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Darkness. And pain.
He wanted to sleep, to escape the anguish, but a quiet whisper warned the outcome of such a decision. He was cold. Warm? It was difficult to decide. Struggling to open uncooperative eyes, he pondered if it was worth the bother. He was laying on his back, the surface beneath him hard. Merciless gusts of wind moaned as they buffeted him, whipping the edges of his clothes, nipping at any exposed skin like a hungry animal. It carried with it a low, steady hissing. And somewhere nearby, a tap, tap, tap.
He managed to wrench one eye open, blinking slowly as snow fell thick and fast onto his face.
Soft light illuminated a white world. He knew he was dying. Perhaps he was dead already. He listened to the wind, the hissing, the incessant tapping. So comforting. So...familiar?
Tap, tap.
Quiet, he thought. I’m trying to rest.
Tap. Tap, tap, tap.
Gathering his strength he rolled onto his stomach. Everything was blurry, the surface beneath him wavering like a heat mirage. Using his arms to push himself up proved unsuccessful; one wouldn’t work at all. He tried to kneel but his legs also refused to obey. Everything was numb. He couldn’t feel his limbs, couldn’t differentiate between them.
Tap, tap, tap.
Where was it coming from? The thought consumed him. He had to find it.
Slowly, so slowly, he inched forward. He could see it now. A gaping, jagged crevice. He channeled the desire to cry out, turned it into the strength to continue inching ever closer.
Collapsing beside the crevice, he peered down into the depths. There it was. So close, and yet it impossibly out of reach. A small wire, a dangling microphone just a few feet away, blowing in the wind. It rapped against the shattered edges, making the tiny tapping sound with each gust of wind.
He stretched his arm out over the precipice. He could almost grab it, if only he could feel his fingers. He scooted closer, closer, and reached out again.
He had it.
He held this tiniest ray of hope, the slimmest possibility of rescue, to his lips. His voice came out in a croak he did not recognize.
“My name is Ripley Prior. I’m on top of Dome Six. There’s a breach. I need help.” He paused. His muddled thoughts refused to tell him what else to say.
“My name...is Ripley Prior.”
He needed to keep talking. But he was so tired. “Dome Six.” He coughed weakly. “Breach. Help.”
His breathing grew shallower. “Help,” he repeated in the softest whisper. “Please help.”
And then at last, he surrendered to the darkness, letting it envelop him in its soft, warm embrace.