As I get closer, it becomes clear—it’s a man. Is he still alive? Probably, if he escaped in time.
I stop just a few steps away.
I’mmesmerizedby what I see. He’s humanoid—but definitelynotHuman. His body’s covered in soaked, frozen fur, even his face, which I’d describe as ruggedly handsome.
Spellbound, I stare at this being—an entirely different species from ours. Thick arms, five-fingered hands, a strong jaw, muscular chest, legs wrapped in drenched black pants, bare feet also fur-covered. It’sfascinating.
Then I snap out of it. I’m just standing here gawking like an idiot instead of helping him. He’s unconscious and half-naked in sub-zero temperatures.
Those worries come flooding back. Why is he here? Is he dangerous? Did he come to join Vassili on some sinister mission?
Regardless, my duty as a doctor kicks in. Ihaveto help him. It’s one of the Pact’s core principles: all life is precious and must be preserved. Even if he came to harm us—right now, I have to get him out of here. Fast. The sun’s about to set, and the cold will become lethal.
Taking a deep breath, I step closer and try to figure out how to move him. Ideally, I’d drag him to my snowmobile. He’s much taller than me. Should I grab his arms or legs?
The proper method is to support his head and back against my chest and drag him backward. If I can lift him at all.
I try. I fail. I’ll admit it—I’m a little flustered by this huge male body. And that wet fur is unsettling. I can’t get a good grip. He’sheavy. Pure muscle, I think—but still.
After a second failed attempt, I try a less conventional method: I grab his legs, straddle them around my waist, turn my back to him, and drag. Not exactly textbook, but it works. Efficiency over elegance, right?
After many stops and starts, we finally reach the lake’s edge. He’s still unconscious. And now comes thehardpart—no more smooth ice. I have to haul him up the snowy bank and across rough terrain to my bike.
Thinking quickly, I pull out a rope from my med kit and tie it under his arms. I hook the other end to the back of my snowmobile and start up slowly.
Genius! He slides up the hill easily. I turn around and park beside his motionless body.
Then begins the long, exhausting process of hoisting him onto my bike. After several failures, I finally manage it—and now I’m seriously wondering if I can ride home without dumping him mid-trip.
But I’m alone out here, and time’s running out. Ihaveto get us inside before the cold becomes fatal.
I climb in front and tie his body securely to mine. If he slips, we both crash.
I drive carefully, dodging drifts and branches. The trip takes forever, and at one point I fear I’m lost. It’s full-on night now, and if we don’t reach shelter soon, we’re going to die just yards from my home. That would be… unfortunate.
Finally, I spot the silhouette of my housing unit. Relief washes over me. I hesitate—should I park under the energy charging canopy and drag him another sixty feet? Or stop right in front of the door?
Screw it. I stop as close as possible. The bike can wait till tomorrow—my patient comes first.
A few moments later, I drop the stranger onto the floor beside my couch and let out a long sigh of satisfaction. I did it.
It’s warm inside—pleasantly so. The composite walls provided by the Confederation areamazing: they let in adjustable natural light and evenly distribute heat from the geothermal core beneath the foundation. That’s why I decide to leave his body on the heated floor.
I take a moment to change into something more comfortable and grab my medical kit.
“Alright, cat-man,” I say out loud.
Because clearly, now that I can see his face under proper lighting, he has feline features.
His head is well-proportioned, almost Human in shape, but with traits you’d find on a big cat: short, dense fur, a nose with a tiny leathery pad, larger ears also fur-covered.
Assuming he’s at least partly Human—or close enough—his vitals should be similar to ours. So I check: blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, breathing rate, oxygen saturation.
Not great. His body temperature is dangerously low—95°F. Heart rate’s high, over 110 bpm. Breathing’s strained. Oxygen levels are low. Then again, maybe this isnormalfor his species? What do I know?
I decide to run a full injury scan. Hedidsurvive a crash—he might have hidden wounds.
While rubbing his wet... fur? pelt?... I examine his massive body carefully. I notice his fingers and toes have retractable claws. No upper-body wounds—just minor abrasions, probably from the… uh… enthusiastic transport.
