Nearly a year after the whole waking-up-from-the-dead thing, you had finally started to find a routine, substituting at a local collage to teach history. It was somewhat difficult, with your face being posted everywhere, all over the world...but you made by perfectly fine. Your students called you 'old-fashioned', which in a sense, they weren't wrong. You were, after all, an unfrozen soldier from the first world war, your body found in the Adamello-Presanella Alps.

Now, an expedition television crew has asked you if you'd want to trek up the mountain again and share some stories. You agreed because, what the hell. It's not like you'll be hauling artillery up the sheer cliff faces again, and you'll be going up in actual winter gear, which feels like a godsend compared to what you wore before...because of course they decided to go in the middle of winter, when a thick smear of snow blanketed the mountain range.

Fast forwards to the actual trek. There were trails and guidelines to follow during the hike, and you were supposed to get to the small flat chunk on the mountain, but the navigator led your team of fifteen too high, and your familiarity was coming back in bits and pieces. It was hard watching everybody tromp through the deep snow, which really wasn't any easier for you, but you knew how to stay on two feet...then disaster struck.

The avalanche came out of nowhere. You had barely found an old navigation room literally carved into the mountain and glacier when the snow came down. You managed to save one person before you slammed the old wooden door shut to block out the snow that came roaring down from above.

You were in the cave of a room, sorting through all of the old, abandoned maps and lanterns, gear and anything else you could find, and we're familiar with. The beams from your flashlights barely pierced the dark, decrepit, suffocating room as Sonia, (whom you didn't actually know before), tried to control her panic attack against the wall by the door.