Northern Outskirts of Hawkelin City.
07:12 AM - January 14, 2534
—
The wind is a razor across the exposed ridge. Solan Reyes stands alone at the precipice, overlooking the glacial corpse of Hawkelin. The world is a vast, shattered tomb of ice and derelict towers.
Solan is imposing in stature, but his current posture is hunched, less about protection from the wind and more about focusing on the small, hard-light slate shimmering above his gloved hand. The slate, expelled from a device on his wrist, projects a dynamic thermal map of the frozen valley. Solan's light brown skin is pallid with cold, and his thick glasses are constantly misting. His gaze is intense, cycling through the data, his melodic voice a low murmur to himself.
He is searching for the promise of survival. He sees the shifting, faint red shapes of fauna: ice-foxes, perhaps, or snow-cougars, skittering through the ruins, desperate for sustenance. Normal movement. Expected movement. His focus, though, is on the single, stable orange signature at the base of the nearest mountain, Harbor Central Station.
A sudden, sharp burst of wind nearly rips the slate from his field of view. Solan quickly retracts the projection, stowing the device. His brilliant, nerdy mind calculates the immediate environmental shift: temperature dropping three degrees in eighty seconds. Time to descend.
He turns toward the makeshift camp.
The place is a salvaged container, once attached to some colossal driving apparatus, now settled precariously on a large, iced-over roof slab that serves as a temporary shelter.
Mariel Korra stands just outside the container's hatch, overseeing the preparation of their meager noon meal. Her figure is slender, clothed in utilitarian, dark survival wear, giving her an air of quiet authority. She stirs a heavy, nutrient-dense paste in a metal pot set over a low, controlled flame. It is not a smoky wood fire but a system of coal stones, repurposed tech that glows a soft, steady orange, maximizing heat output and minimizing waste. Mariel is the emotional center of the group; her presence alone brings a fragile sense of hope. Her melodic voice rises in a humming prayer that is instantly lost to the wind.
Beside Mariel, fiddling with a tangle of glowing readouts and half-exposed circuitry, is Rhea Calder. Rhea moves with the kind of quiet that makes chaos look lazy. Her suit spotless, every gesture intended. She's threading clean water vapor through the distiller, a maze of coiled tubes and hissing valves, drawing life from melted ice like it's the simplest thing in the world. Emotion doesn't factor here; only results.
"Distiller's cycling at ninety-four percent purity," Rhea calls over her shoulder, voice clipped and sharp, precise as the gauges she monitors. "Paste rations hold for three more cycles. If we don't reach the station before night, we'll have to ration further."
Solan leans in, notebook tucked under his arm, eyes scanning the charts he's been updating. "Correction," he says, voice low but carrying that unmistakable weight of authority, "the cycles are trending slightly faster than we estimated. If t-the storm holds, w-we'll hit the station with maybe two and a half cycles left. Not critical y-yet, but c-close enough to t-tighten the margin."
Mariel glances between them, brow furrowed. "So... what, we need to move faster?"
"Exactly," Rhea snaps, already adjusting a valve with precise fingers. "Every minute counts."
Solan adds softly, almost to himself, "And t-the humidity readings s-suggest we might see frost creep into the upper c-conduits s-sooner than expected. S-Stay sharp."
The three of them move like a well-oiled machine, tension coiling in the space between their calm efficiency and the ticking storm outside.
Mariel replies, her voice soft but steady. "We follow Solan's path."
Mariel's daughter, Calyx Cal Korra, helps with the paste, but her focus is fragmented. Cal is seventeen, wrapped in layered gear with a worn knife visible on her hip. She possesses sharp features and angry, expressive dark eyes. She is restless, perpetually annoyed by their slow progress. Her rebellious, volatile nature makes her a poor fit for kitchen duty.
"If we had just taken the low-route instead of climbing this dead building, we'd be there by now," Calyx mutters, her voice sharp and fast. She is constantly pissed off, believing she knows the path better than anyone.
Mariel shakes her head, her calming warmth unfazed. "We took the high route for safety, child. The low route means the beast migration."
Evin Korra, Calyx's father, sits just inside the container's hatch with Tovin nestled between his insulated knees. Evin is sturdy, his dark hair and strong features speaking to his resilient nature. He wears heavy, utilitarian grey gear, and his tired baritone often carries a dry sarcasm. He hands Tovin a clean, soft cloth.
Tovin Korra, the two-year-old Pumpkin, is a tiny bundle of bright orange and blue survival gear. He is chubby, cute, and utterly fearless. He examines the cloth with the solemn intensity of a scientist discovering a new element, his messy dark curls bouncing.
"Baba-za! Za-ta," he announces, his vowels echoing inside the small space.
