Snippet #2290455

located in Moscow, Russia, 2021, a part of Haze: The Administrator, one of the many universes on RPG.

Moscow, Russia, 2021

None

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Stefan Aleksandrov Character Portrait: Basil Orlov
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

Footnotes

Add Footnote »

0.00 INK

The Haze lay more like a liquid than a gas, or like the foul Black Smoke used by the Martians in War of the Worlds. It seemed to roll and fall over uneven surfaces, as it now fell in little swirls off the roof of a small apartment building. Inside, a man on the younger side of middle age peered out through a window. Unlike others, these windows were unboarded. The lone inhabitant had not had the time to buy any, and had honestly expected to be out a long time ago. However, one thing or another had kept him at home. Primarily, he wanted to maximise the power left in his electronic items, though all he really cared about was the cell phone. If he had that, he could communicate. Which, he decided, was what he would do now. He checked the charge (40%, he noted) as he started dialing the first name that popped up. Aleksandrov, Stefan. Hopefully he was still alive.

The man put the phone to his ear and waited. A steady repeating tone was all he heard. Busy. He hung up and began to think. At the least, this meant Aleksandrov was still alive, if his phone was in use. Who was he calling? That was something to find out. He couldn't leave a message, but he could make his way over there. He doubted anyone would be on the roads now, what with the world being "completely fucked." That certainly was a cheery way to put things. Christ Almighty.

For that matter, how was he supposed to get out? The Haze may not have been the mysterious instant killer the Black Smoke was, but it was certainly lethal, and quick. He would need something to protect his airway, some kind of filter. He looked around, and his eyes alighted on bedsheets. He shrugged, then began tearing one. He layered two strips and tied them to fit over his mouth, then put on his favoured black jacket over the turtleneck shirt he was already wearing. Lastly, he took the one item he knew he would need in an anarchic world: his prized De Lisle Carbine, a rare and wonderful, though not especially powerful, weapon. Slowly, almost solemnly, he loaded a magazine into it and closed the bolt, then clicked the safety on. He took the two other magazines and as many bullets as could fit into his jacket pockets, and thus outfitted, took his car keys and a deep breath before dashing out to where his car waited. He all but forced his way in, only daring to take a breath when he was quite sure he was inside. He turned the vents off, not daring to let any more foul air in, and started the car.

The drive was hellish and nerve-wracking, to say the least. Several times Basil wondered if the Haze was slipping through his improvised mask. No way to tell until he lost consciousness, and then it would be too late. No time to worry about that now. Aleksandrov's house was on the right. He pulled to the side, parked haphazardly (not like the police were around to give a shit), and took another deep breath before exiting the car, rifle in hand. He ran to the front door, and as he reached it started banging insistently. He called through the door, "Aleksandrov? It's me, Orlov! Are you alive? Can you let me inside?"