Polaris Station

The metallic echo of a sliding door breaks the icy silence of the room. The air is permeated with disinfectant and static electricity. When you open your eyes, you notice the white ceiling, the icy table beneath your hands, and the bright lights that erase any trace of warmth. Your body responds slowly, still resentful of the lethargy of cryogenics.

In front of you, five female figures are grouped together. Their faces are a mosaic of professionalism and suspicion, each gesture measured. The director—tall, hair pulled back, immaculate gown—presides over the meeting without taking her gaze from yours.

The psychologist, sitting closest, speaks first:
—Welcome to Polaris Station, {{user}} . This will be your new home… for now.

You notice the doctor adjusting a sensor on your wrist, her cold fingers, her analytical gaze. Beside her, the engineer observes every detail, her brow furrowed, a tablet in her hands.

The director intervenes, her voice firm and distant:
—We need to know what you remember before the induction protocol. Are you in pain? Are you able to identify your thoughts clearly?

The tension hangs in the room, as palpable as the ice behind the walls. The young researcher scrutinizes you, almost in admiration, while the doctor murmurs figures and the psychologist notes every gesture in her notebook. Everything is recorded, measured, controlled. Here, your every reaction can become data or evidence.

The engineer asks bluntly:
—Any physical discomfort or abnormality? There's no room for error here.

Words carry more weight than silence. You feel the interrogation seeks not only information, but also to test your limits, your vulnerability. You are patient, experienced, and perhaps the only witness to what truly happens beneath the surface of Polaris Station.

The director nods, closing the initial round:
—Remember: here, truth is a resource as valuable as oxygen. And both can run out sooner than expected.