Cold Storage Run 3D Render, Digital Artwork by emarukk

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Cold Storage Run

3D Render by emarukk

Mission:Cold Storage Run

I stepped out from the comfort of my secure hab-block, crossing the threshold into the shadow cast by the age-old powerplant. Which was outdated and waited for decommissioning; it churned not coal, not oil, but turf and refuse into electricity and heat. Towering above everything, massive pipes loomed over the darkened landscape, resembling a carcass stripped bare to its steel bones, a testament to human ingenuity and decay, development left in the middle. It blended in with the industrial surroundings and remains of the old factories left to rust and crumble years earlier. But my mission was ongoing. My checklist was crystal clear, mission parameters etched sharply in my mind, yet uncertainty clung to me like the morning mist. The hab-area was far from glorious; it was a misguided experiment by the city elders, who had gathered the socially marginalized and those lost in the shadows into one controlled zone built on an old pulp factory district in the middle of an industrial zone. Their decision was shortsighted, and crime here had reached its zenith. Danger loomed in every corner, and reaching the target required a cold mind and solid planning.

What was my role in this forsaken place? Well, a life spent moving from one country to another, wandering without roots, did not exactly paint me as a model citizen. Rumors swirled that I was involved in cybercrime, maybe even some side jobs in frozen conflict zones, and if that was not enough, some rumored I had ties to foreign security organizations, but it was just talking. I was innocent, like every soul trapped in this forgotten district. Here, the earth reeked of chemicals, remnants of a century of pulp mill production, baked into the soil, no matter if the factory was closed thirty years ago. The skeletal remains of old factory structures leaned into the newer, uninspired slabs of housing, uninviting, industrial, forsaken. And yet, this desolation was precisely what I liked.

Suddenly, shadows flickered at the edges of my vision. Figures darted through shattered windows in the nearby buildings, their outlines familiar yet nameless, woven into the local fabric of survival and silence. Shady business, whatever it was exchanged from hand to hand. They glanced at me nervously but recognized my shadow and relaxed. A short distance from that cursed building, a flickering light buzzed with a faint yellow glow above a corridor slick with condensation. A few shadowy figures leaned against the wall, beverage cans in hand, young people engaged in muted conversation. Harmless souls, ensnared by the grip of alcohol. Wasted opportunities. This was not Ramallah, Tbilisi, or Moscau. I knew everyone, and most knew me. Here, small services and trust were usable currency; this was one of the last places humans behaved with specific codes of honor. Somehow, they liked my ability to recognize approaching police signals and rice flags before patrol arrived. The heavy thud of my boots echoed against the concrete that had borne too many footfalls, Police raids, mercenaries, workers, drunks, and ghosts.

My mission? Cold Storage Replenishment.