CJ
Lancer
The Siberian wilderness, far from the warm retreat of civilization, a desolate compound stood as a grim testament to the Combine’s merciless reach. The frigid wind howled through the stark, snow-covered landscape, carrying with it a sense of desolation that matched the bleakness of the camp, called Dukat (Дукат)
The camp itself was a collection of rusted structures and makeshift buildings, hastily assembled from repurposed buildings. Barbed wire fences, covered with frost, lined the perimeter. Snowflakes danced in the howling wind as the cold would bite into the bones of the laborers. Looming watchtowers stalking and tracking their prey, ready to pounce if they’d stop moving.
Children's faces flushed red from the cold and exhaustion. They trudged through the snow in ragged and tattered clothing. The clothes provided barely shielded them from the biting Siberian temperatures. They worked tirelessly, their small hands numbed by the cold, operating heavy machinery that groaned and clanked under the strain of constant use.
The camp's living quarters are a stark contrast to the outside. Inside, the air was thick with a clinical aroma, much like a hospital. Narrow bunks lined the walls, each barely wide enough to accommodate a child, and the floor was covered in a layer of white marble. The faint glow of flickering, malfunctioning lightbulbs did little to dispel the gloom, casting long, shivering shadows that seemed to move with the wind outside.
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