Chapter Text
Graham sits at his kitchen counter, staring down at the cup of coffee between his hands. This is…impossible. At its place by the stove, the coffee maker lets out a final burble before falling silent. Graham does not notice it. Graham does not move. All of this, it is impossible.
The coffee mug he grips with white knuckles is warm. Hot. It is hot. He should not be gripping it as tightly as he is, but even so it does not burn like he remembers the explosives doing when they sparked to life in his hands. His feet are cold. He did not put on socks when he stumbled into the tight kitchenspace, hand grasping at his chest as though to stem bleeding. It is winter in Nova Scotia, and the heating hasn’t kicked in yet this morning, the sun has not risen. But he is not cold. He knows what being cold feels like, and it is not this.
He feels… He does not know what he feels.
He should not be alive.
The thought grabs at his heart again, sending it racing. It has not stopped racing since he woke. He should not have startled awake with a shout in his throat, hands reaching for a rifle he did not have to shoot at a monster that was not here. He should not be awake at all. He should not be here at all, because he should be dead, with his body cooling on the floor of a frozen vault beneath fucking Svalbard.
«К черту это.» (Fuck this.) He pushes away the mug, splattering drops of it over the counter and onto his hand. The stool he was sitting on gets kicked away, and the cabinet door opened roughly. A bottle finds its way into his hands and he doesn’t bother to look at it twice before he’s popping the top off and lifting it for a drink.
It’s not just that he remembers dying. It’s not just that he remembers Dragana shouting at him before he was torn away, not just the memories of Josefa, of Eva or Simon, of Jónas, and Heath, and Karina and fucking Rosa. What really gets him, what makes him feel angry and frustrated and scared more than anything, is how the date for today reads, rather than the expected number in early June, January 4th, 2010.
At least half a week before he leaves for Svalbard, Norway.
There is not enough alcohol to make him feel anything but a bit tipsy and flushed. With lack of anything else to do, he brings out his laptop and resettles at the kitchen counter. With the coffee pot burbling and sunlight trying to creep its way through his blinds, he checks his recent outgoing emails.
He’s already got the tickets, already been emailed by Sidja Group and has emailed back. Everything has been arranged. Hell, he’s even got the start of a bag packed in his room. There are 3 days before the flight from Halifax to Iceland takes off, and another 3 or so days before his anticipated arrival in Ny Ålesund. He’s trapped.
He could cancel, email back and say that something came up, that he won’t be able to accompany the team. Something stops him, though. It’s the same thing that made him go back down the tunnels after Karina, that made him agree to hike to Camp Piedra. Leaving this before it even begins, he would be gone, out from under those creature’s claws and free from the possibility of death. But the others… They have no idea of what lies beneath the ice. If there is even a chance of him being able to save Karina, save Rosa …then, well, he was going to take it.
The decision is probably a bit suicidal and stupid. Definitely stupid, questionable mental health aside. Graham’s always had a sharp self-preservation instinct, there’s no way to become a survival expert without it, but it seems that the burning lick of anxiety that tightens his chest can weather away even the strongest of preservation instincts into nothing but an afterthought.
He is already dead. He has died. He is a corpse five months into the future and kilometers below ice, but the other members of that ‘repair team’ were afforded a second chance here, and he has escaped death far too many times for him to even tease the idea of managing to do it again.
There’s no other choice. He’s going back to Svalbard.
Agnetta Åkersson does not consider herself an easily unsettled woman. These circumstances, however, ought to make anyone concerned.
A storm during these months is not uncommon. It’s winter in Sweden, after all, and storms resulting in low visibility, especially in the mountains, were not an unprecedented occurrence. But holding intimate knowledge of what exactly lies in those mountains led her to believe that this weather was not just a storm.
The Forrmynður have been disturbed. But in what way, that is the mystery.
Her phone rings. She indulges herself a sigh before picking up. ”Hulda. God eftermiddag.”
