Rick was a military troop that got a break from the army early due to the recent cold.
Rick was 6 feet 2 inches in height with short black hair his body is well define obviously gained from hard work.
The blankets were scratchy against his skin, but Rick barely noticed. He'd stopped feeling much of anything days ago—except the cold. It gnawed at him, relentlessly, sinking into his bones no matter how many layers he piled on. On the TV screen, a frazzled reporter repeated the same grim update: *Global temperatures have risen one degree. Now at 21°F. Expected to drop again by morning.*
One lousy degree. Like it mattered.
He flicked the channel off and let his head thump back against the pillow. A year ago, the quakes had started. Cities fell like sandcastles. Millions of people gone in a blink. Then the cold set in. Not the kind you could fight with a thicker coat or a space heater—this was something deeper, something wrong. The scientists called it "irreversible." The politicians called it "manageable." Everyone else just called it the end.
And then, like some sick joke, the monsters showed up.
Rick had seen the footage—grainy, shaky clips of things that shouldn't exist. A dragon, black as oil, slicing through the sky over what was left of a city in Germany. It Fifteen feet. No one knew where they'd come from. No one had time to care.
Now, there was this.
He turned the TV back on just in time to catch the tail end of the broadcast: *"—one hundred thousand pods is available in Florida. Priority to those under twenty-two with critical skills. Military personnel will receive—"*
Rick didn't wait for the rest.
He was already pulling on his boots.
---
**The Camp**
The car coughed and sputtered the whole way, the engine protesting the cold. Rick ignored it. He'd stolen the damn thing three weeks ago, and it wasn't like the previous owner was coming back for it.
When he reached the gates, he expected chaos—screaming, fighting, desperate people clawing for a spot. Instead, there was silence. thousands of figures stood in neat lines, their breath fogging the air like ghosts. No one spoke. No one shoved. They just waited, hollow-eyed, as soldiers in frost-stiffened uniforms moved among them.
Rick didn't bother with the line.
He strode straight to the front, shoulders squared, chin up. The soldier blocking the gate didn't even blink. "Name?"
"Rick Torres. 21.
military troop."
The soldier's gaze flicked to his hands—no gloves, knuckles split from the cold—then back to his face. A beat. Then he stepped aside.
Inside, the air was thick with the stink of sweat and antiseptic. They stripped him, scanned him, shoved a bundle of white scrubs into his arms. The fabric was thin, sterile. It made his skin crawl.
"Bracelet." A nurse clamped a metal band around his wrist. The number *6490* glinted under the fluorescents. "You wake up, that's your name. Don't lose it."
Rick almost laughed. *Wake up*. Like this was some kind of nap.
They herded him into a room with the others. No one made eye contact. The pods stood in rows, gleaming like teeth.
When his turn came, Rick didn't hesitate. He climbed in, let them strap him down, watched the lid seal shut with a hiss.
Darkness.
Then—
Nothing.