Fallout
Fallout
Pairing: Yesung/Kyuhyun (slight)
Rating: G
Genre: Post Apocalypse
Disclaimer: Don't own...
Summary: Of the end of the world and what comes after...
Written for the the_voicebox weekly challenge
Jongwoon sits, enjoying the view of the monotone landscape, blanket of snow interrupted only by the occasional gust of wind. And watching the rolling clouds of debris, he wonders out loud of its contents.
‘Ashes of the concrete carcases once called skyscrapers,’ answers his head-set, quality distorted by the small breaks in the transmission.
How poetic, he thinks and stubs out his cigarette before rising to his feet. He wipes his eyes to clear the rime from his lashes and taking a deep breath, lifts the large carrier bag, shoulder straining under the weight.
‘Feeling nostalgic, Navigator?’ he asks before pulling on his gas-mask, smell of cheap rubber filling his nose.
‘Answering your stupid question.’ snaps back the man and Jongwoon laughs, sound stale and hollow in the confinement of the mask. Each step comes harder, boots sinking in the snow and he flexes his toes experimentally, revelling in the frosty ache that laces his joints. All toes present and accounted for.
‘Ironic, I guess...’ says Jongwoon, careful to move around a mound on his path and careful not to think about the wooden crest erected by its side. He can see the distant silhouette of buildings, hazy in the strange atmosphere of the surface and laughing, adds to his remark, ‘Spending years reaching up only to have it all turn into dirt.’
‘I fail to see the humour...’ replies the man; static crackling over what is a very pleasant voice.
‘You would,’ he notes and thinks that a lighter tone would have been better suited to his statement as his Navigator follows up with silence. It surrounds him, wraps around his shoulders as a burden and he shifts his cargo, the strap of the bag having slipped into an awkward position along the smooth texture of the coat.
‘What makes you get up and do your job every day?’ asks the man, enquiry genuine in its curiosity. And it’s Jongwoon’s turn to pause. His cheek itches, an unwelcome irritant as his mask blocks any attempt to scratch the area of offence.
‘My brother has ARS,’ he finally says, ‘I need the money for his treatment.’
‘So every day you go up to the irradiated surface to deliver mail between the pathetic remnants that live as rats below the ground. It’s a suicide mission!’ exclaims the man, anger resonating through the white noise provided by the radio frequency.
‘That’s what they tell me at the Doors. But every Vault needs to be supplied. I’m not just a mailman; there is medication in this bag, maps, packages for and from those separated.’ Reasons Jongwoon and wonders, just how long had the Navigator been mulling over this question, hindered by the awkwardness between them, infuriated by the idea of a man wondering the wastes of a post nuclear world. ‘Why do you do it, work as a Navigator?’
The man breaks mid sentence, having started to curse.
‘Nothing as noble as you.’
The shapes of the small village are clear now as the houses rise from the strange fog, dark windows etched on all the floors, glass panes long gone. And in the midst of the apartment blocks, he sees the tower, leaning slightly at an angle to the rest of the concrete giants.
‘Money.’ Guesses Jongwoon.
‘Money.’ Confirms the man.
‘Every day,’ Jongwoon tells him, ‘you get up and walk up crumbling steps, taking a seat behind a rusted console and broadcast your voice to those lost. Does it really matter how noble your intentions are?’
The large billboard by the broken road comes into view, something worn and old peeling from the frame, something that reminds Jongwoon of the days long gone. Red paint splashed across the large surface paints an arrow and he knows it points to the entrance to the Vault.
‘You know what the kids call me?’ he asks conversationally, ‘the heavenly postman.’
The man snorts, or so Jongwoon would like to think, the transmission now flows full of interruptions and foreign sounds. I can hear the city, he thinks, eyes closing as he imagines the buzz of cars passing him at the intersection.
‘I bet you like that.’
‘Hey Navigator?’ he says looking up, dark clouds, endless and empty as they spread across the sky. ‘I never asked; what’s your name?’
The man is silent and Jongwoon thinks he has asked for too much as he stands at the edge of the world and enjoys the sight of the murky ceiling that had long ago replaced the azure blue. But then the Navigator speaks.
‘Kyuhyun.’
END
~Will make corrections tomorrow~
Notes.
Written with Super Junior's 'Don't Don' in mind as the general motif...
VERY loosely based on the game Fallout. Based in a world after an all out Nuclear War.
'Vaults' are safe heavens built below ground, specifically to serve as shelters in case of Nuclear warfare. In this story there are several of the Vaults scattered around Korea (the city mentioned is most likely Seoul or a part of Seoul that wasn't wasted to the ground) and Jongwoon works as a postman between these Vaults. While communication via radio would continue to work, supplies and essentials would be hard to transport.
The reason for the weather and the grey grey skies is a widely popular theory of a Nuclear Winter that would result of the detonation of large numbers of nuclear weapons (similar to the effect of a comet hitting earth).
'Fallout' as the title is a reference to residual radiation hazard present in the atmosphere (hence Jongwoon need for the air filtering mask which he clearly does not wear at all times xD).
ARS stands for acute radiation syndrome, the clinical name for radiation sickness.
Kyuhyun works as a Navigator, someone who is well versed in the operation of broadcasting equipment and much like the postmen, rise to the surface. It is hinted in Jongwoon's words that Kyuhyun is in a tower, very likely a broadcasting tower such as the tower in Seoul.
