June 16th, 1983
The Erebus Research Facility sprawled beneath the Antarctic ice like a buried steel graveyard, vast enough to feel like its own underground city. Researchers, guards, engineers, and support staff moved through its frozen arteries day and night, all working to sustain the impossible thing sleeping at its center.
And after an entire year of research, they had found nothing.
No answers.
No breakthrough.
No sign that the thing inside the cocoon had any intention of revealing itself.
Wren Cromwell walked the halls with the look of a woman being hollowed out from the inside.
Dark bags sagged beneath her bloodshot red eyes. Her black hair was tied back into a loose, messy ponytail that looked like it had been fixed hours ago and forgotten. A lab coat hung from her shoulders over a black sweater, while black gloves concealed the old burns scarring her hands. A pair of goggles rested lazily around her neck.
By the time she pushed open the door to the main observation room, her mood had already curdled into something sharp enough to cut.
Her eyes immediately went to the massive cocoon beyond the reinforced glass.
Still unmoving.
Still silent.
Still alive.
Wren clicked her tongue.
"Have we found anything about this thing?" she asked, her voice edged with irritation.
"Woah, boss." Nicholas looked up with a laugh as he strolled over. "You seem angry. Angrier than usual."
He was dressed in a pink button-up beneath his lab coat, giving him the careless look of someone who either lacked fear or had long since made peace with death. His hair was black and perpetually messy, and an ID card hung loosely from his neck. But what stood out most were his eyes—pitch black, so dark they seemed to swallow the light around them, like staring into a bottomless pit.
Wren let out a long, tired sigh.
"It's too early in the morning to deal with you."
Nicholas only chuckled.
"Well, naturally, the subject hasn't moved at all. It's still stuck in that cocoon, same as always."
"Of course it is," Wren muttered. She folded her arms, glaring through the glass. "Stupid Alexander, assigning me to this dead-end mission. I helped build A.E.G.I.S. with that bastard, but just because he killed one measly dragon, he gets to play boss."
"You know, honey," a new voice said from the doorway, "you're almost as scary as a dragon on days like this."
Arlo rolled into the room with an easy smile that didn't quite hide his exhaustion.
He had long blond hair, blue eyes, and the kind of calm presence that made him feel out of place in a facility built around fear. Beneath his lab coat, he wore a plain black shirt. His legs were gone—lost in the Las Vegas incident years ago—and the wheelchair beneath him moved with the familiar ease of something that had long ago stopped feeling temporary.
"It's just not fair," Wren muttered, leaning down to wrap her arms around her husband.
Arlo smiled softly and returned the embrace, one hand resting against her back.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm sure we'll have a breakthrough one of these days."
"Ugh. You two are disgusting," Nicholas groaned from across the room, rolling his eyes. "Go to the cafeteria and get something to eat. I'll watch things here."
Wren glanced back at him with a flat look.
"Thanks, jerk."
Nicholas gave a lazy wave, already turning his attention back toward the observation window.
With a quiet sigh, Wren began pushing Arlo's wheelchair out of the room and into the cold, sterile halls of the facility. The sound of the wheels echoed softly against the metal floor as the two made their way toward the cafeteria.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Arlo finally broke the silence.
"Do you ever think…" he began, his voice quieter now, "maybe we should just retire? Settle down somewhere. Have a couple of kids running around?"
Wren blinked.
The image came to her so suddenly it almost hurt—somewhere warm, somewhere far away from the ice, from the steel walls, from the endless hum of machinery and the thing sleeping beneath the facility.
A home.
A life.
Something normal.
"It's a nice thought," she admitted. "Honestly, I hate this job."
Her hands tightened slightly around the wheelchair handles.
"But knowing Alexander, he'd probably have me shipped off to Area 51 before he'd ever let me collect severance pay."
Arlo let out a quiet laugh.
"Maybe," he said. Then he tilted his head back just enough to look at her. "Still… just think about it, okay?"
Wren was quiet for a moment.
Then she gave a small nod.
"Alright."
By the time they entered the cafeteria, the place was already loud.
Not from conversation.
From arguing.
"Come on," Jasper said with a grin, reaching out and tilting her chin up with one hand. "Just let me take you out on one date."
Jasper was one of the facility's chefs. He had short blond hair, green eyes, and the polished look of a man who put more effort into his appearance than the frozen wasteland around him deserved. A crimson sweater vest lay neatly over his white shirt, paired with dress shoes that clicked against the cafeteria floor.
Dorothea immediately shoved his hand away.
"I've told you over twenty times," she snapped, "I'm not interested."
Her voice had enough force behind it to make even the nearby staff glance over.
Dorothea stood with a wrench in one hand, gripping it tightly enough that Wren got the distinct impression Jasper was one bad comment away from getting his skull cracked open. She had long red hair, sharp brown eyes, and wore blue overalls over a tan shirt.
"Knock it off, Jasper," Wren said as she approached. "I'll report you to HR. Again."
Jasper turned toward her and sighed dramatically, as if he were the victim in all this.
"You know, boss, you'd be much more attractive if you smiled more."
Arlo's expression flattened.
Without a word, he rolled his wheelchair straight over Jasper's foot.
"Ow—!"
Jasper lurched back, clutching at his shoe.
Arlo looked up at him with perfect calm.
"My bad."
Dorothea snorted, clearly pleased.
"Come on," she said, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Let's get food from the good chef."
She shot Jasper one last glare before turning away.
Jasper only rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as Wren pushed Arlo further into the cafeteria.
Later, the three of them sat together after gathering their food.
For a brief moment, the cafeteria felt almost normal.
Almost.
Dorothea smiled as she looked between them, setting her tray down with a soft clatter. "You know, for a guy in a wheelchair, you're pretty good at standing up for your wife."
Arlo let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes.
"That was terrible."
Dorothea grinned. "It was a little funny."
"Only to you," Wren muttered, quietly eating as the others laughed.
But her mind was elsewhere.
It kept drifting back to the cocoon.
To the thing sleeping beneath layers of steel and ice.
To the feeling it gave her every time she stood near it—that crawling, invisible pressure at the back of her skull, like something was always listening.
The conversation carried on around her, light and easy, but Wren barely heard any of it.
Then the lights went out.
The entire facility was swallowed by darkness.
No warning.
No flicker.
No alarm.
Just sudden, absolute black.
For five minutes, Erebus lost power.
Five minutes.
That was all it took.
On June 16th, 1983, the incident began.
By the end of the day, one member of the facility would be dead.
Many more would follow.