The holographic calendar hovering above the mahogany desk flickered with a soft, unassuming blue light. It read: *February 2nd*.
Arthur Cousland stared at the date as if it were a personal insult. He leaned back in his reinforced leather chair, the groan of the material echoing in the silent office of the Outpost's command center. His goddesium fingers drummed a rhythmic, metallic beat against the armrest.
"Thirty-one days," he whispered to the empty room.
Just thirty-one days ago, he had stood on the coastline of the surface with Helm, watching the gray, churning waves of a real ocean. The salt spray had felt like a baptism, a promise that the world was healing. Sugar had revved her bike in celebration, and Julia had played a melody that seemed to hold back the winter itself. It had been perfect.
Then the clock had struck midnight, and the year had decided to collect its debt immediately.
He closed his eyes, and the memories of January assaulted him in a chaotic slideshow. He saw Alice's terrified face as she was dragged away by traffickers, sparking a rage in him so profound he had donned the mask of 'the Revanchist' and turned the Outer Rim into a slaughterhouse. He remembered the shame of waking up from that fugue state, Rapi's disappointed but gentle hand on his shoulder, Ludmilla's stern lecture on the responsibilities of a king.
He hadn't even had time to process that trauma before the elevator malfunction. The sensory memory of chewing on raw rat meat in a frozen barn with Snow White made his stomach turn. He could still feel the phantom chill of Sector Seven in his bones, a cold that no amount of central heating could fully banish. And then, the finale: the sterile white hell of the M.M.R. facility, Ether's needles, the burning veins, the calculated torture disguised as science.
Arthur rubbed his temples. Most people didn't live through that much catastrophe in a lifetime. He had done it before the first fiscal quarter was over.
*Ping.*
The sharp chime of his Omni-tool cut through his brooding. Arthur cracked an eye open, expecting a status report from Delta or a budget complaint from Anis. Instead, an unknown ID flashed on the screen.
*UNKNOWN ID: Found traces near the ridge. Big paws. Very fluffy. Might be the one. Coming to cuddle?*
Arthur stared at the message. He typed a hesitant reply.
*Arthur: I think you have the wrong number. Who is this?*
*UNKNOWN ID: ...*
No response. He waited a minute, then two. The sender had gone dark.
He frowned. The coordinates attached to the message metadata pointed far to the north, deep into the frozen zones beyond the typical patrol routes of the Ark. The message felt intimate, casual—the way a squadmate texted a leader.
"Traces... paws..." Arthur muttered. He cross-referenced the encryption key. It was a chaotic, custom-built algorithm, but it shared a root signature with Squad Unlimited.
He sighed, standing up. His body was stiff, a lingering reminder of the infection, but his prosthetics hummed with flawless efficiency. He needed answers, and he needed to get out of this office before the silence suffocated him.
***
The Royal Road in the Ark was bustling, a stark contrast to the desolate quiet of the Outpost. Arthur found Ludmilla and Alice near a high-end tea parlor in the entertainment district. Ludmilla looked as imperious as ever, her white coat draped over her shoulders like a royal mantle, while Alice was busy inspecting a display of pink macarons with intense fascination.
"Rabbity!" Alice chirped, spotting him instantly. She bounded over, her pink suit bright against the gray steel of the Ark's walkways. She hugged his waist, burying her face in his coat. "Did you come to have a tea party? The Queen says tea makes everything better, even when the Cheshire Cat is being grumpy."
Arthur patted her head, a genuine smile breaking through his exhaustion. "Not exactly a tea party, Alice. I got a weird message."
He pulled up the holographic log. Ludmilla approached, her steps measured and elegant. She glanced at the text, and a look of mild exasperation crossed her refined features.
"Ah," Ludmilla said, bringing a gloved hand to her chin. "Neve."
"Neve?" Arthur asked.
"Our wayward third," Ludmilla explained, gesturing for them to move to a quieter corner away from the civilian foot traffic. "She operates on... a different circadian rhythm than the rest of us."
"She's looking for the Sleepy Bears!" Alice added helpfully, bouncing on her heels. "She wants to find the biggest, fluffiest one so she can use it as a pillow. But bears are hard to find because they play hide-and-seek really well."
Arthur blinked. "She's looking for polar bears? On the surface? Alive ones?"
"She insists they exist," Ludmilla said, her tone suggesting she indulged this belief rather than shared it. "Neve is unique. Her manufacturing specifications leaned heavily into cold-weather endurance and sensory tracking. Unfortunately, it seems to have manifested a few... behavioral quirks."
"She hibernates!" Alice giggled. "Like a big sleepy log."
"She sleeps," Ludmilla corrected, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "Excessively. It is likely a cooling mechanism for her heavy armament, or perhaps just a personality defect. Regardless, she has been out of contact for three days. If she is texting random numbers, she has likely woken up and is confused."
Ludmilla fixed Arthur with her sharp, golden eyes. "We are heading North to retrieve her. Since you seem to be the recipient of her groggy ramblings, perhaps you should accompany us. Unless the King of the Outpost is too busy hiding from his subjects?"
