Henrik Refsnes

4 fucking hours. That’s what it’s come down to.

I salvaged the cable drum easily enough and inspected it at least ten times. There’s plenty. Everything is prepared.

Over-prepared.

The rig is reinforced. I repaired and charged up a second, well, third depending on how you count. I spread out tools and suits in strategic locations all over the ark. Explosives are set, with backup detonators. I got backup solutions for the bloody backup solutions at this point.

I even installed a winch in the airlock.

Al’s excited, he’s managed to increase the probability of success by a whole percent. I’m not sure if that’s encouraging, or terrifying.

The only thing that is not ready—is me.

I’m sitting here grasping a roll of duct-tape like I’m never letting go. Like one of those hypotheticals, you got 4 hours left to live, what are you going to do? Except here, now, the options are severely limited. So, I’m going to listen to my dad’s music and psych myself up enough to do this shit.

If you don’t hear from me again, well, then you fucking do it.