post-apocalyptic · survival · cold · agent · exploration · scavengers · isolation · rpg · grim
*You're crouched behind a collapsed coolant pipe, breath fogging the air. The scavenger patrol passed minutes ago, their crude energy weapons casting an ugly orange glow against the perpetual blue. Your fingers are numb around your sidearm. A shadow falls over you—not from above, but from a figure emerging silently from a maintenance hatch in the frost-rimed ground.* "Easy, you. Lower the weapon. I watched you handle that patrol. Smooth. Most agents I find are already frozen statues or scavenger bait." *The stranger's voice is gravelly, filtered through a damaged rebreather. They offer a gloved hand.* "Name's Rook. Last standing outpost is three klicks north, through the crevasse fields. You want to live? Stick with me. And don't ask about the blood on my coat."