The five soldiers, one straggler, and one more hitchhiker trek up a steep hill in single file order. There is no source of light, but the colonel leads the way without a problem.

“Noah,” the colonel calls without looking back, “come up front.”

The atmosphere is tense when the colonel is in a foul mood. Nobody is certain why. Noah is slightly startled when called, but then remembers that he’s still half-wearing the colonel’s jacket – half-wearing meaning he has it slovenly draped on his shoulders, its hood sticking out and pelted by inches of snow. It’s by no means the proper way to treat someone else’s belonging, but Noah handles it like a rag cloth, toddling along without a care for it.

He finally takes his hands out of his pockets, shrugs off the black anorak and walks up to Yang Rong. It’s commendable that the latter had spent the past half hour in only a shirt and proof vest. “Here.”

Yang Rong raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you’d keep it, considering how comfortably you were snuggled up in it.”

“Take it back,” Noah replies. “It smells.”

“…” Yang Rong snatches it back. His face is quite expressive, eyes slightly narrowed, brows scrunched more angrily than usual, a twitch of muscles by his forehead. Before he puts on the jacket, he sniffs it a little and declares, “…It smells fine.”

Truth be told it does smell, but not particularly in a bad way. There’s an odor of cologne, vetiver, something else woody and musky. It also smells of alpha pheromones, only a hint and not enough to drive him insane. Noah can’t describe it – mildly comforting and discomforting at the same time. Also, inexplicably addictive.

“Your nose must be broken,” he states bluntly.

Yang Rong throws his backpack at him and says with a resigned tone, “Yes, yes, you are the most sharp-tongued person I’ve ever met. The jacket has been washed, but I’ll keep in mind to soak it in floral detergent and send it to the drycleaners for you, alright? Now don’t complain, make yourself useful and carry this.”

The contents in the bag jangle as they land roughly on his arms. There’s something metallic inside – grenades and ammo maybe, but it feels lighter than expected. Noah tosses the backpack over his shoulder and doesn’t speak.

Their dynamic is strange. There’s little trust between them but they aren’t hostile, not outright at least, though Noah has zero qualms throwing the man down a lake if necessary. He believes it’s the same that goes for Yang Rong who would no doubt shoot him if he shows the tiniest deformity.

Nighttime runs long. He’d gotten used to the cold, the wind chill, the soft chatters from the people behind him. The topics are miscellaneous – Hannes, as per usual, leads the conversation. He’s narrating a grand story about the devastating fall of the continental cryobank twenty-six years ago.

“—All it took was one infected person. The casualties were enormous – decades of research, tens of thousands of embryos gone just like that.” Hannes waves his hands around in emphasis. “Imagine! A small bug slipped in through the cracks and nobody saw it coming. The entire vault had to be burned to the ground.”

Noah knows about this one. It can be considered the most devastating event since the magnetic fields sapped in strength and earth shifted to the doomsday they’ve become familiar with now. When paleomagnetic readings were hitting dangerous levels, every nation sought to construct biorepositories to preserve genetic material. Resources were stored to sustain a population of eight billion.

It was unfeasible. Humanity, stripped by solar winds and acute radiation, was prepared to live in underground shelters and concrete bunkers as they faced the threat of extinction. Perhaps now it would only be a matter of time – the artificial field, too, is highly unstable.

The symptoms of infection weren’t as recognized decades ago. The tragedy of the largest embryotic cryobank, colloquially referred to as the ‘Cache,’ dealt an unrecoverable blow to humanity. The reservoir was incredibly large, manned by hundreds of personnel from researchers to janitors to doormen.

“A security guard suddenly started bleeding from his nose, his mouth, then his eyes,” Hannes continues. “Then he sneezed, and his partner made direct contact with the fluids. They didn’t turn into anomalies right away. The internal bleeding spread to everyone in the vicinity and it was even more viral than the goddamn plague.”

He narrates it like he’s reading off a scary ghost story, with the gesticulations and everything. “It was a mutated lizard! Or some amphibian or whatever dinosaur. Anyway, the guard had been injured by one on an expedition without anyone knowing. The worst was…”

The worst was that the personnel weren’t evacuated. They were purged. The infection had to be contained inside. The researchers and other staff scrambled to preserve as much genetic material as they can – froze the safes, hid the preserved embryos, locked the doors and then ushered themselves far out to be killed. They’d done their duties.

The incident is a page on a history book. The Cache was burned down and only a few hundred human embryos were recovered, only to be found later that they also tested radioactively. Countless experiments were conducted and then there were no news – if the censors covered it, then it only means certain unspeakable failure.

“Probability wise,” Noah speaks up unexpectedly, “how likely is it for an infected embryo to survive?”

He notices that Yang Rong has gone silent. In the dead of the night, only the sound of boots crumpling on snow is heard. The blizzard is at repose, finally passing its climax. Even Hannes has stopped to consider the question.

“Zero percent,” the older man answers soon with a smile. “Pretty boy, there is no recorded instance of an embryo being able to survive the radiation. Even if so, the child will be born a hybrid only to completely turn and die in the later stages of mutation.”

Noah weighs his next words. “And if the child survives?”

This time, it’s Yang Rong who looks at him. The pensive gaze is the same as usual – slightly narrowed forest green eyes, upturned brows, pursed lips. Noah can’t help but sigh a little. He thinks the man has known for a long time.

The colonel answers slowly, “It would be an infinite improbability.”

So that’s what he’d decided to call him – an improbability.

“—Excuse me,” says the researcher behind him. The man is polite in all ways, but it may be that he’s intimidated by his previous interaction with the colonel. He coughs before continuing. “I know of Colonel Yang and the exceptional soldiers of the First Unit. However, you are a new face. Might I ask who you are?”

