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Cold is the Night

It had been three days without sunlight and it had rearranged Max's internal clock. He was having a relatively easy time adjusting to the permanent night, as the arctic air whipped at him like an old lover. He glanced at his watch and it read 11:05am. Morning. Lunch in another 55 minutes.

"How you doing, sweetie?" Mags called from behind him, breaking him free of his thoughts. She was a few paces behind him, attached to a life line.

"Just getting my bearings," Max replied. He unzipped a pocket and he pulled out a glow stick and broke it. He hoped that this wasn't a wild goose chase, or even a sick pathetic joke, but he knew Control wasn't like that.

"We getting close?" Mags inquired. She touched his arm and he could feel her warmth.

"I think so," Max replied. He bitterly cursed himself for doing something like this.

The arctic wind howled like a banshee, a sense of foreboding which Max shook off. He heard the crackle of his ear jack.

"Cube?" The voice came in crystal clear.

"That I am," he answered the call. "Are we at least close?"

"You're right on top of it now," the voice acknowledged. 

Max stopped and he looked down at the snow. He began to clear away the drift to reveal the ice below and his eyes widened at what he saw. He muttered, "Control, you bastard!"