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Snippet #2409253

located in America, a part of Touch, one of the many universes on RPG.

America

None

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Character Portrait: Rowan "Boston" Alder Character Portrait: Tech
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"So what in god's earth was a fuel generator doing in a museum?!" Boston demanded, leaning back against the wall furthest from door, which was now fused shut. "It seems all I ever do is escape from being roasted," Boston gasped away from Amelia.
"It wasn't any generator, Rowan," Amelia sat huddling her legs on the floor, "It was direct power to the dome."

"Direct..." Boston hung on the word, "The dome is miles away!" Boston resolved, now looking down at Amelia. Amelia lifted her head.
"The dome runs on multiple battery generators across the state grid. One goes out, the others pick up the slack." Amelia explained, glancing towards what was once a door, "I thought your friend was sabotaging the machine, but no, if too many generators blow the strain on the remaining would cause a chain explosion..."
"...And so Tech was trying to shut the system down," Boston finished with full realization. That means either the attack on the dome did more damage than was expected or someones been systematically taking out generators. The moments silence was broken by part of the vaults wall giving way, the explosion had not only melted the front but weaken the integrity of the sides. Boston moved towards the edge kicking at the wall half a dozen times. "I don't feel like slow roasting anymore, how about you?" Boston asked as the wall finally caved in enough to crawl through.

The cold air stuck to Bostons saturated skin, it felt Arctic to him now that Hawaii was left behind. Reaching out an arm he pull Amelia up, noticing the same feelings now swept over her; the air had never tasted so sweet. He sighed.
Tech.
Scaling mounds of warm rubble Boston staggered over the building remains roughly where Amelia's quarters once were. Scorched beams and plasterboard were easy enough to lift or drag, the marble wasn't. "He has to be here!" Boston shouted exasperatedly putting his weight into a slab and pushing.
"There's no guarantee he survived the blast, you saw what the explosion did to the vault," Amelia responded sullenly looking at the remains of her life's work. Fire still crept around the remains, but Boston didn't falter, until there it was: a charred black and white fridge, slightly crushed and turned over. "Help me, the doors on the other side." Boston requested urgently, "There won't be copious amounts of air left and we don't know what condition Tech's in."
Together Amelia and Boston lifted the fridge, a little at first, then with more grip underneath, " Wait..." Boston exclaimed and forced the fridge over, "This isn't right." There was a hole in the door and nothing inside. There wasn't time to escape... He wasn't in any condition... Boston dropped to his knees, opening the door fully; there was only black ash.

"Argh!" Boston yelled upward, then fell to all fours. Amelia knelt beside him and curved her arms around.
"I'm sorry," she comforted. A single drop fell from Boston. Soldiers expect the worst. He told himself. I'm just not a solider anymore.
"Blast..." he said dispirited, then stood with the help of Amelia. "We have to leave, there's a lot happening... and we haven't time," Boston resolved shaking his head. "Check the car, it may still be usable," Boston sighed again, "I'll see to Tech.." But Boston dropped off before the end. Amelia hesitated staring at him, then left.

"We weren't meant to be friends you know. It was always going to end this way or similar, still. It doesn't feel time... and you were my friend. The most annoying destructive one I've ever had, but I'll believe you saw me as more than just dinner in the end." Boston blew the ash and it sprayed out of the fridge in a scatter. "I don't think a burial would suit you Tech, you saw them as buried treasure, not final resting places. And you didn't rest, never rested." The particles dropped around as the breeze died and some floated to where the fridge had been, descending into a small hole that a beam was partially sticking out, and into what Boston could only assume was left of the basement.
"Farewell, Tech."