The Fox and The Forest (EDITING)

Bud stage (2.2)

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Squinting against the glare of the sun they struggled to distinguish the Purifier Rig amongst the obscure green water mass. 

The shadow of the Rig was imposing in the least but it wasn't until the rower had steered the trainees an uncomfortable distance closer towards the structure, that they could truely make out it's complexity. 

Four poles. Large. Circular. Covered in moldy lake slime. Such were the supporting columns of the 3rd ranking Purifier platform.

There were many words to describe the Purifier Rig itself. Though few of them were truly accurate.

A more precise attempt might use the word "mistake," among other less utterable phrases.

If Van Gogh had tried to paint the structure, even he would have been unable to make it into a masterpiece.
The Purifier Rig was a failed piece of architecture before it's creation had even begun.

Tom fought the reflexive urge to cough as his body brushed against one of the cylindrical supports. He felt the mold and bacteria enter his mouth and seize onto his cells.

Whilst his lungs no longer worked, he still wanted to keep them in a decent condition. As a sort of consolation.

The trainees were almost under the station now and the rower had ceased his zombie like control of the oars. Which in turn meant that the small glass bottomed boat slowed to rest beneath the raised station platform.

A few of the trainees who still possessed contracting lungs released shaky breaths of air from their tensed bodies.

They had finally arrived after years of darkness. Not knowing. Not understanding why their doors had clicked open in the barely lit morning as figures left home. Not knowing why they were not permitted to leave the Lake District. Not knowing why they were taught about the wrath of mother nature and their requirement to appease her- a Goddess whose dynasty had supposedly become extinct.

*

Just as the Purifier trainees took in the monstrosity, a mechanical lift descended from above. One that bore resemblance to a window washer's platform.

It creaked and hung like an afterthought just a few centimeters above water level.

Not one of the Purifier trainees attempted to move at first. They were struck with fear. The fear of what unknown prospects lurked waiting in the late afternoon shadows of the Purifier Rig.

"Well get out then," ordered the rower sharply.

No movement.

One ballsy young woman tried to stand but the boat teetered from the uneven weight.

She went to sit back down again and was stopped by the rower.

He lifted up his head, his scars shifting as though threatening to open again, and knocked his oar against the lift. It was done in a way that readers from the past might imagine a rider whips his horse.

"I said get out," he spat impatiently. "The 'ole lot of ya."

This stirred them into movement and one by one they solemnly climbed into the scaffold like lift.

*

The contraption carried them upwards. As if possessed by a spirit the lift jolted and swayed.

Tom noticed a person beside him with their hands covering their eyes. It seemed that they too must have noticed that the gates of the lift were neither locked nor present.

All that was left to hint at a once gridded gate was a few protruding poles, which jutted out at a horizontal angle and could pierce your skin if you were unlucky enough.