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They're in the same squad, have been for almost five periods. That's nearly twenty rest cycles together in their current formation. Oscar had kept his distance at first, you have to, can't get a reputation for coveting body heat. That's how you end up pushed outside, pawing fruitlessly at a frozen lock, knowing nobody inside is going to help you. But then. Then. Sleeping mats thrown beside each other for rest cycles, facing away at first but inching towards each other over the regulation eight hours. Others must have done this before, that's what he has to tell himself. They can't be the only ones. It's not about warmth, it's not. Oscar can't even imagine it, their insulated suits keeping contact blunt and clumsy. But in Oscar's mind, all words lead to heat.

Oscar knows that burns can refer to hurt from heat too, he's not an idiot, but he can never get his head around it. Everything here is cold and the cold is so bitter, your own numb fingers touch your leg without any of the feedback, curiosity about the wrongness almost outweighing the pain. The opposite is incomprehensible here.

Day by day they move closer to the pole, deadened feet hitting the ice in unison, everything blue. "War forever," they bump gloves, "war forever."

Then, at rest, Oscar's visor reflected in 55's. He imagines his breath leaking out, boiling instead of freezing as it passes into 55's helmet, and the reverse. He dreams of trading gloves, his subconscious mind satisfied with secondhand touch.

They move, it's all they ever do. Get up, march, rest, don't let anyone see, march again. If this is all there is, their secret blazes somewhere deep in Oscar, a different kind of cold. Out here, frozen is safe, reliable. Melting would be catastrophic.

It happens halfway through an awake cycle, far enough in that Oscar has stopped counting his steps and has fallen into dangerous thoughts of going off-moon. There's a crack, but that's not too unusual, the ice shifts sometimes. They all freeze, it's been drilled into them. Don't shift your weight, wait and see how the ice breaks, don't panic. Don't move. If it gets you, don't drag anybody else down.

Oscar stays still and does not turn towards 55, watching the pattern of cracks spread towards them. It should stop but it's hurt them anyway, they'll have to backtrack and find another way through, the walkers will hear them coming otherwise. The brass will be furious and the team will be pissed. Oscar will have another whole period with 55.

He doesn't see who does it, but one of the warmies ahead of them fucking moves. For a second Oscar thinks they've gotten away with it, time frozen around them, collective breath held inside visors.

Then the cracks multiply. It's quick in the end, spiking out towards them, 55 losing his feet beside Oscar, crashing face-first into the ground. He meets 55's eyes—dark, scared, everything Oscar had hoped for—as the crack on his visor spreads and shatters.