"Yes, Tovin," Evin responds, his baritone soft. "It is a cloth. A luxury item in the Whiteharrow." He looks at Mariel. "Solan better be right about this station. I still don't like leaving the maintenance depot. It had walls. This feels like a giant, frozen trampoline."
Up on the container's roof, the Venn twins are on watch. They treat the deadly serious task like a game. Jessa, the chaos twin, her neon pink hair streaked with frost, laughs mid-sentence.
"C'mon, Kade, give this ridge a little sunshine," Jessa yells down, voice fast, messy, and full of that reckless thrill she always has. "Bet it turns to diamond dust before it even hits. A real crime, wasting all that potential!"
Kade slouches against the antenna mount, dark braids spilling over his shoulder armor. He smirks, voice smooth and lazy, all sarcasm. "Ugh, tacky. So, so tacky. I'm saving that stunt for when it really counts. And what if there's a frozen tiger staring up? Nope. Not going to be remembered as a human popsicle. Just... not my color scheme."
Thora Nyx, the silent powerhouse, moves back and forth along the perimeter of the roof slab. Her immense muscular frame and heavy, metallic armor make her look like a walking tank. She searches for any loose debris or broken wood, but the remnants are frozen solid. She is forced to rely on heavy, ice-choked chunks, making her movements slow. She stops, spotting Kade's recklessness, and sends him a sharp, voiceless look, a clear, effective reprimand.
Kade straightens instantly, wiping the sarcastic smirk from his face. "Point taken, Thora. No accidental urination on the watch. Only intentional urination."
Solan returns to the container, ducking his large frame through the small hatch. He sheds a layer of frost.
"The th-thermal readings are holding," Solan announces, his tone bright, even with his glasses fogged. "Harbor Central Station is the strongest heat trail we have found in w-weeks. It has to be residual geo-thermal activity. We reach the station by n-nightfall, and then we see if the surrounding plaza offers us anything beyond just shelter."
Evin stands, shielding Tovin from the rising warmth of the coal stones. "And if it's a trap, Solan? If it's just a high-density waste fire?"
"It i-isn't," Solan insists, pulling a portable scanner from his pack. "We c-can't stay in this territory, Evin. You know the structural integrity of the last depot was compromised. The deep cold front hits in two w-weeks. That place would have become a kill box. Th-this is our last chance for proper shelter."
Calyx, having heard enough, pushes past her father. "I'm taking a perimeter walk on the north slope. My legs are going to freeze if I stand here listening to this debate." She moves with sharp, fast energy, leaving the constrained space.
Mariel's brow knits tightly, her voice sharp with worry. "Calyx, stay where I can see you. The ice is thin." Her words shiver slightly in the cold, betraying the tension she tries to mask.
Calyx doesn't listen. Her boots crunch across the roof slab, sending clouds of powdery snow puffing into the air. Anger clouds her judgment, masking the treacherous thinness beneath her. The ice groans like dry wood, a warning she ignores.
"Calyx, slow down!" Evin barks, voice low, urgent. But she is already halfway across, focused on venting some storm inside her.
A sharp crack splits the air. The ice beneath her foot shears with a wet, brittle tearing sound. Calyx shrieks, arms flailing, as her torso plunges into the void. Pain explodes along her shoulder and forearm, shards of ice scraping her skin like needles. Her scream slices through the still air, raw and desperate.
Evin barrels forward with Tovin gathered tight against his chest. Frost crackles under his boots, each step biting into the brittle surface. He cuts a broad, urgent path across the platform, moving with the force of a man who has carried his family through too many disasters to hesitate now.
"Cal!" he shouts, his voice booming through the cold air. The raw panic in it tangles with the command he can't help but wield, a sound that hits like a flare in the frozen dark.
Solan follows, hunched and stumbling. His feet slip across the slick ice, arms flailing. "H-h-hold h-her!" he stammers, voice cracking under panic. He scrapes his knuckles on the frozen roof edge, nearly toppling into the abyss himself. Each heartbeat echoes in his chest like a drum of impending doom.
Thora moves. Her armored body slides across the icy expanse, momentum carrying her into position just as Calyx's legs vanish into darkness. Her hands clamp onto the teen's ankle, fingers digging through fabric and frost.
Thora growls, boots braced against the edge. Tendons stand out in her neck, muscles coiling as she pulls with bone-deep strength. Ice shards litter the lip of the hole, glittering menacingly in the weak light.
With a grunt that escapes her throat, a sound more of effort than voice, Thora yanks, pulling Calyx free from the shaft. Calyx slams onto the ice, coughing, her expressive eyes wide and wet with shock.
Thora sends a single, sharp look at the now-terrified girl, a voiceless communication that says: I told you to be still.
