CHAPTER ONE : HEST
The snow fell in relentless sheets, blanketing everything outside in a thick, white haze. It muffled sound and made the world feel distant and quiet. The cold wind swept across the empty plains of Shanghai Prefecture’s outskirts, where winter refused to loosen its grip, the land looked as if it was mourning, draped in icy veils that refused to melt. Amid this frozen landscape stood a building out of place, massive and stark, a nuclear fuel reprocessing facility. Its structure was simple but imposing, made of cold steel that shimmered beneath the winter sky. Tall smokestacks pierced the cloud cover, reaching upward like giant spears. They exhaled faint wisps of vapor, twisting and curling into the frosty air, blending with the swirling snow. The facility was no ordinary building, it was a fortress built to hide secrets. Its perimeter was lined with razor wire.
Guards patrolled the fence line, stamping their boots into the frost with crunching sounds, their breath fogged in the cold air as they kept watch, eyes darting over the snow-covered land. Behind the high walls, inside, the atmosphere was sterile. The air was heavy with the hum of machines that never stopped working. Chemicals gave off a faint, sour smell that lingered around the corridors. The labyrinth inside was a maze of concrete halls glowing with bright fluorescent lights. Every turn echoed softly with distant clanks and metallic noises, marking the ceaseless flow of technical activity. Moving through this maze were two figures, almost like ghosts. They were young, too young perhaps, barely entering their teens. Still, they moved with a practiced precision that felt almost like they knew every inch of this place.
The taller one had dark hair, his face mostly hidden behind a scarf that covered his nose and mouth. His eyes were sharp, scanning everything, guided by a mental map burned deep into his mind. His companion was shorter, with messy dark hair that stuck up at odd angles, giving him a wild look. His steps were light but controlled, his face calm showing no hint of fear. Despite the seriousness of their task, a faint smirk played at his lips, a sign of their reckless confidence. They called themselves Lambda and Omicron, visiting a name that sounded almost like code. Lambda’s gloved hand brushed against the cold concrete wall as he paused at a junction, his breath was steady, but his heart pounded quietly in his chest. They had a plan, and they knew time was running out. Hidden behind their vigilance, the cameras’ eyes had been made blind. Omicron had rigged a loop earlier, making the security feeds useless. The guards, tired from a long night shift with little to do, weren’t paying close attention,they had missed the flickering on their monitors, the tiny signs of intrusion. Lambda checked his watch. Minutes remained before alarms might sound, unless they acted fast. Omicron crouched near a locked door, his fingers dancing over a small device humming softly in his hand. A quick press and twist, and the lock clicked open. He pushed the door gently, revealing a chamber flooded in a sickly orange glow from radiation warning signs. Inside, a single canister sat encased in a reinforced steel cradle, no larger than a thermos, it gleamed with polished metal. The word “Plutonium” hung in the air like a dark curse, a dangerous substance with the power to make bombs or cause chaos. Lambda approached carefully, as if in awe of what they were about to take. His hands, steady behind his gloves, unlatched the cradle with care. Despite the weight of what they carried, he moved as if handling sacred relics.
They both understood the stakes. Omicron kept watch, whispering in a low voice. “Ready?” he asked, a flicker of excitement in his tone. Lambda didn’t answer with words. Instead, he slowly lifted the canister and tucked it into a padded case to protect it from shock or leaks. It felt icy and heavy, a reminder of the danger they carried. Omicron grabbed a can of bright red spray paint and, with a quick gasp, scrawled a single word on the wall “HAP.” The letters dripped like fresh blood, stark against the gray concrete. It was a cryptic signature, meaningless to most, but meaningful to them. In Norwegian, “HAP” meant hope, a quiet promise that even amid chaos, they believed in a future free from fear. The escape was loud and chaotic. As soon as they ran, alarms blared through the facility, a piercing scream that shattered the eerie calm, guards rushed to intercept them, shouting orders, but their voices were muffled by the storm outside. Both young men leapt onto snowmobiles, engines roaring to life. The machines tore through the thick snow and icy trails, their bright headlights slicing through the darkness. Behind them, bullets sparked against the ice, closing in but missing by inches. Omicron’s face was a mask of focus, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon where snow, wind, and sky met. Lambda’s laughter echoed, wild and reckless, swallowed by the howling wind. They disappeared into the night, racing away from the chaos. Their snowmobiles roared through the blizzard, leaving only the sound of the wind and the faint echo of “HAP” behind them.
