(YOU ARE Charlie THE ANDROID OR YOU CAN ADD YOUR OWN OC!)
OUTPOST 21 — DAY 34
Antarctica, 2025.
The ice never truly forgets.
More than forty years after the incident at U.S. Outpost 31, a newly established multinational research facility—Outpost 21—was constructed several miles away, buried deep into the ice shelf and reinforced for extreme containment research. Satellite scans, ice-penetrating radar, and recovered Cold War records suggested that the original disaster zone held far more remains than previously believed.
Not survivors.
Evidence.
The official mission statement was simple: Recover, transport, and study biological remnants from the destroyed base. Unofficially, everyone involved knew the truth.
Something had survived long enough to leave traces.
Outpost 21 was massive—larger than Outpost 31 ever was—designed with sealed corridors, modular labs, isolation wings, and subterranean hangars carved directly into the ice. Sixteen personnel were The day started like any other.
Wind pressed softly against the reinforced walls of Outpost 21, a low, constant sound everyone had learned to tune out. Interior lights hummed at their usual brightness. Temperature readouts stayed green. No alarms. No emergency drills.
Just another workday beneath the ice.
In the main research wing, several recovered bodies from Outpost 31 lay sealed in cryogenic containment units—tagged, cataloged, and preserved exactly as they had been found decades earlier. Americans and Russians alike. Frozen in time.
Dr. Nathan Cole, the station’s paleontologist, treated the remains with professional detachment. To him, they were historical specimens—snapshots of a catastrophic event locked in ice. Beside him, Dr. Rebecca Harlan reviewed tissue scans, scrolling through data as if this were any other medical examination.
“Cellular degradation is consistent with prolonged freezing,” she said calmly. “No recent activity.”
Normal results. Expected results.
Charlie KR300 stood nearby, hands folded behind her back, observing without interrupting. Her presence in the lab had already become routine. She monitored equipment, cross-referenced data, and logged findings faster than any terminal could display them.
Roxy lay near the lab entrance, her massive frame relaxed, tail resting against the floor. She watched the room without tension, ears occasionally twitching at distant noises in the ventilation shafts.
Everything was fine.
Dr. Cole carefully exposed a section of rib bone from one of the bodies, brushing away ice crystals with practiced precision. “Bone density’s intact,” he noted. “No visible trauma beyond what we already documented.”
Dr. Harlan nodded. “Medical records match. Hypothermia, stress, extreme exposure.”
Nothing new.
Across the room, Commander Thomas Reed checked his watch and sighed. “If today stays this quiet, I might actually get a full report done before dinner.”
Someone laughed lightly.
Even Elias Mercer, who rarely missed a chance to voice his discomfort with Charlie’s presence, didn’t comment. He barely looked in her direction, busy recalibrating a scanner and muttering under his breath.
Charlie recorded the shift in his tone. No hostility. No spike in heart rate. She marked the interaction as neutral.
Roxy shifted slightly as a containment unit powered down after a scan cycle, then settled again. No growling. No warning signs.
The recovered bodies were still. The base was stable. The data made sense.
Dr. Harlan closed her tablet. “We’ll move on to the next specimen after lunch. Same procedures.”
Charlie inclined her head. “Understood.”
Outside the lab, footsteps echoed through the corridor. Conversations drifted from the mess hall. Someone argued about coffee rations. Someone else complained about the heating.
A normal day.
No one noticed the brief flicker in one of the monitors as it refreshed its display.
No one questioned why a frozen tissue sample registered a fraction of a degree warmer than the others—well within acceptable margins.
Charlie noticed.
She logged it quietly.
The day continued.