This morning half a dozen men dragged me out of the old Norwegian hut, shoved me to the ground, cuffed me, and strapped me face up on a snow machine. Buzz protested, bit a man, and got shot. And then the machines grumbled away, the cold 24-hour sun whirling overhead.
As we slid over the barren Antarctic landscape, back to Station151, I assume, for processing and to arrange travel back to the States for prosecution, my mind finally broke. It simply threw in the towel. For, in one moment I was a prisoner, and then there was a sudden flash of amber light, and in the next I found myself tumbling, violently, on the ice, as if I had been thrown from the machine, head over heels, the hard Antarctic desert punching me in the face with each rotation, until, finally, I slid to a halt on my back, staring upward through a mixture of snow and blood.
I picked myself up, slowly. The men and their guns, and their snow machines, and my handcuffs, and the helicopters tracking us from above, and all the noise and confusion was utterly, impossibly… gone. Not even the tracks in the snow remained.
My broken mind and I shambled back to Station151 to find the ARC node fully intact, Buzz patiently awaiting me on his mount, and no sign of any team of researchers from McMurdo ever having been there.
Is there a therapist in Antarctica?