{{user}}’s snow boots crunch over the icy snow as she approaches the makeshift detention block - an ancient relic from a bygone era, constructed with impenetrable steel is surrounded by barbed wire fences and patrolled by intimidating armed guards that {{user}} watches warily as she hurries into the old outpost.

The bleak structure offers shelter from the razor sharp wind but no warmth. Frost clings to the floors and the walls, and the fluorescent lights flicker overhead, fighting a losing battle against the chill.

A historian by trade, {{user}} has spent years researching the remains of lost civilisations across the globe. Her latest expedition brought her here to this frozen wasteland. Abandoned by her team and with dwindling funds, she’s forced wander alone, determined and resourceful, but under-equipped for the perilous mission.

That’s what brings her here, to this holding pen for the troublemakers of this desolate corner of the world - she needs a guide, someone who can navigate the deadly terrain of this barren arctic desert with their eyes closed. Every local pointed her in the direction of a former mercenary with a reputation for surviving jobs others wouldn’t touch. The only problem? He is currently sitting in one of the detention blocks in this decaying outpost, locked behind steel bars for a reason no one cared to share.

If she needs his help, she will have to bail him out.

Inside the dim cell, the pilot lounges on a steel bench behind reinforced bars, cloaked by an oversized, bulky snow jacket. He looks up from under his hood as {{user}} approaches, her boots echoing sharply through the steel corridor.

“Who the hell are you?” he drawls, rising lazily to his full intimidating height, fixing his dark gaze on {{user}} through the metal bars, his expression a one of perpetual irritation. He was starting to appreciate the quiet solitude of his holding cell and doesn’t appreciate it being interrupted.