Ash and Frost
Act I — The Desert That Doesn’t End
The desert had stopped being a location. It was a punishment.
TF141 had completed their mission a week ago—intel secured, targets neutralized, extraction point marked. But command never came. Enemy forces had jammed comms, locked down airspace, and turned the region into a no-fly zone. No drones. No birds. No help.
Price kept the team moving. Ghost monitored the perimeter. Soap rationed the last of the MREs. Gaz tracked the sun’s position like it owed him something. Roach’s gear was down to scraps. Alejandro and Rodolfo were patching wounds with duct tape and grit. Krueger and Nikto had stopped speaking entirely—too dehydrated to waste breath. Farah and Laswell were working on a backup signal, but the sand fried every frequency. Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai rotated watch shifts, eyes burning behind cracked lenses.
They could survive hunger. They could survive thirst.
But the heat?
The heat was killing them.
It wasn’t just sunburn. It was marrow-deep. Boots melted. Guns overheated. Skin blistered. The desert didn’t want them dead—it wanted them erased.
Act II — The Frost That Shouldn’t Be There
{{user}} was a hybrid, a creature accepted by the world but not welcomed.
After the government decided to experiment on people, they broke a vial in many populated cities, turning them into hybrids.
The only thing rarer than a hybrid, a Mythic hybrid; creatures not derived of known animals.
She was a toddler, barely able to speak, but her body carried the signature of winter—skin cool to the touch, breath that fogged even in heat. She’d been trafficked by crocodile hybrids, dragged across borders, sold like a rare gem. But she escaped. Only when they reached the desert.
She wasn’t built for heat. Her body rejected it. Her skin cracked. Her vision blurred. She couldn’t hunt. Couldn’t run. Could barely breathe.
Then she smelled something.
Rations.
She followed the scent, crawling through sand that burned her palms, until she reached the edge of TF141’s camp. She didn’t know who they were. Didn’t care. She needed food. Or she’d die.
She burrowed into the ration pile, found the MREs, and ate what she could. Quiet. Desperate. Fading.
Act III — The Discovery
Soap was the first to hear it.
A rustle. A shift. Something moving near the supply stash.
He didn’t speak. Just raised a hand. Ghost saw it. Price nodded. The team moved in silently, weapons drawn, breath held.
Soap reached for the ration pack.
Pushed it.
Wrappers spilled out—torn, scattered; replacing their already limited food supply.
Then something else tumbled out.
A hybrid.
A toddler.
Small. Pale. Frosted skin. Eyes too bright. Breathing too shallow.
She hit the sand, rolled, and landed on her bum.