Calyx thrashes, coughing as icy dust scratches her throat, a thin streak of blood marking her fingers where jagged ice tore the skin. "I-I'm okay! I'm okay!" she gasps, panic flooding her voice.
"You are not okay!" Mariel snaps, then she softens slightly, voice almost inaudible beneath the growl. "Do it again, and it will not end with a scratch."
Evin leans over, grabbing her free arm and rolling her fully onto solid ice. "Jesus, you scared me half to death," he mutters, rubbing his hands over the fabric of his coat, still trembling from adrenaline.
Mariel kneels beside Calyx, pressing warm hands against the scraped shoulder. "It is just a scratch," she says, firm but soothing. The scrape smears with blood and ice dust under her fingers, and she flinches slightly as the cold stings. "But you are lucky."
Solan crouches awkwardly nearby, scanning the area with a handheld device. His breath fogs in the cold air, ragged and uneven. "I-I-i-it's t-t-the frost... m-microfractures... the edges were s-so thin... w-we almost... we almost lost her," he stutters, hands shaking as he adjusts the device, almost knocking it to the ice.
Calyx swallows, eyes wide and glistening, heart still racing. "I thought I could handle it," she murmurs, voice raw.
"You thought wrong," Mariel replies sharply, then adds just a fraction softer. "We cannot afford mistakes like that, not here."
The group leans over the hole, each breath visible, mingling with the faint dusting of shattered ice from the fall. Calyx's knees shake as she tries to catch her breath. Evin kneels, brushing fragments from her coat. Solan rubs his temples, muttering under his breath, the stutter heavy now, dragging his words into jagged intervals. "S-s-stability... t-tunnels... the ice... i-it's... unsafe..."
Calyx finally lets out a shaky laugh, half hysteria, half relief. "I am never doing that again," she whispers, voice tight with lingering panic.
Evin grumbles under his breath, hands still brushing frozen dust from her jacket. "You better mean that. I am not dropping your brother to catch you."
Even the wind seems to pause, hanging over them like a held breath. The near-death hush silences all argument. Only ragged breaths and the faint clinking of ice fragments remain.
"We have to move. Now," Rhea says, her tone tight with suppressed panic. "This roof is unstable. This whole ridge is unstable."
The survivors take a moment, even as urgency hums beneath their skin, to check their gear again. Ropes are coiled, packs cinched, satchels adjusted, every strap tugged tight against the shifting cold. Each movement echoes in the hollow ruins, a soft metallic clatter that ricochets off fractured walls and distant spires of ice. Mariel mutters as she slings a satchel over her shoulder, the strap biting into her numb fingers, while Evin stoops to test the knot on a climbing line, his breath fogging in little clouds that drift and vanish into the brittle air.
Solan's attention is fixed on his hard-light slate. Fingers hover nervously above the interface, tapping, dragging, and adjusting as numbers swim before his eyes. His voice is low, stuttering more than usual, "T-th-the gradient... no, n-no, wait... recalibrating... orange still... there." The soft glow of the thermal signature plays across his anxious face, painting it with molten warmth against the gray, frost-streaked ruins.
Their first steps toward the slope are cautious. Loose stones clatter under boots, a brittle symphony of cracking debris. Ice glints underfoot, deceptive, betraying deeper fissures beneath what appears solid. Each step is deliberate, measured, a small negotiation with gravity and the cold that wants to steal footing from them. Dust and powder from broken masonry swirls in the air, tickling nostrils and catching in eyelashes. The wind threads through gaps in the fractured rooflines, carrying faint tangs of rust and mineral-laden snow.
Calyx leads, her boots crunching over loose gravel and brittle ice. The low, brittle echo of her footsteps is followed by the soft scraping of Thora's heavier boots, her bulk making the ground groan beneath her. Evin moves next, sturdy and deliberate, boots biting hard into frozen surfaces, his eyes sweeping the horizon for threats. Solan lingers slightly behind, slate clutched to his chest, slipping once on a patch of ice, knees threatening to buckle, caught by Mariel's outstretched hand. He stumbles again but manages to right himself, muttering a stuttered curse under his breath that no one hears over the ambient howl of the wind.
The descent stretches on, every angle of rubble and ice demanding attention. Shadows pool between jagged fragments of building, making the eye question the solidity of each step. Packs jostle with weight, the scent of dried meat, smoked herbs, and warm cloth spilling out in faint, comforting clouds. The faint metallic tang of the ruins lingers in every inhalation, grounding them in the reality that each step is a negotiation with collapse, weather, and gravity.