Hulda does not bother with niceties. ”Din plats har också störts, eller hur?” (Your location has been disturbed too, hasn’t it?)
”Ja. De är upprörda.” Agnetta leans back in her office chair, tapping a pen loosely against her desk. ”Jag vet dock inte varför.” (Yes. They are upset. I don’t know why, though.)
”Har du kontaktat de andra familjerna?” (Have you contacted the other families?)
”Ja, jag har pratat med dem hela dagen. Det har också förekommit störningar på deras platser. I Patagonia, särskilt.” (Yes. I have been speaking with them all day. They have also been experiencing upset at their locations. In Patagonia, especially.) She has fielded calls from Nepal to Zimbabwe today, and she has already asked Ebba for two glasses of wine.
”Svalbard har just rapporterat om början på en massiv storm,” (Svalbard has just reported the beginnings of a massive gale storm,) Hulda reported, tone clipped. ”Vindhastigheter på nästan 170 km/h, vågor som kommer in över land och når höjder på 9 meter. Agnetta, jag har inga uppgifter om att denna typ av fenomen har inträffat under senare tid.” (Wind speeds of almost 170 kmh, waves coming inland and reaching heights of 9 meters. Agnetta, I don’t have any record of this sort of phenomena occurring in recent history.)
”Och hos er börjar den förutspådda cykeln snart, eller hur?” (And your site has the predicted cycle beginning soon, does it not?) Agnetta asked, clicking her mouse to wake her monitor. She does not sigh when she sees she has at least ten more emails in her inbox.
”Ja, men lämpliga försiktighetsåtgärder har vidtagits och jag ska skicka ett team på fem personer till platsen om mindre än en vecka. Forrmyndur ska inte vara vaken så här tidigt, än mindre bete sig så här!” (Yes, but the appropriate precautions have been taken and I am meant to be sending a team of 5 to the location in less than a week. The Forrmyndur are not meant to be awake this early, let alone behaving like this!)
”Det... är oroväckande.” (That…is concerning.) Agnetta feels tired. She brings a hand up to her temple. ”Det var inte heller meningen att det skulle finnas en cykel så här tidigt i Patagonien. Har du kontaktat Rosado än?” (There wasn’t meant to be a cycle this early in Patagonia, either. Have you contacted Rosado yet?)
Hulda paused for a moment. When she spoke next, she also sounded rather exhausted. Although often disapproving of her methods, at that moment Agnetta found a kinship in her fellow matriarch. ”Jag antar att det är den jag kommer att kontakta härnäst. Jag hoppas att det inte är en alltför obekväm tid i Argentina för mig att ringa.” (I suppose that is who I will contact next. I hope it is not too inconvenient a time in Argentina yet for me to call.)
”Jag tror inte att någon av oss kommer att sova gott i natt, om det får dig att må bättre.” (I don’t think any of us will be sleeping soundly tonight, if it makes you feel better.)
Hulda lets loose a puff of air in wry amusement. ”Nej, det tror jag inte att vi kommer att göra. Jag kommer att kontakta dig igen, Agnetta.” (No, I do not think we will be. I will be contacting you again, Agnetta.)
”Och jag, du.” (And I, you.) ”Farväl, Hulda.”
”Farväl.”
The line clicks dead. Agnetta exhales sharply, pinches the bridge of her nose. None of the other families have any idea as to what may have happened to garner this sort of reaction from the Guardians, and Agnetta was not any more knowledgeable than the rest of them. What she did know, though, was that it needed to be taken care of swiftly, or else there may be consequences too devastating to name.
She taps her nail against the polished wood of the desk, thinking. She hadn’t wanted to make any sort of contact yet, but under these circumstances…well. It couldn’t hurt.
Decisively, she opens the intercom with her secretary. ”Ebba, I’m going to need to send out that package earlier than anticipated. I would appreciate it if you could acquire the appropriate materials for me. Takke.”
It is time.