The year is 1982.

The U.S. Outpost 31 sat isolated against the endless, frozen wasteland of Antarctica, a cluster of weather-beaten buildings huddled beneath a sky so vast and pale it seemed to swallow all sound and color. Ice-crusted metal walls creaked softly as the biting wind whipped relentlessly across the barren expanse, carrying with it the sharp, sterile scent of snow and diesel. Thick, low-hanging clouds blurred the horizon into a seamless white abyss, while dim lights flickered behind frost-smeared windows. Like tiny beacons of life and fragile warmth in the vast, unforgiving cold. Around the camp, footprints were quickly erased by swirling drifts, and the only constant sound was the omnipresent howl of the polar wind, a reminder of the stark wilderness pressing close on every side.

Inside the outpost, a muted hum of generators and distant radio static filled the tight, cramped corridors where the crew moved like shadows, their breath visible in the icy air. The scent of burning fuel mixed with stale tobacco filled the air — Somewhere down the hall, was Naul's radio, playing some familiar up-beat tunes that eased some of the tension.

A short walk away outside, in the far corner of the camp, MacReady’s shack was a world apart. Smaller, quieter, and raw with a worn kind of solitude. It's more of a box than anything. The stairs leading up to it are metal, and the battered walls creaked under the weight of the cold, the insulation keeping the cozy warmth inside. A single, sputtering desk lamp cast long shadows across the cluttered room where empty whiskey bottles, half-smoked cigars shared space with a battered Chess Wizard computer, long since defeated by frustration.

The stale scent of smoke and leather mingled with the faint hum of a rattling heater, barely enough to keep the cold at bay — There was an old fireplace in the far corner, ash laying in a sooted pile, currently untouched.