent wall. A win all around.
But, really, it's all bullshit. Alone in the tent as he unfurls bedrolls, Hickey grins at that private joke. Angelo may even see through it, but Hickey doesn't care. He just wants to see how much he can get away with.
The moment is lost as he hears Angelo yelling outside. That's admittedly not an uncommon sound around camp, but the tone is off. Something is wrong.
Hickey's hand touches the knife in his pocket as he emerges from the tent—and instead darts up to pull his scarf over his face. Tozer and his marines are already dismantling the stove, working one-handed and covering their mouths with their sleeves. Diggle... may be a lost cause, but Hodgson and Hoar are dragging him away from the fumes anyway.
With all that sorted, Hickey finds Angelo. His hand hooks around Angelo's arm to pull him further upwind. ]
What happened—?
[ He's barely gotten the question out when the ice beneath them pitches violently. It's enough to knock anyone upright off their feet—and to topple the stove onto Daly. The marine screams, though whether he's crushed or burning or panicking, Hickey can't tell. He went down hard and only manages to scramble into a crouch to assess the damage. A tent is down. He can't see the boat from here, but he didn't hear any wood splintering. Whatever's going on with Daly, the smoke is abating. Their floe groans as it grinds against its neighbors, still rocking as it resettles, recovers—
—from an impact, Hickey realizes, just before a hideous roar erupts from over the ridge they've built their camp against.
He sucks in a measured breath.
Alright.
Fear is a choice.
He tucks his scarf back into his coat. ]
We need guns.
[ He looks to Angelo, his expression sharp with an intensity that he reserves for these confrontations with death. Guns. Where are they? ]
no subject
They can't afford the energy to set up a full camp each night. Instead, it's bare essentials: three tents, and Diggle's makeshift kitchen. Tonight, it's two tents—this floe is too awkward to risk hauling more than that out of the boat.
These are the reasons Hickey will give should Angelo comment on the new arrangement in their tent. With Manson and now Hodgson packed in with them, there's little room for personal space. Hickey is doing a kindness, sparing Angelo having to deal with the other men by slotting himself in as a buffer. Angelo even gets to continue to hug his precious tent wall. A win all around.
But, really, it's all bullshit. Alone in the tent as he unfurls bedrolls, Hickey grins at that private joke. Angelo may even see through it, but Hickey doesn't care. He just wants to see how much he can get away with.
The moment is lost as he hears Angelo yelling outside. That's admittedly not an uncommon sound around camp, but the tone is off. Something is wrong.
Hickey's hand touches the knife in his pocket as he emerges from the tent—and instead darts up to pull his scarf over his face. Tozer and his marines are already dismantling the stove, working one-handed and covering their mouths with their sleeves. Diggle... may be a lost cause, but Hodgson and Hoar are dragging him away from the fumes anyway.
With all that sorted, Hickey finds Angelo. His hand hooks around Angelo's arm to pull him further upwind. ]
What happened—?
[ He's barely gotten the question out when the ice beneath them pitches violently. It's enough to knock anyone upright off their feet—and to topple the stove onto Daly. The marine screams, though whether he's crushed or burning or panicking, Hickey can't tell. He went down hard and only manages to scramble into a crouch to assess the damage. A tent is down. He can't see the boat from here, but he didn't hear any wood splintering. Whatever's going on with Daly, the smoke is abating. Their floe groans as it grinds against its neighbors, still rocking as it resettles, recovers—
—from an impact, Hickey realizes, just before a hideous roar erupts from over the ridge they've built their camp against.
He sucks in a measured breath.
Alright.
Fear is a choice.
He tucks his scarf back into his coat. ]
We need guns.
[ He looks to Angelo, his expression sharp with an intensity that he reserves for these confrontations with death. Guns. Where are they? ]