Chapter Text
Rennick knows it’s going to be a shite day before it’s even properly begun.
Truth is, he knows it the moment he opens his eyes.
Before the coffee does a damn thing.
Before the first voice crackles through the phone.
It’s in the air.
That dull pressure behind the brow.
That quiet certainty that nothing today is going to run smooth.
The numbers are off.
The schedule’s too tight.
The crew’s knackered — distracted, slow on the uptake.
And it’s Christmas.
Not the warm, bloody postcard kind.
Not lights in windows and mulled wine and smiles for the camera.
This kind of Christmas.
Grey sky.
Salt in the air.
Steel under your boots.
People who’d rather be anywhere else.
Home.
With families they’ll only hear this year through a crackling line and a dropped signal.
Cadal wants reports.
Preferably yesterday.
Preferably flawless.
And every decision feels like a wrong step on thin ice.
Rennick’s office smells of cold coffee and metal.
Of too many hours and not enough sleep.
In the corner stands a wee plastic tree. Someone’s put it there.
Blinking lights flickering out of rhythm, like they’re having a nervous breakdown of their own.
The windows look out over grey sea, grey sky, grey possibilities.
There’s no snow out here.
Just wind.
Just water.
Just that endless sameness that swallows everything whole.
Rennick leans over the desk, one hand flat against its surface.
His fingers are white with pressure, like he’s trying to hold the damn thing down — or himself.
The line crackles on the other end.
“No,” he growls into the phone.
“That’s not what I said. Read the bloody plan again.”
A pause.
Too long.
The reply comes hesitant.
Uncertain.
Someone explains. Justifies. Uses far too many words.
Rennick’s jaw tightens until it aches.
“No,” he cuts in. “Stop thinking. Start knowing.”
The line hisses. Another voice joins in.
Then a second.
Questions.
Clarifications.
Deviations.
All at once.
“If I hear one more person say they think or reckon,” Rennick snaps,
“someone’s flying out of here. This isn’t a fucking Joke. It’s a fucking procedure.”
He sets the phone down harder than necessary.
It cracks against the desk. The sound lingers far too long.
His pulse is hammering.
In his ears.
In his temples.
In his chest.
The clock ticks.
The tree blinks.
Everything ticks. Everything blinks. Everything wants something.
Cadal’s breathing down his neck.
The complaint letters are tucked away in a drawer.
He opens it, and the pages practically scrape at his eyes.
Rennick exhales sharply, drags a hand through his hair, yanks it back hard.
“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters.
Outside, someone laughs.
Just for a second.
Too bright.
Too wrong.
From the radio: a cheap, distorted Christmas tune.
Rennick’s hand curls into a fist.
Not today.
Not here.
Not now.
He reaches for his coffee mug. Empty. Of course it is.
He sets it down too fast, and a few drops of cold coffee slop across the desk.
His breathing turns shallow.
Pull yourself together, he tells himself.
You don’t get a choice.
The crew’s counting on you.
Cadal expects results.
Mistakes cost time.
Time costs money.
Money costs heads — and it’s never the ones at the top.
It’s Christmas.
And they’re all still here.
Rennick straightens up, forces his shoulders back, pulls his hard mask into place.
But it doesn’t sit right anymore.
It pinches.
It slips.
And somewhere deep down is that dangerous feeling —
that one more call, one more I thought, would be enough to tip it all over.
He stares at the blinking plastic tree.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” he mutters, flat as stone.