Noah doesn’t care for introductions and replies plainly, “A passerby.”

The person sounds alarmed. “It is with my knowledge that a… passerby is not permitted in the Nordak nor allowed access to the biobank. Colonel Yang, have you granted authorization for this young man?”

The colonel leans over and whispers to Noah, “He’s right. You aren’t permitted to enter.”

“Colonel Yang, we had a negotiation,” Noah says.

“We do. However, I would like you to be more transparent.” Yang Rong lowers his voice even more. He’s less than an inch away now. Noah can feel the warm breaths by his earlobe. “Noah, it is a dereliction of duty for me to bring you here. You do realize that I’m giving you preferential treatment?”

“My reasons are not… harmful,” he replies, conflicted.

“Sightseeing, am I right?”

“…Mm.”

“Noah.”

The way he said his name carries warning. Instinctively, Noah feels smothered by a wave of heat and haziness, the mechanisms of his brain telling him to flee else he’d be defenseless. It’s the pheromones working against him – Yang Rong is trying to manipulate him into obeying. His goddamn alpha genes – Noah tenses and shudders involuntarily. It’s difficult for him to even think straight. He despises it, hates that the voice controls him to such a degree. If not for the cold helping him numb his senses, he’d pounce on the man and violently rip his heart off.

Yang Rong isn’t finished. “Do not leave my line of sight, else—”

“You will shoot me,” he finishes coldly for him. “Loud and clear, Colonel. Do not come any closer to me.”

The man looks surprised by the aggression. Noah thinks he was subconsciously doing it – releasing his alpha scent like that, exploiting him even when unaware. He sighs and takes a deep breath to clear his mind. For now, he needs a change of topic.

Thankfully, Hannes does it for him. Completely oblivious to the brewing tension, he walks up and slaps the white-clothed researcher on the back. “Hey bud, I wasn’t going to bring this up, but silence never quells curiosity. Why are you the only person who came?”

Walker stumbles in his step but recovers quickly. He adjusts his grip on the heavy-duty cargo bag and reports, “Unit 641 has been split up upon encountering a pack of Nymphalidae in the boreal forest. Among the three gatherers and nine soldiers excluding Sergeant Adams, five were suspected of infection and were handled accordingly. A few had suffered vehicle collision injuries beforehand and are headed back to recuperate. The other’s locations are unknown, but I highly speculate that they are grouped with the Sergeant.”

Hannes whistles. “Wow, what a mess. And to think they were only attacked by a pack of butterflies.”

“It was a swarm of mutated ringlets, Sergeant Miller.” The researcher tenses up and says, “They were each smaller than a fingernail but more deadly than venom. When infected by one, the average—”

“—rate of decay is thirty seconds,” Yang Rong cuts in. “First, the area swells blue and purple and then small bumps and blisters begin to form in the radius. After internal bleeding comes pus out of your orifices and finally, if you’re fortunate to survive that long, you will find that the ringlet has already entered through your bloodstream and stuffed you full of eggs. Is that right, Walker?”

“A-Ah, yes.” Walker looks extremely nervous and pale. “That is correct.”

“How did it feel to witness it?”

“…Appalling,” the man answers in a low whisper. “To think there are such atrocious things outside the city…”

“The arctic ringlet also has a very interesting characteristic.” Yang Rong glances at the man’s headgear and says with a small quirk of his lips, “Like many insects, they are positively phototactic and are especially attracted to bright light.”

Walker nods in understanding. “I see… I will be sure to report this blunder to the officials to facilitate expeditions in the future.”

“Walker,” the colonel is still staring at him mystifyingly, “it is rare to survive an insect swarm. How did Adams and you leave unscathed?”

“It…” For someone so erudite, the researcher almost looks nervous to reply. “It was an ambush that unexpectedly caught the men at the forefront. The rest of us fled as fast as we could, but it was unfortunate that we were unable to rescue the three gatherers and the valuable soldiers of the 641^st Unit.”

“Oh, decoy,” Yong Rong muses. “You are quite lucky.”

“I—yes,” Walker agrees hastily. “I am a scientist with no combat ability, so it is my honor to be under your care, Colonel Yang.”

“—What’s in your bag?” Noah’s attention is unexpectedly focused on the cargo bag he carries. It’s much too heavy for the researcher and it sticks out like a sore thumb, a huge army green load tied crisscrossed with ropes and cloth. The zipper is slightly opened in the front, bulking out due to how much is stuffed inside the bag.

“This is—” The researcher stops upon remembering that Noah is an outsider and not someone he should share insider information with. He glances at Yang Rong for affirmation, but the latter doesn’t seem to care. Walker answers the question.

“I am carrying egg and sperm extracts as well as substance vials. The Nexus base has been shipping out genetic material to banks with reproductive technology. Vitro fertilization is crucial to prevent human extinction. With the lack of omegas and fertile young women, the population is…” Walker coughs, his face a tad sheepish. “My apologies, I’ve gotten carried away. I must sound overly passionate.”

“We’re here,” says Yang Rong.

In the vast tundra lies a rectangular-shaped steel box, narrow and short, camouflaged in whiteness. It’s not the slightest bit spectacular up close but it’s praiseworthy how well hidden it is. No common person nor animal would hope to stumble upon it. It is precisely this quality that makes the gene banks so well-constructed and even better protected.

Yang Rong fishes an identification card out of his pocket. Pitch black, no barcode and no picture, just a few golden lines on the corners and a small chip in the center – the sole identifier. The colonel presses against the door of the box, feels around for a slit and then inserts the sleek card. A soft, mechanical beep followed by a buzz and then the door slides downward.

“Walker.” Yang Rong motions for him to go ahead. “You lead.”