At last, they reach the valley floor. The terrain opens into a shallow basin, littered with skeletal remains of low buildings and twisted beams. Footfalls echo against brittle stone, punctuated by the occasional soft thump of a boot against metal. They tighten their formation instinctively, shoulders brushing, eyes darting between shadows. Solan squints at his slate, stutter catching in his voice, "I-it's... s-still... orange... n-not moving... safe for... n-nearly... ah, nearly... okay, yes."
Every sense is heightened. The crunch of their boots on snow-dusted rubble, the faint hiss of escaping wind through fractured roofs, the metallic rasp of loose debris underfoot, the faint warmth radiating from the packs and bodies pressed close. All of it coalesces into a single, tense awareness. Even Tovin, tucked against Mariel, senses it, his small hands gripping at her coat as if understanding that the world outside these temporary shelters is unforgiving.
The station ahead glows faintly in the soft orange shimmer, teasing them with the promise of warmth, stability, and fragile safety. Solan adjusts his slate again, muttering numbers and stuttering in fear and awe. The others exchange glances. Wordless communication passing between them, each step forward with trust, desperation, and stubborn hope. With careful rhythm, they move toward the station, the ruins around them both a trap and a guide, the ice and stone whispering warnings they cannot afford to ignore.
"We are c-clear," Solan says, his voice hopeful. "The animal signatures are still moving away from us, toward the coast. We m-made it past the dens."
Mariel nods, her calm returning. "Thank you, Thora."
Thora nods back, still watching the high ruins.
Then, the absolute silence that has followed them breaks.
It is the familiar, terrifying sound: a deep, resonating thump-thump-thump. This time, it is closer. It is louder. And it comes from three directions at once.
Three massive, white shapes peel out of the ruins, one left, one right, one straight ahead. white Tigers. Their coats blend perfectly with the snow, each movement deliberate and terrifyingly in sync.
"S-s-s-three c-coordinated life signs! Th-their hunting posture—t-textbook! W-we have to break the g-geometry!" Solan sputters, voice cracking as his mind juggles equations and probabilities while his body refuses to move.
"That's not a trio, that's a fuckin' trilogy!" Jessa yells, waving her arms like she's directing a dramatic play. "And those coats? So extra! I call dibs on the head, and I swear the claws could pay off my whole vintage scarf debt!" She starts sliding backward on the ice, her boots squeaking, already halfway into a chaotic retreat.
Kade spins around, hands thrown up, voice dripping sarcasm. "And look, synchronized teeth! How fancy of them! Rhea, you better give me five nutrient bars for this—major wardrobe malfunction here, people, I did not dress for snack time!" He flails dramatically, almost tripping over his own sled lines.
"Solan! Stop analyzing! Evin, you and Tovin, get behind the sled now! Drop everything non-essential! Kade! Shut your mouth!" Rhea snaps, a hand on her hip with urgency. She's the only one actually thinking while everyone else flails like human pinballs.
Jessa leans back, laughing despite the danger. "I mean, I love a good catwalk, but these cats? Zero chill!"
Kade points wildly at the tigers. "Someone get them a tiny little runway and some lights, because we clearly need an audience!"
The group instantly locks up, terror replacing exhaustion. Mariel says nothing, instantly pulling Tovin from the sled and clutching him tight. Her authority shifts from voice to action, ready to shield her family.
The lead tiger holds position, but the three separate, fanning out in a wide, lethal arc, surrounding them completely. Thora emits a low, wordless grunt as she shifts her weight and squares her armored shoulders. She makes a massive, defensive movement, not a sound, placing herself immediately between the tigers and Mariel, becoming the human shield.
"Well, I guess that answers the trap question." Evin shoves the sled toward the tigers as a meager distraction. "We need to move, Solan! They're not looking at the metal!"
The tension is unbearable. Just as the flanking tigers begin to close the circle, a sudden, high-pitched whine cuts the air, a sound that should not exist.
One of the flanking tigers snaps its head toward the high whine, its ears swiveling, momentarily distracted. The second tiger lifts its nose, sniffing the cold air frantically, as if it smells something deeply intriguing, a taunting, chemical scent.
The third tiger, the one directly in front of the group, moves to spring. But the ground beneath it suddenly gives way with a muffled whump and a small, contained explosion. The ground begins to smoke. The animal disappears with a terrifying shriek into a hidden, deep cavity.
The tiger following the scent suddenly bolts away, following the mysterious chemical trail toward the west, vanishing into the ruins.
The group stares at the smoking hole. They have a second of reprieve, but the threat is still massive. The single, lead tiger, now alone, is circling back, its yellow eyes locked on the scent of fresh meat, ready to feast.
"N-n-nobody m-move," Solan orders, voice barely above a whisper.
"Who doesn't love their breakfast running away?" Kade asks.
—