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Cycles

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Res woke up to the motion the waves brought from invisible realms and ever-passed moments. She heard the creaking of the oil rig, the machinery that still managed to function throughout those moments, but listened only to the motion.

She stretched out her hand, waiting for it to do something, to touch the thumb with the first, second, third, fourth. Four, three, two, one, the fingers motioned, rhythmically as the waves. The hand sank down lower, to feel her breath coming in and going out.

Under an overcast sky, she navigated, over catwalks, beside ten-story drops to the waves, down to one of the lowest points of the rig, where vegetation grew through and from the metal. Much of it was toxic, or unchewable, due to the plants' diet, but a kind robot, who had been built to operate on the rig, showed her - making use of charades and the like - what was not safe to eat.

Scraper and Res eventually found a verbal system of communication, limited both by Res' human mouth and Scraper's speaker that has sounded half-dead for as long as Res could remember. Pops and static from that speaker were how Res found Scraper hanging on to the columns below, removing algae and applying coats of some substance in the algae's former home. She grabbed some rope and some other supplies from inside and followed suit on a column adjacent to that of Scraper.