Brexus is one of the largest exporters of petroleum in the galaxy. It is a water world located in a demilitarized zone between The BlackSmiths and GASI. It essentially funds all the BlackSmith government projects. Today, it was attacked, 134 oil rigs were destroyed and sank into the ocean, spewing billions of tons of oil into the waters of Brexus. Different areas have declared independence, Anarchists, Republicans, and Socialists. The Anarchists blame the Socialists, and vice versa. Either way, war has started. The fight for leadership has begun. Ships speed by overhead, the sounds of their engines drowning out the crash of waves below. I inhale, the scent of petrol and saltwater, never ceasing to please me. I stare out over the shallow blue ocean, the blinding yellow sun reflecting off the surface and making the waves glitter. The far-off whir of helicopter blades signals that an inspection is today. Dang Osha, making everything difficult. I hear the bellow of the tanker blowing its horn as it begins rapidly speeding away towards the transfer station. My ears pop. Seconds later, the earsplitting crack of a ship exiting warp in the upper atmosphere startles me. I trip and am thrown off balance. I steady myself and look up. The dark blue of a dreadnaught pierces through the clouds. Don't usually see those around here, no, you don't see those around here, period. I shrug it off and move towards the doorway, a streak of red slices through the derick. The derrick groans, metal folding in slow motion before it breaks, collapsing toward the sea. The Transocean logo flashes past me, twisting, before vanishing into the waves. A shout erupts from the far side of the deck, cut short by a blast. The flare stack bends, shrieking, the scream of metal on metal rising to a howl. Another explosion. The deck lurches. The entire rig trembles like some sleeping steel giant is waking below. The flare tower gives one last cry before toppling into the ocean with a hiss of steam and fire. People scream and shout. I run inside and towards the helicopter pad. I fumble with the door and move inside to the closest janitorial room. I reach for the door, and another muffled explosion shakes the rig on the other side of the hallway, tearing a gash in the outside. I slam open the door and reach for the communications switch. The lights flicker, and the power shuts off. The darkness eats at me greedily. A final explosion hammers through the hull. For a moment, everything falls silent. No screaming. No creaking. Just the hollow moan of bending steel. Then a shudder. The rig begins to tilt. Slowly at first, then faster. I jump and grab the door handle as the incline becomes too much, and I hang from the door. The splash of the rig hitting the water. I hear the rush of water flowing in, the handle strains and snaps, and I fall into the water below. Casualties: 19,803 Lost income: $2,305,068,000 The Factions have been split into thirds; some support one, others support another, and more support a different one. (TRANSOCEAN IS AN ACTUAL OIL COMPANY)
