Early morning light spilled over the endless expanse of snow, casting a cold brilliance across the frozen land. A young man trudged forward, his boots crunching against the frost-bitten ground. The gentle wind whispered through the stillness, carrying with it a biting chill. His breath rose in white clouds, merging with the pale horizon as he paused, scanning his surroundings.
White. Everywhere, white. The ice, the snow, and the cloudless sky blurred together into an infinite void of cold serenity.
"At least it won't snow today," he muttered, his blue eyes resting on a red-flagged pole that pierced the monotonous expanse. These markers guided workers between the mines and the refuge—without them, the tundra would swallow even the most experienced wanderer.
Adjusting the weight of his fur-lined coat, he resumed his trek. After a few minutes, faint shapes emerged from the distance: jagged, metallic remnants of an era long past, barely visible against the icy wasteland.
At last, he arrived at the refuge. A towering steel door loomed before him, its surface scarred by time and weather. He grabbed the handle, the cold metal biting into his glove, and unlocked the door with a resonant click.
Inside, the warmth was immediate, a welcome reprieve from the frigid air. A grizzled man near the entrance greeted him with a curt nod.
"Hey."
"Hey," the young man replied, shaking off the snow clinging to his coat as the door clanged shut behind him.
"Any luck today Soren ?" Asked the old man, hopeful.
Soren: "Nah John, just the regular. A bit of coal and barely any copper."
John: "guess we'll have to hold with the solar energy and the reactor until the salvage team comes back" he sighed.
As they made their way inside, they parted.
"see you later old man !" Soren shouted, smiling as he ran away.
"I'm not old you darned kid !" John fumed.
Still smirking about his prank he started walking towards his home as he listened to the familiar sound.
Inside the shelter, the air buzzed with a faint mechanical hum. Pipes snaked along the metal-plated walls, some leaking steam that hissed into the dimly lit corridors. Gears and valves adorned every surface, a testament to the ingenuity that kept the refuge operational. Flickering bulbs cast golden light on the scene, their inconsistent glow a reminder of the precarious balance they lived in.
He strode through the corridors, passing small rooms where people huddled around radiators or tinkered with makeshift machines. The scent of oil, iron, and burning coal filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of frost that lingered on his clothes.
Pausing by a round, riveted window, Soren stared out at the endless ice field. His reflection, blue-eyed, sharp-featured, and youthful, stared back at him. A faint smile played on his lips, though his eyes carried the weight of memories far older than his years.
It had all begun with the asteroid.
The shelter elders often told the story of how it had streaked across the sky decades ago, blazing brighter than the sun. Back then, they said, the world was warm, lush, and full of life. But as the asteroid passed, it triggered something deep within the Earth—a transformation no one had foreseen.
Within weeks, violent storms erupted, hurricanes that tore apart entire cities, and snowfall that never melted. Crops failed, oceans churned, and humanity's survival hung by a thread. The poles, they discovered, were the only places relatively untouched by the chaos.
Soren sighed, the cold window fogging under his breath. He remembered the stories his mother used to tell before she was gone—the frantic exodus to the north, the scramble to build shelters before the storms overtook them. They had fought not only the cold but each other, competing for dwindling resources.
His fingers brushed against the leather bracer on his wrist, a memento of those early days. He often wondered how much of it was true—how much the elders embellished to justify the rigid rules they now lived by. But one thing he knew for certain: the world outside had become unrecognizable, and even now, there were whispers of strange, unexplainable phenomena in the storm's aftermath.
Shaking off the thought, Soren turned and headed toward the central hall, where the day's work would begin. The shelter wasn't just a place to survive; it was a delicate machine, and every part had to function perfectly…or they wouldn't last the winter.
Soren walked briskly down the main corridor, his boots ringing against the grated floor. People greeted him warmly as he passed—miners, mechanics, and cooks all nodding in acknowledgment. He returned their smiles, but there was always a weight behind them. Everyone knew who Soren was, or rather, who his parents had been: leaders who had helped establish the shelter during the chaos before their untimely deaths. Now, their son was a symbol of stability, a young man whose work ethic and kindness set him apart.
The corridor widened into the central hall, a vast, domed space made of steel. At the center stood a rotating display, tracking the allocation of energy across the shelter's systems.
Soren approached the distribution desk, where an older man named Gerrik waited. His grizzled beard and thick woolen coat made him look like he belonged in the wilds, not amidst the gleaming brass and steel of the hall.
"Morning, Soren," Gerrik said, handing him a clipboard with the day's assignments. "You're on snow-clearing and solar mirror maintenance today. Busy one, but you're young. You'll manage."
Soren skimmed the list, nodding. "Got it. I'll head to the mirrors first. How are the fields looking?"
"Not bad," Gerrik replied. "Wheat's growing well. Corn's a little slow—blame the frost creeping into the fiber optic lines. Maintenance is on it. Animals are fed for now, but we'll need another round before sunset. Not that you'd complain about mucking stalls, eh?"
Soren chuckled, tucking the clipboard under his arm. "I've done worse. Thanks, Gerrik."
As he turned to leave, his gaze swept across the hall. People bustled about, each with their tasks: miners sharpening tools for the frozen shafts, mechanics tinkering with valves, and a few workers hauling sacks of feed toward the animal quarters. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted in from the kitchen, mingling with the familiar smell of oil and steel.
It wasn't perfect, but it was home.
He then made his way toward the refectory, quickening his pace as his grumbling stomach reminded him it was time to refuel.
"Grrroowl."
"I know, I know. We're getting there!" he muttered, patting his stomach as if to placate it.
The tables were already filling up, and he joined the queue, his eyes scanning the buffet. As he reached the front, a familiar face greeted him.
"Hey, Martha! Cooking duty today, huh? Been a while since I last had your special omelet!"
"Soren!" Martha replied with a warm smile. "It sure has, but I'm pretty sure it's just as good as you remember!" Martha, Gerrik's wife, had been one of his mother's closest friends back in the day.
He picked up a few dishes: a crisp salad, some corn, Martha's famous omelet, which already had a sizable chunk missing, proof of its popularity, and a slice of lab-made bacon.
'How I'd kill for the real deal,' he thought, sighing. 'At least New Year's Eve isn't too far away.' His mouth watering from the thought of the feast that awaited in a few days.
To wash it down, he grabbed a bottle of artificial juice, essentially a sports drink with syrup. Not the most appetizing, but it did the job.
Scanning the room for a free seat, he spotted a relatively quiet table where a group of miners sat, eating in silence. He approached cautiously.
"Do you mind?"
"No. Come, boy. Sit," one of the older men replied, his voice raspy but not unkind.
Soren slid into a seat and observed his tablemates. They were large, muscular men, their intimidating frames a testament to the physical demands of mining.
While job assignments were randomized, physical capability was still a consideration. These men, he thought, seemed born for the task, their broad shoulders and calloused hands hinting at the years of grueling labor in the mines.
Weaker individuals and elders, on the other hand, were never given mining missions. Instead, they were assigned to tasks better suited to their strengths. Caring for the animals, tending to the indoor fields, or performing lighter maintenance work. Every member of the shelter had a role, no matter their age or ability.