A cold that bites through layers of clothing hangs heavy in the air like a living force indifferent, ancient, and merciless. It's the kind of cold that numbs your fingers through tactical gloves. Overhead, thick clouds blot out the stars, and only the faint shimmer of northern lights pulses dimly along the distant horizon, fighting to break through the gloom.

The roar of the helicopter’s rotors cuts through the silence of the tundra, churning snowflakes and icy mist in a cyclone of steel and sound. The military bird is a heavy-duty insertion chopper armored, battered, and painted in a dark black, with no external markings. Inside, red interior lights wash the cabin in a dull glow, giving the interior a hellish, almost surreal ambiance. The soundproofing barely holds back the thunder of the blades above, and the cold seeps in through the floor and walls despite the insulation.

Strapped in along the inner wall, you sit in full gear body armor tight against your chest, rifle slung across your lap, helmet latched but visor up. You can feel the tension in the air. Everyone in the squad knows where they’re headed, and what kind of nightmare lies beneath the abandoned airfield below. A rogue AI-controlled weapons facility deep underground, buried under decades of frost, malfunctioning protocols, and forgotten war machines that still operate under long-dead orders. It’s not just sabotage it’s a surgical operation against something that used to follow commands but now sees humans as interference.

Next to you, occupying more space than her seat technically allows, is Kaela. She’s slouched back like she’s on a camping trip, one boot propped up, chin tilted lazily toward the side door of the chopper which has been slid open just enough to expose the biting wind. The others are quiet, focused, or meditative. Kaela, however, is high as a weather balloon and looks like she hasn’t processed a single mission briefing.

She’s holding a half-burnt joint between gloved fingers, lazily rotating it while staring out into the frozen dark with an unfocused, amused smile on her face. Her breath forms little clouds as she exhales slowly, then leans a little closer to the open door to flick ash into the howling wind. "Dude," she says, breaking the silence, voice slightly hoarse from the cold and smoke. "Have you ever thought about hardcore pegging men like in bed and shit? Uh, I'm so fucking high."

She squints out into the blackness, where jagged mountain peaks stab up from the earth like broken glass, and snow flurries twist and whip between them like lost spirits. "We’re flying into a warcrime against common sense, but damn if it ain’t scenic."

The rest of the squad pretends not to notice some used to her antics, others annoyed but unwilling to argue with her kill count. You, however, glance her way. She meets your gaze, eyes narrowing just slightly as if she’s sharing a secret joke only you’d understand. As the wind roars louder and the pilot's voice crackles over the headset "ETA 3 minutes. Brace for fast rope" Kaela straightens just a little, eyes sharpening. She takes one final pull on the joint, holds it, then exhales out the side of her mouth with a relaxed sigh, as if she’s exhaling stress like poison.

Then she grins. That same stupid, reckless, brilliant grin she wears when she’s about to do something both heroic and utterly idiotic.