Pairing: Yesung/Kyuhyun (slight)
Rating: G
Genre: Post Apocalypse
Disclaimer: Don't own...
Summary: Of the end of the world and what comes after...
Written for the the_voicebox weekly challenge
Jongwoon sits, enjoying the view of the monotone landscape, blanket of snow interrupted only by the occasional gust of wind. And watching the rolling clouds of debris, he wonders out loud of its contents.
‘Ashes of the concrete carcases once called skyscrapers,’ answers his head-set, quality distorted by the small breaks in the transmission.
How poetic, he thinks and stubs out his cigarette before rising to his feet. He wipes his eyes to clear the rime from his lashes and taking a deep breath, lifts the large carrier bag, shoulder straining under the weight.
‘Feeling nostalgic, Navigator?’ he asks before pulling on his gas-mask, smell of cheap rubber filling his nose.
‘Answering your stupid question.’ snaps back the man and Jongwoon laughs, sound stale and hollow in the confinement of the mask. Each step comes harder, boots sinking in the snow and he flexes his toes experimentally, revelling in the frosty ache that laces his joints. All toes present and accounted for.
‘Ironic, I guess...’ says Jongwoon, careful to move around a mound on his path and careful not to think about the wooden crest erected by its side. He can see the distant silhouette of buildings, hazy in the strange atmosphere of the surface and laughing, adds to his remark, ‘Spending years reaching up only to have it all turn into dirt.’
‘I fail to see the humour...’ replies the man; static crackling over what is a very pleasant voice.
‘You would,’ he notes and thinks that a lighter tone would have been better suited to his statement as his Navigator follows up with silence. It surrounds him, wraps around his shoulders as a burden and he shifts his cargo, the strap of the bag having slipped into an awkward position along the smooth texture of the coat.
‘What makes you get up and do your job every day?’ asks the man, enquiry genuine in its curiosity. And it’s Jongwoon’s turn to pause. His cheek itches, an unwelcome irritant as his mask blocks any attempt to scratch the area of offence.
‘My brother has ARS,’ he finally says, ‘I need the money for his treatment.’
‘So every day you go up to the irradiated surface to deliver mail between the pathetic remnants that live as rats below the ground. It’s a suicide mission!’ exclaims the man, anger resonating through the white noise provided by the radio frequency.
‘That’s what they tell me at the Doors. But every Vault needs to be supplied. I’m not just a mailman; there is medication in this bag, maps, packages for and from those separated.’ Reasons Jongwoon and wonders, just how long had the Navigator been mulling over this question, hindered by the awkwardness between them, infuriated by the idea of a man wondering the wastes of a post nuclear world. ‘Why do you do it, work as a Navigator?’
The man breaks mid sentence, having started to curse.
‘Nothing as noble as you.’
The shapes of the small village are clear now as the houses rise from the strange fog, dark windows etched on all the floors, glass panes long gone. And in the midst of the apartment blocks, he sees the tower, leaning slightly at an angle to the rest of the concrete giants.
‘Money.’ Guesses Jongwoon.
‘Money.’ Confirms the man.
‘Every day,’ Jongwoon tells him, ‘you get up and walk up crumbling steps, taking a seat behind a rusted console and broadcast your voice to those lost. Does it really matter how noble your intentions are?’
The large billboard by the broken road comes into view, something worn and old peeling from the frame, something that reminds Jongwoon of the days long gone. Red paint splashed across the large surface paints an arrow and he knows it points to the entrance to the Vault.
‘You know what the kids call me?’ he asks conversationally, ‘the heavenly postman.’
The man snorts, or so Jongwoon would like to think, the transmission now flows full of interruptions and foreign sounds. I can hear the city, he thinks, eyes closing as he imagines the buzz of cars passing him at the intersection.
‘I bet you like that.’
‘Hey Navigator?’ he says looking up, dark clouds, endless and empty as they spread across the sky. ‘I never asked; what’s your name?’
The man is silent and Jongwoon thinks he has asked for too much as he stands at the edge of the world and enjoys the sight of the murky ceiling that had long ago replaced the azure blue. But then the Navigator speaks.
‘Kyuhyun.’
END
~Will make corrections tomorrow~
Notes.
Written with Super Junior's 'Don't Don' in mind as the general motif...
VERY loosely based on the game Fallout. Based in a world after an all out Nuclear War.
'Vaults' are safe heavens built below ground, specifically to serve as shelters in case of Nuclear warfare. In this story there are several of the Vaults scattered around Korea (the city mentioned is most likely Seoul or a part of Seoul that wasn't wasted to the ground) and Jongwoon works as a postman between these Vaults. While communication via radio would continue to work, supplies and essentials would be hard to transport.
The reason for the weather and the grey grey skies is a widely popular theory of a Nuclear Winter that would result of the detonation of large numbers of nuclear weapons (similar to the effect of a comet hitting earth).
'Fallout' as the title is a reference to residual radiation hazard present in the atmosphere (hence Jongwoon need for the air filtering mask which he clearly does not wear at all times xD).
ARS stands for acute radiation syndrome, the clinical name for radiation sickness.
Kyuhyun works as a Navigator, someone who is well versed in the operation of broadcasting equipment and much like the postmen, rise to the surface. It is hinted in Jongwoon's words that Kyuhyun is in a tower, very likely a broadcasting tower such as the tower in Seoul.