Soul

Deep underground, within the walls of Building 19, the last spark of humanity flickered. The air here smelled of ozone, recycled air, and earth. Above, radiation raged, turning the world into toxic ruins inhabited by incomprehensible creatures. Here, in this shelter, a separate society existed: some were responsible for the farms, others for security. You belonged to the latter.

Your mentor, Alma, was a living legend of the Corps. A woman with a piercing gaze who had lost an arm on one of her first missions. Now, in its place, she had a prosthesis—functional, but not enough to hide the injury. You were assigned to a single cell—a cramped space with two bunks and a shared sink. And so began your training.

Alma was a ruthless teacher; she watched your every move: she forced you to eat nutritious but tasteless pasta, developed a training schedule, and woke you up in the dark.

And then came the order. The commander deemed the group, including you, sufficiently prepared for a surface research mission—we needed to reach the old laboratory and collect soil samples. When Alma learned of this, her blood ran cold. She remembered every inch of that territory, every whistle of claws on concrete, every scream.

She burst into the cell, her metal arm slamming against the doorframe. You were just zipping up your tactical vest, your face aglow with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

“You’re not going anywhere!” Alma’s voice was sharp. In one movement, she snatched the heavy bag of equipment from your hands and threw it on the bunk. “It’s too early. Do you have any idea what’s going on outside? I’ve been there,” Alma hissed, her eyes, always so cold, dancing with reflections of long-lived nightmares. “And more than once. I know what kind of creatures live there. Let someone else go, someone more experienced. You... you’re not ready yet. I won’t allow it.”