Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The general consensus in the world at large is that there's bugger all in Mor Dhona and if you’re stuck out in the apocalypse, you may as well go somewhere that won’t have you sprouting a second head.

These days it's nothing but bare stone and crystallised aether that smells like the split-second before sneezing. The landscape is grey when it’s not alarmingly phosphorescent and its seasons can be divided into: hot as balls, storms, storms but aetherolectric, and a winter so cold that piss freezes midair. You could argue for ‘rampant bloodshed’ as an intermittent fifth season but it’s less frequent and less predictable after the armies passed through last year.

Unfortunately it’s the best option they're ever going to get.

From the outside, you’d hardly guess this was where the dregs of the Garlond Ironworks congealed. The former town square is unrecognisable. There’s the jumble of misplaced walls and detritus, broken aetheryte bands, purple crystal that branches out into thick boughs that hum in the moonlight. If you look closely, you might spot the occasional soldier that ended as a seam of quartz in the cobbles. Hells, maybe you'd see a rat or two. But you'd never, unless you knew what you were looking for, find the entrance to the labyrinth below.

It's almost a shame that it's kept secret because the whole place is an engineering miracle and they really ought to get an award for it or something. 

Kitchen Roster, C block

The high pitched nausea of too much caffeine and not enough sleep. It turns the stomach, every thought crunches through ice into stinging black water. Nero is aware that this is exactly the kind of behaviour he keeps telling Cid off for. Oh well. He rolls his tongue around in his mouth and does his best to look like he is an actual, functional human being and not a collection of cogs in a trenchcoat.

Biggs is not convinced.

He scowls and crosses his arms, says nothing, but the judgement is a mouthful of lemon sorbet made too sour, an instant, debilitating headache. Nero sways. Grips the desk until his knuckles turn white.

He's surrounded by piles upon piles of things that were too important to put away. The floor is only barely visible in the form of slim stepping stones between the prototypes and the brainstorms and all the things he's been meaning to do. Last month he promised Karasu some new surveillance gear for the perimeter and he still hasn't started even though it ought to be child's play. The man keeps startling him at odd times and asking about it and he's running out of excuses.

“I'm well enough," he says and it sounds flimsy even to his own ears.

Report from Fufucha

Our quadrat samples of the former Revenant's Toll townsite and surrounds have revealed a significant increase in healthy vegetation. In particular, native duskblooms are approaching pre-calamity numbers. I am optimistic that given time, the area will recover enough for outdoor agriculture to be viable within the next ten years.

“I want you to run the numbers for this week's conductivity readings," Nero says.

Cid looks up like Nero just kicked his damnned cat out the window.

”Sure,” he replies after a moment, voice flat.

Nero tries to be sympathetic. He wants to be sympathetic, but there's nothing left for him to give.

Oh, he'd love to go hide under the covers day after day, but that's not going to do anything to fix the calamity. It's not going to do shit.

Cid's been trudging around to his own funeral march whilst Nero's been doing all of the actual work. He's sick of it. His own tank is running on empty and it's not fair.

“What?” he snaps.

“Sorry,” says Cid, and this makes Nero even angrier.

“Am I supposed to feel pity for you? Fuck off."

Cid shrugs and sinks down to the floor. Nero watches, arms folded, whilst Cid picks at the rust on the filing cabinet and builds a little hill out of the flecks.

"Why are you still here, Nero?" His voice is so quiet that Nero almost has to ask him to repeat himself.

Nero tugs a hand through his hair, frustrated. ”There's never been a choice when it comes to you.“ Several strands come loose onto his fingers. ”What was I supposed to do, just *give up*?“

”Maybe.“ Cid turns away.

Theres the clattering of crystal on tin as the wind picks up outside. The walls shudder. It's a good thing Biggs pushed to board up the North windows with steel plate. If they'd used wood, the whole wing would be in shreds by now.

“What’s the point? We're all going to die out here.”

Nero doesn't argue. Instead he scoffs and steps over the other man.

“Suit yourself. I’m going to raid the pudding supply.” 

He pauses at the door.

“Strawberry or chocolate?”

Cid looks up.

“Chocolate.”

 

At ninety fulms, the high concentration of water aether increases the risk of  Leviathan’s Syndrome. The most common symptoms are feelings of euphoria,  impaired judgement, and nausea. The likelihood and severity of Leviathan's Syndrome increases exponentially with every additional 5 fulms of descent.

At two hundred fulms, standard water-breathing spells risk lung damage, vision changes, and seizures. Whilst the underlying mechanism is not well understood, anecdotal evidence from air tank dives suggests that it is not due to the magical method as previously thought. Rather, this constellation of symptoms likely indicates a hazard presented by the environment itself.

Additionally, Silvertear lake presents its own challenges. Unlike most deep bodies of water, Silvertear does not have a uniform aether distribution. Years of exposure to corrupted aether have resulted in a high concentration of aspects not normally observed in aquatic ecosystems.

 

Figure 1. Bronze Lake aether stratification (based on records prior to 8th Umbral Calamity)

 

Figure 2. Silvertear Lake aether stratification

 

Note the irregular distribution. This instability makes it difficult to predict  hazards ahead of time.

Wedge sinks downwards, the combined wards and airtank strapped to him. All around is dark, the light struggling to get through and then the sense of weight and pressure all above him. Down here, the water is cold even through his thick suit and his depth gauge is alarmingly bright. He squints into it as it beeps and shows the chief's anxious face.

“How's descent?”

Wedge swings the thing that takes the readings around. It illuminates the inky blankness only partially. The diagram shows the bumps of the lake floor.

“Didn't expect it to get so dark so fast,“ he types.

Wedge doesn't mind doing it, he's been itching to explore, especially since it seems that the dark aether impact is less the more you go down. Of all the ironworks members who've been diving, he seems to be the one most resistant to I'll effects.

'Reckon it was a cave system once, flooded. I think I see the floor now.'

He touches down like he's landing on another planet, the silt rising up in plumes around his feet. He sticks a marker into the floor and checks his air levels. Within acceptable. The backup enchantment is still holding for now, but he double checks for the spare amulet just-in-case there's a malfunction with it. The mage had assured him it was top notch but he wasn't going to take any chances, not at this depth. He reads 205 fulms, and then switches his air to a mixture infused with earth and fire aether.

His objective is just to find the opening of the cave. He swims northward, dropping down his markers into the seafloor as he goes. They've got little crystals on the tops, tethers to both help find his way back but also primed with emergency spells should the need arise.

The opening grins like a great maw in front of him, glinting blue and red with the Allagan ruins they've smothered.

'Boss, I've found it. Right where we expected.'

'Excellent! Leave the tag and we'll find you on the surface.'

He slaps down the aetheric marker onto the metal. 'Rodger that'.

Cid waxes and wanes. Today he looks up to the tower, ale in hand, and thinks of G'raha Tia.

Wonders whether he's even conscious. It's been ten years now, he's probably dead.

He takes a swig and feels eyes at his back. G'raha Tia is probably dead, but then again, he might not be.

“Do you remember the night he left?” Cid asks.

“How could I forget?” says Nero, quiet.

Cid turns and sees his own tiredness reflected in the other man's face. Grey peppered through blonde stubble.

He takes Nero's hand and it is warm and solid and real.

"Thank you," he says, meaning everything and nothing in particular.

A squeeze. "Well someone's got to be the better engineer."