The Rain’s Truth, 2.1.1

Serialized into several shorter segments, we start in media res.

Roob poked his head up over the edge of the rubble carefully. The current pile of broken down cement, glass and steel had melded together in the last Rain; but Roob had no way of knowing if any of the pile had melted into critical material, and thus would make a suitable Barrow. Regardless, here he was, pressed flat against the slag, distributing his body weight as much as possible. He looked over the ridge and onto a green-tinted and ruinous world. As he did so the first plop-HSSSSSSS of the impending Rain fell against the thick and hardened leather of his helmet.

Roob knew better than to look up, but he had to fight his instinct not to look into that static, slate-colored void. His other instinct was to run, so he did. Springing up and launching himself down the other side of the pile. As he practically threw himself down the hill, tuck, roll, spring forward as soon as your feet connect and repeat if necessary, he felt the pile shiver under the onslaught of pinpoint-pressures. Some part of Roob’s mind made a note to tell the village that the pile wouldn’t last.

To the left of the base of the pile was the concrete canyon, to the right, shapes were moving in the wind’s crescendo. Trees? Roob guessed briefly before springing left into the canyon at full run. The canyon could be dangerous because the overhangs could suddenly collapse thanks to the rain, or worse: the canyon could be critical and then the rain would gather and flash-flood. Even still, they were better chances than in the trees. In there, the green lenses of Roob’s goggles would hurt more than help, blinding him to the leaves, the grass, the moss, anything green really; not to mention the slim chance for finding a shelter.

Even at full run Roob couldn’t escape the “plop-HSSSSSS” of the Rain etching into his armor. He knew from painful experience that the hardened leather was thick enough, layered enough, to stand against several more minutes of the Rain… but minutes wouldn’t matter if there wasn’t a shelter in this canyon. Roob ran harder, fighting to keep his breath even through the thick mask over his nose and mouth, weaving close to the walls of the canyon to catch as many overhangs as possible. If he heard a “schhhhhhh” sound, the overhang was coming down and he’d have to pray that he didn’t get caught and buried in it.


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