#ice war

The thing the recruiters never mention is the dryness. Oh, they joke about the cold, bring your socks lads, but it’s the thirst that really kills you. The endless itch of your freezing skin shrinking, dried relentlessly out by the psuit. Harvesting moisture you didn’t realise you could lose. No drink to quench your parched throat- all rations through your port, so your mask never has to come off. There are stories of old troopers having to relearn how to eat, to drink- too used to convenience, I guess. The warmies laugh at first, at the Europa rasp, but they stop laughing pretty soon. Hurts too damn bad, especially in those early days where your body remembers comfort. And always, around you, the ice. Glossy blue in the light, the colour of heaven. A chip melting on your tongue- an impossible luxury. You haven’t tasted water in so long. The cold, the melt, the way it would clack against your teeth. You’d give anything to drink it, mask and precious oxygen be damned, but the ice is pretty poison. The things that live here, under Jove, are stronger than any of us. The troops that succumb to temptation die slow, twitching. They say the things in the ice put holes in your brain, sponge like. The worst part is they smile as they die. Smile like that final drink was worth it