It was morning. Or so the clocks would agree, daylight on this world more of a sullen affair than a bright revelation. The soft humming of an air filtration system came from the walls, and there was an empty space under the covers besides the man who just stirred back to life. There were three voices in the kitchen, and the muffled sounds of cutlery and the stove being put to work. Even if the outside seemed bleak and the world beyond it far more daunting, it could hardly stop life from finding a way.
Greeted warmly, by these people who were called family. It seemed that not so long ago connections of this extent were hard to forge, but here it was in the now. Bonds that could not be easily severed. Wife, children, neighbors, and friends. This household had a routine, something that kept the days feeling less mundane than they otherwise might be. And while they may not have been all that much to do on a world like Atka, at least it was Home.
When affection had been conveyed as the people trickled out to start their days, the only thing left for company was the permafrost and distant angular shapes of buildings protruding from the infinite white. Transportation was a communal affair, it had to be, everything had to be. Societies on planets like this could hardly hope to survive if they refused to coalesce and accept the utility of a greater whole. Founded from violence, the towns which sprung up after the war were only just beginning to really set roots and define themselves. The little intricacies which made places feel full and lived in were charming to observe. How children found places which evoked fascination, how young couples gazed upon twilight sunrises whilst in warm embrace, and how the elderly watched the sky be swallowed by progress.
But everything has its price, this world no exception from all the others, these lives no greater or less significant than the other masses of breathing bodies across Sirius. Planetary Defense was necessarily spartan in its commitment, large and well armed, but dour and sprawled across an entire world that was still in its infancy. The diasporas of those that had known nothing but hard times and hopelessness were now their charge. It was a herculean responsibility, it always had been. Ever since the weight of being Commander had been levied on his shoulders all those years ago, things had never really changed. Sometimes the scales would shift, but the weight and magnitudes were always familiar. The challenges a welcome reprieve from the uneasy peace that kept the borders as frigid as the ground trampled beneath his boots.
The walk always helped him think. To be out here with almost nothing and nobody in sight, only that imminent arrival of a shuttle at the landing pad served to break this dour focus. To think that thousands of people had to die so that thousands more could live on a world like this, one that was never truly wanted for any reason other than to serve as a blank canvas. It was now the masterpiece of an artist whose hands had only ever been bound rather than encouraged, and it showed. The strokes were frantic, erratic, and the atmosphere one of desperate survival on a frontier that had no adoration or hatred for its inhabitants. The harshness had never gone away, even with time, the people simply learned to cope and matched their environment.
With a few minutes left to spare before the shuttle would arrive, Damien took note of the fact that all the usual commuters were present. With one exception, a new face - a young boy. Soon, they had taken note of each other while the crowd shuffled to accommodate itself in the limited space that the landing pad offered its passengers, and it seemed like the boy recognized him in particular.
“They used to call you Cobra, didn’t they?” His query, while perfectly innocent and born out of nothing other than curiosity mixed with admiration, was like being shot by a gun loaded with a time capsule. “Yes.” Damien muttered, the image of a bloodied white banner bearing the mark of a Kingsnake flashing in his mind as he answered. “They did.” A distant howling of the wind punctuated familiar faces, now nothing but a tableau of events consigned to his memory alone.
