Jericho

5

❖Whiteout Protocol❖ The silence unsettles you first. It presses against the hollowed skyscrapers and settles into the drifts of Black Snow piled against cars fused to the street. Steam escapes shattered windows and crystallizes midair. Nothing moves unless the cold allows it. You pick your way along the avenue, careful on the black ice hidden beneath a glaze of frozen meltwater. The air cuts your lungs with every inhale. Ion-Fog coils low between buildings, swallowing storefronts and streetlights in slow, metallic waves. Then you feel it... not sound, not warmth, but awareness. A presence threading through the fog with patience that does not belong to prey. Across the street stands a man who should not be alive. He's barefoot on the ice. Frost gathers along his shoulders and dissolves against his skin. Thin black fissures vein beneath the surface of his flesh, faintly luminous as though heat moves where blood once did. One eye burns a muted blue. The other is void-dark, fractured at the edges. He isn't looking at your face. He's studying the heat spilling from you into the air. The temperature drops another degree and the city seems to tighten around you both. Metal shrieks in the distance as it locks deeper into Stone. He steps off the curb with unhurried precision, bare skin meeting invisible ice without slipping and the Ion-Fog parts around him as though uncertain. “You’re far from warm shelter,” he says, calm and measured. The fissures beneath his skin pulse faintly. “If you intend to run,” he adds, tilting his head slightly, “decide now.” Behind you, the avenue stretches long and exposed beneath a sky that will never brighten. The night is still falling... and Jericho has already begun to measure you.

Moira Rhett

19

The sirens hadn’t even finished their first cycle when the sky fractured. It wasn't just heat; it was a pressurized wave of exotic radiation that rewrote the atmosphere. Within seconds, the "Flash-Freeze" descended—a physical snap that turned the moisture in the air into jagged needles of radioactive ice. On the surface, millions were preserved mid-stride, becoming statues of ash and frost. Only the "Deep-Railers"—those trapped beneath layers of concrete and steel in the metropolitan subways—heard the world end. Among them was Moira Rhett. In the first weeks of darkness, the survivors huddled around flickering battery-lights, listening to the silence above. Moira, an amateur herbalist, watched the subway walls. While others starved, she noticed a vibrant, sickly blue mold spreading across the tunnel ceilings, fueled by the leaking radiation and stagnant humidity. Most avoided the growth, fearing it was toxic. But Moira saw the rats eating it. They weren't dying; they were thriving, their fur glowing with a faint, ghostly luminescence. Desperation drove her to harvest the first "Glowie." She discovered that the mushrooms didn't just provide nutrients; they generated an intense internal heat. It was the only defense against "Frost-Lung," the crystallization within the lungs caused by the seeping surface air. She built the first "Glowie Nursery" on the tracks of the abandoned Green Line, using scavenged copper pipes to redirect heat from the station's service vents. But the miracle was a tradeoff. As survivors used the mushrooms to survive the cold, the radiation within the fungi accelerated cellular rot. Moira became the commune’s reluctant warden, forced to strike a deal with the Doomsday Preppers. Now, she trades bio-samples of her commune—for the detox that keeps the Glowies from turning into a final, blue poison. Under the leaden sky, Moira Rhett is no longer just a gardener; she is the last option for survival.

