#i use a lot of mythological and beastly references i've realised when i write this particular time period

[doctorbrown]

DOCTOBER '24 ⸺ 「 3 / 31 * STORM 」

July 16, 1945

Were he a religious man, one who caved to unforeseen hands meddling about in human affairs or one who believed in the existence of a higher power, he might have taken this storm as a warning. A final message from on high as the heavens tear themselves asunder, lashing out in a show of–until now–immeasurable power meant to keep humanity from grasping at things their fingers could never truly hold on to.

You are meddling in affairs you cannot hope to contend with. You seek to open Pandora’s Box, and once you do, you will flounder under the weight of the horrors you have unleashed upon the world. 

And We will not be there to round them up for you.

Perhaps even Nature fears the world that will be forged from ash and flame should the test be successful.

A great dragon of pure energy snakes across the sky, leaping from cloud to cloud in the span of a blink, leaving only a blinding purple trail as evidence of its presence. Then, it roars, rattling the earth and the sky and Emmett can feel it rattling every single last one of his jumpy nerves. 

Conversation flits about the room around him, a half-hushed symphony of overlapping thoughts, fears, and hopes, and Emmett misses most of it until somebody else brings up the storm, immediately catching his attention. He whirls around, turning his back as another flash of lightning splits the clouds.

“It’ll start raining within the hour,” a voice behind him says. “It’s practically upon us. Of all the days—”

“You heard what Hubbard said. By morning—”

“And if he’s wrong and the blast goes off? There’s a chance we get caught up in a radioactive downpour carried here by the wind.”

Despite their put-together appearances and their attempts at light humour, a collective cloud of restlessness and unease hangs in the air, thick enough to take a knife to. It strangles the team, coats their every word in a layer of doubt that would be tantamount to treason should they admit what’s really on their mind and drums up the undercurrent of fear that Emmett has been unable to shake for the past two days. 

He was so certain of himself only a few days ago. The picture of confidence.

Now, he feels like a stranger in his own skin, being forced on the slow death march to the tower where he will await sentencing. His executioner looms overhead, dangling, indifferent to 

If this fails… Then what was this all for? We are doing the right thing, aren’t we?

If this succeeds—

“The question we should be asking ourselves right now isn’t will the test happen? It will. I have faith in this.” Oppenheimer quirks a brow, pausing halfway through rolling up another cigarette as Teller continues, “The question we should be asking is how big will the blast be?”

With a smile, Teller makes a show of digging through his pocket and slaps a slightly wrinkled dollar bill down on the table. “I, for one, predict a hell of an explosion. Forty-five thousand tons’ worth of TNT.”

He looks around, meeting the eyes of his fellow scientists as if to say, place your bets, gentlemen, and Emmett is stunned by the almost physical change this one simple action appears to have on the room. He may not be able to quiet the incessant stream of what-ifs and possibilities racing through his mind until he sees the results of the last few years of their hard work for himself, but he finds himself easing the tension in his shoulders. 

It only takes a moment for Oppenheimer to latch on to this lifeline being thrown out and though he attempts to make no real show of fishing out a dollar from his pocket, all eyes are glued to the man in anticipation.

“Three thousand tons.” He states his wager with all the calculated thoughtfulness he’s known for and places his dollar atop Teller’s, forming a cross with the two bills.

“Three thousand! Do you have so little faith?”

Oppenheimer half-shrugs, looking at the two dollars on the table. “I’d rather not jinx it.”

Somebody snorts and Emmett finds himself the centre of attention as his name is offered up next. 

“What about you, Emmett? You’ve been up close and personal with the stuff. What’s your prediction?” Emmett pauses, giving the wager the consideration it was due. To aim too low would be to admit his reservations, his fears that deep in the back of his mind, this test would prove that even they could not achieve the impossible. The war would rage on, the gadget would not detonate, and all of the long days and longer nights that pushed him and the others to their limits would have been for nothing. 

They could not be wrong, not now. No matter what it meant.

And if that means…

“Thirty thousand,” Emmett declares far more confidently than he feels, angling his dollar ever-so-slightly as he covers Oppenheimer’s. 

Someone claps him on the shoulder and Emmett barely has the chance to step back before the next bet of “Twenty thousand!” rings out, eliciting another round of smiles from the previously tense scientists. 

The conversation kicks up as several more bets are added to the pool, thinning the cloud hanging in the room a little more, and Emmett finds himself swept into heated debates, the horizon momentarily forgotten.