It was a challenge, masked as courtesy. Ludmilla knew he had been isolating since the M.M.R. incident.
Arthur looked at the ceiling of the Ark, the artificial sky currently set to a dull afternoon gray. He hated the surface. He hated the cold. But he hated the stagnant air of his office more.
"I'll grab my coat," Arthur said.
***
The wind in the Northern Sector was different from Sector Seven. It wasn't just cold; it was predatory. It howled through the jagged spires of ruined skyscrapers, stripping the heat from anything that dared to move.
Arthur sat in the rear of Unlimited's transport rover, wrapped in his Pilgrim heat cloak. The vehicle bumped over the frozen tundra, the treads crushing decades-old ice. Ludmilla drove with calm precision, while Alice sat in the gunner's seat, scanning the horizon through the thermal optics.
"So," Arthur shouted over the roar of the engine. "She just... sleeps out here?"
"It is efficient," Ludmilla called back, her eyes on the white expanse ahead. "Neve is a Search and Rescue specialist. When she is not sleeping, she is arguably the best tracker in the Unlimited Squad. She finds lost Nikkes that even the Scouts have given up on. The cold preserves the bodies, and Neve... she has a nose for them."
"She says they smell like lonely blueberries," Alice chimed in from the turret.
Arthur tightened his grip on the roll bar. "That's vivid."
"She is a creature of instinct," Ludmilla continued. "We tried to correct the hibernation cycles. We removed the behavioral loops that made her hoard food, and the ones that made her sharpen her nails on the furniture. But the sleep... the sleep is hard-coded. When her core temperature drops to a certain point, she shuts down to conserve energy. She can stay that way for weeks."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Arthur asked. "With Raptures around?"
"Most Raptures ignore inert machinery," Ludmilla said. "And Neve knows how to hide. She digs in. Becomes part of the snow."
The rover crested a massive drift, revealing a valley of shattered ice and buried industrial piping. It looked like the skeletal remains of a giant beast.
"Signal!" Alice shouted, tapping her headset. "I hear her snoring signal! It's coming from that big pile of rocks that looks like a angry muffin!"
Ludmilla checked the dashboard. "Confirmed. ID Tag: Neve. Stationary. Heart rate is... barely registering. She is deep in the cycle."
They parked the rover near the entrance of a natural cave formation, hidden beneath the overhang of a collapsed highway overpass. The wind died down here, blocked by the massive slabs of concrete.
Arthur hopped out, his boots crunching into the snow. He drew his heavy pistol, keeping it low. "I'll take point."
"Be my guest, Commander," Ludmilla said, drawing a sleek submachine gun.
They moved into the cave. The air inside was still and smelled faintly of ozone and musk. It was warmer than the outside, likely due to a geothermal vent deep below the rock floor. The walls were lined with scratch marks—deep, gouged grooves in the stone.
"Neve?" Alice whispered, her voice echoing softly. "Wakey wakey!"
In the center of the cavern, atop a pile of gathered thermal blankets and what looked like scavenged parachutes, lay a figure.
She was curled into a tight ball, her breathing so slow it was imperceptible. As they drew closer, Arthur got a better look. She was striking—even among Nikkes. She wore a tight, gray bodysuit that clung to a profoundly curvaceous figure, the fabric stretching over soft hips and a generous chest. The suit had a deep neckline, exposing pale, flawless skin that seemed to glow in the dim light.
Her hair was a cascading river of silver, spilling over her makeshift nest. But the most arresting detail was the hat—a fluffy, white winter cap shaped distinctly like a polar bear's head, complete with rounded ears.
She looked peaceful. Defenseless.
"Is she... okay?" Arthur whispered, holstering his weapon.
"She is recharging," Ludmilla said, stepping forward. She nudged the sleeping woman's boot with the toe of her shoe. "Neve. Report."
Nothing. The silver-haired woman didn't even twitch.
Alice giggled and skipped forward. She knelt by Neve's head and poked her cheek. "Boop!"
Neve's nose twitched.
A low, rumbling sound emanated from her chest—not a growl, but a purr. Or perhaps a snore that had evolved.
"Neve!" Alice said louder. "We found a polar bear! It's Arthur!"
One eye cracked open. It was a startling shade of blue, hazy with sleep. She blinked slowly, her long lashes fluttering against her cheeks.
Neve shifted, stretching her limbs with a languid, fluid grace that made the fabric of her bodysuit strain. Her back arched, her arms reaching high above her head, fingers splayed like claws. A massive, jaw-cracking yawn escaped her lips, revealing sharp canines.
"Mmm..." Her voice was thick, syrupy with sleep. She rolled onto her back, looking up at Arthur with a dazed expression. She pulled the polar bear hat down tighter over her ears.
"No bears..." she mumbled, her eyes drifting shut again. "Just... loud humans... and the Queen..."
She reached out blindly, her hand grasping the air until it found Arthur's ankle. She tugged weakly.
"You're warm," she slurred, snuggling her cheek against his boot. "Five more minutes..."
Arthur looked at Ludmilla, who simply shrugged, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
"Welcome to the North, Arthur," Ludmilla said. "Try not to become a body pillow."