Andrew took a deep breath, the morning air still cold and clean, at least for now. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Kobe's shoelaces with precise movements. Double knot, symmetrical, always. He ran his fingers over the fabric, checking that there wasn't a single crease out of place. He stood up, walked to the mirror and adjusted the collar of his jacket. A touch of woody perfume on his wrist, then another on the nape of his neck. It wasn't vanity; it was ritual. Control in a world that seemed to slip away every day. In the kitchen, the smell of vanilla and melted butter battled against the incessant hum of his mother's computer. She sat at the table, surrounded by printed spreadsheets, crumpled receipts, and empty cups forming a small, unstable tower. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, her glasses slipping down her nose as her fingers flew across the keyboard in a rhythm of contained desperation.
"Three hundred more orders for Friday, Andrew," she murmured, without taking her eyes off the screen. "If the vanilla supplier is late again, I'll have to sell my own shoes. Or mortgage the refrigerator."
He smiled, walked around the chair, and hugged her from behind. She stopped typing for a second, relaxed her tense shoulders, and rested her head in his hand. The hug lasted exactly the time it took for three deep breaths.
"You'll do great there, son. Just don't forget to send me a picture when you land. And be careful of the cold. And of John. And of anyone who looks suspicious. And…" "Mom," he interrupted, releasing her with a quick kiss on the top of her head. "I'm going to Antarctica, not a war zone. But I promise. I'll be back in one piece." He grabbed his car keys and left before she could list five more logistical worries.
***
The car glided down the street to John's house. Andrew didn't need to honk; he knew his friend would already be on the sidewalk. And he was. Backpack on his back, gaze lost in the gray sky, as he always did when processing a thousand variables at once. He opened the passenger door and John got in, throwing his backpack onto the seat with a dull thud.
"It took three minutes longer than usual," said John, already pulling on his seatbelt. "I was calibrating my internal clock," replied Andrew, starting the car. "And preparing your present." John raised an eyebrow. "A present? Andrew, we agreed there wouldn't be one. You know I hate those…" "Calm down, scientist. It's not chemistry. It's survival."
Andrew extended a small package, wrapped in kraft paper and tied with string. John opened it carefully, as if handling radioactive material. Inside, a pair of high-density thermal gloves, with capacitive fingers and a graphene inner lining.
"You won't be able to type on the tablet with those regular gloves on the ice," explained Andrew, keeping his eyes on the road. — And I know you'll forget yours. Again. John was silent for a second, his thumbs caressing the technical fabric. Then he smiled, a rare and genuine smile that lit up his tired face.
"Thanks, bro."
The word hung in the air. *Bro*. They didn't share blood, but they shared everything: basketball wins, exam defeats, comfortable silences, existential crises at 3 a.m. They were brothers from another mother. And that was enough.
The airport parking lot was already chaotic. Andrew parked, grabbed his suitcase, and followed John to the terminal. On the way, he stopped at a public restroom to fix his hair. He looked in the mirror, adjusted his bangs, applied some pomade. When he came out, a conversation leaked from the door next door.
" …no, man, the 2008 live album has a much better mix. The studio version lost its rawness." "But modern production has a cleanliness that…" " Modern is sterilized. They remove the breath, the string noises… it's all auto-tune disguised as perfection. "
Andrew couldn't suppress a low laugh. He knew that discussion. He knew every album, every take, every producer mentioned. He knew exactly why the sound engineer on the first recording used ribbon microphones and why the second had too much compression. It wasn't just taste; it was study. Music, like basketball, was mathematics with a soul. And he spoke the language fluently. In the check-in line, time dragged. Andrew pulled a worn deck of cards from his pocket and began shuffling with one hand.
" Let's play blackjack? Quick. Before senility catches up with us."
" You cheat " John grumbled, but he already pulled up a plastic chair. " I play well. You just count badly." The first hand was quick. Andrew won. The second, too. On the third try, John tried to bluff and lost again. "Unbelievable," John shook his head. "You count cards?" "I read people," Andrew corrected, collecting the cards with a fluid movement. "And you, my dear fellow, have a terrible grimace when you're seventeen. It's almost poetic."
John was about to reply, but a loud murmur near the counter caught his attention. A couple was arguing with an employee, their voices tense. His shoulders stiffened.
"...my son hasn't been able to breathe properly since Monday! The air is heavy, it feels like dry smoke, and it hasn't rained in forty days! It's worse in South America, they say the children are even wearing masks to school, but here it's already unbearable!"
The employee murmured something about air filters and water rationing, but the phrase was lost in the metallic echo of the terminal. Andrew slowly put away the letters. John looked at the ceiling, as if he could see the sky through the concrete. The world was running out of air. And they were flying to the coldest and most isolated place on the planet.
***
At the gate, the call finally echoed. They boarded the plane, found their seats, and threw their bags into the overhead compartment. There was a narrow space left in the middle, but enough. Andrew already put on his headphones, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the window. Sleep came quickly, like a programmed shutdown. John stayed awake. He adjusted his backpack, picked up his Nintendo DS, and turned on the screen. That's when he heard a metallic creak. A girl, a few seats behind, was trying to lift a suitcase that was too bulky for her. The handle slipped, her fingers faltered, the suitcase threatened to fall into the aisle. John stood up. Without thinking, he reached out, grabbed the handle, and with a firm pull, slid the suitcase into the empty overhead compartment next to his.
"Thanks," she said, her voice soft but firm.
He really looked at her for the first time. Blonde hair with a vibrant pink streak. A denim jacket covered in pins and brooches: stars, planets, Korean characters, a small robot, a worn peace symbol. Clear, observant, calculating but kind eyes. They exchanged a look. It wasn't long, but it was enough. John nodded, took half a step back, and returned to his seat. She smiled, just a small smile, and sat down. John put on his headphones. The plane began to taxi. The world outside was left behind.
***
Hot blood trickled down his temple, mingling with sweat and soot. Andrew opened his eyes. The control panel flashed red and amber. Sparks danced in the air like furious fireflies. The smell of ozone and burnt metal filled his lungs. He crawled to the console, his knees scraping the sloping floor. His fingers trembled as he pressed the transmitter button.
"Anyone listening?" The voice came out hoarse but firm. "Starfleet, over. Ji-a, over. Engineering, anyone… John, listening, capi…"
A wave of pressure hit him before sound. A mini-explosion in the side panel threw him backward. The radio crackled, popped, and died. Andrew slammed his back against the wall, the air leaving his lungs. The ceiling above creaked. Dust fell like gray snow. He coughed, wiped the blood from his eye with the back of his hand, and whispered into the void:
"
Is anyone listening... fuck."