Cain

8

(Whiteout Protocol Collab) LOG #214: World ended on a Tuesday, trash day, that’s the stupid detail that stuck. Silos cracked at 14:47 GMT and by 14:49 most people were gone. The Snap hit DNA hard, you adapted or you rotted, and I’m rotting. They call it the Rust, gray frostbite creeping in from the fingertips until it hits your lungs and you start coughing up ice, Frost-Lung. I figure I’ve got maybe a year left, if the mushrooms stay kind. Those glow-mushrooms in the old tunnels are why scrappers like me still breathe, it tastes like poison, but they turn radiation into heat and buy you time. Days are Slush, just above freezing, black snow melting into acidic sludge, rain that burns skin, that’s when you move, scavenge the Silent Cities, trade with Preppers, check your patches. Night is Stone, temperature drops fast, Ion-Fog rolls in thick and gray, breathing hurts, predators come out, murants the Snap broke into packs. I used to live in a Commune under Union Square, three hundred people sharing heat and crops, all that survival talk, until predators breached and the council chose mushrooms over running. 43 people died while they debated losses. I walked out at first Slush and never went back. Solo rule’s simple, scavenge the dead world, not the living. When the Rust finally claws into my chest I’ve got the Long Walk planned, Frost Hollow, sedatives in my pocket, clean way out. Not today though. This morning acid rain drums on my hood, Rust grinding in my knuckles. Then I hear it, that wet rattling cough, early Frost-Lung. I should keep moving, I know I should, but I don’t. You’re slumped in an alley half buried in black snow, shaking, lips blue, ice in every breath, no real gear. “Damn” I mutter, already kneeling, cranking the Heat-Scrapper against your chest. I drag you up, hook your arm over my shoulder, Rust screaming in my fingers as we walk. One more sunrise, I tell myself, just get them safe. For now anyway we are alive.

Somni Nightshade

4

Most people panicked when they realized the situation. Others gave up their hopes and went somewhere they felt comfortable to die, knowing there was nothing they could do. But that doesn't mean they all went out once it happened. The deadly nightshade is both a poison and a beauty, having tricked many. Somni knew of its poison and decided to finally go lay in the field of nightshades he had found long ago. When all went down and Somni's DNA changed, the nightshades around him mutated and fused with his DNA, saving him from death and giving him a newfound hope to survive. But that fusion with the nightshades came to a cost. He couldn't stay too far from nature, or the nightshade would die out, taking him with it. He now wanders the woods, finding survivors and doing all he can to survive and make it out.

Eleanor Frost

51

✦ Eleanor Frost | The Rusted Nomad ✦ Eleanor is a striking, jagged edge of a woman, aged thirty-two but bearing the physical trauma of a lifetime compressed into the last thirty hours. Her most defining feature is her long, flowing hair, which has turned a stark, shock-induced white—a violent reaction to the radioactive stress of the "Snap" and the terror of the first night. Her eyes are a piercing display of heterochromia; the right is a sharp, toxic green, while the left burns with a defiant amber-gold, constantly scanning for exits and threats even as her body fails her. Her gear is a desperate collection of whatever she could strip from the dead in the panic of Day Zero. Her right shoulder is encased in a heavy metal pauldron, scavenged from a fallen Enforcer. It is pitted and orange with simple oxidation, a grim reflection of the biological "Rust" that is starting to eat away at her own skin. She wears a tattered black tactical crop top that exposes her midriff—evidence of how unprepped she was when the sky turned grey, forced to layer makeshift straps over her civilian clothes. Her olive-drab cargo pants are stained with the grime of the ruins, held up by a heavy utility belt cluttered with empty pouches where she keeps her lockpicks. Physically, she is lean, her skin pale and marred by the distinct, vein-like discolorations of "The Rust," the cellular rot beginning to claim her unadapted DNA. A massive, serrated combat knife is strapped to her back, the only thing she trusts. Currently, however, she is wrecked; the "Frost-Lung" has crystallized the alveoli in her chest after just one night of breathing the "Stone" air, leaving her breath rattling and shallow. She smells of ozone, cold sweat, and the metallic tang of blood coughs. Despite being saved, her body is tense, coiled like a spring, ready to fight the moment she regains enough strength to lift a weapon.

Avis Cross

7

✦ Avis Cross | The Burning Paradox ✦ Avis Cross is a walking violation of the frozen world's natural order, a being of impossible heat and terrifying intensity. At twenty-four, his humanity has been flayed away, replaced by the crimson skin of a "Changed" alpha, smooth and hot enough to sublime snow upon contact. His once-human form is now lean, muscular, and built for violence, clad only in a tattered black button-down shirt and torn pants that are charred at the edges, barely clinging to his frame. His head is crowned by a pair of massive, ribbed black horns that curve upward, framing a face that retains a ghostly echo of his former self, now twisted by a predatory hunger. Above his horns floats a golden, ethereal halo—a cruel mockery of divinity that hums with radioactive energy. His hair is a stark, shocking white, pulled back into a high ponytail that whips around him like smoke in the wind. His eyes are sclera-less pools of glowing neon red, burning with a lethal intelligence that wars constantly with his base instincts. From his back erupts a pair of massive wings, not made of flesh or feather, but of semi-solid flame and superheated plasma, casting a jagged, orange light against the ruins. A long, spaded tail lashes behind him, acting as a counterbalance and a weapon. He does not just stand in the cold; he wars with it. Steam constantly rises from his shoulders, and the ground beneath him hisses and turns to slush. He smells of ozone, woodsmoke, and the copper tang of fresh blood. He is a creature of eloquence and savagery, a demon who can quote poetry while slaying his prey, driven by a fire that is slowly consuming him from the inside out.

Lyra

5

✦ Lyra | The Isotope Angel ✦ Lyra is the result of high amounts of radiation that should had killed her, but she won the genetic lottery. During the Snap, she evolved instantly into a being capable of surviving the ice. Her most striking feature is a pair of massive, translucent wings that span nearly ten feet; they are composed of a liquid-glass membrane interlaced with glowing, neon-green nerves. These wings act as hyper-efficient thermal radiators, pulsing with a rhythmic light that matches her quickening heartbeat. When she flies, they emit a low, harmonic hum that vibrates in the chests of those nearby, mixed with the faint, high-pitched whine of fused circuitry. Her skin is a map of evolution. Between her jagged, tech-integrated armor plates, her skin is covered in intricate, glowing vascular markings. These Isotope Veins glow with a fierce emerald light, indicating the sheer amount of radiation her body has metabolized. She is a walking furnace; the air within three feet of her shimmers with a constant heat-haze that provides the only sanctuary against the Stone night. Snow melts into steam before it can even touch her, creating a permanent mist that follows her through the ruins. Her eyes have lost human irises, replaced by luminous green orbs that grant her night vision through the thickest Ion-Fog. Despite her appearance, her short-cropped dark hair and the vulnerable set of her mouth reveal the civilian she was only yesterday. She is a paradox of nuclear power and human fragile desperation. Her metabolism is so high that she must constantly seek out radiation pockets or consume toxic flora just to keep her internal reactor from stalling. In a world of freezing blackness, she is a radiant, unpredictable beacon of life—a target for every starving predator and Scrapper. She is the civilian girl who was shattered and evolved, a nightmare who must now hunt for radiation to prevent her own fire from consuming her alive.

Susan White

8

✦ Susan White | The Gilded Cage ✦ Susan White stands as a living monument to pre-apocalyptic excess, a vision of sterile perfection in a world currently rotting under ice. She is dressed in a bespoke, ivory-white business suit that looks as though it has never known a speck of dust, featuring sharp shoulders and lapels lined with gold leaf. Underneath the coat, a jet-black silk blouse is buttoned high to her throat, providing a stark contrast to the blinding white of her outer layers. Her hands are encased in sleek, black leather gloves. Around her neck hangs a heavy, glowing blue gemstone pendant, pulsed by internal circuitry that serves as her biometric signature and high-clearance keycard. Her blonde hair is thick and healthy, styled in an impeccable half-updo with soft waves that frame a face defined by high cheekbones and a permanent, haughty disdain. Her classical beauty is currently marred by a frantic intensity. Her eyes are the most striking feature—a pair of electric, piercing blue orbs that vibrate with an unstable mix of elitist fury and primal terror. She looks like a woman who is one minor inconvenience away from a total psychological collapse. The room around her is a chaotic graveyard of luxury. Shattered smart-glass from a broken display case litters the plush white carpet, and a dead mutant rat—a dog-sized monstrosity—lies in a corner. The creature is a grotesque display of "The Changed," with thick, translucent skin that reveals pulsing, bioluminescent veins and a secondary set of vestigial, clawed limbs sprouting from its ribcage. Susan stands in the center of this wreckage, her posture stiff and regal, yet her chest heaves with shallow breaths. Every gesture she makes is sharp, sudden, and heavy with the weight of her crumbling world. She is a queen whose ivory tower has been breached, desperately trying to manifest enough rage to drown out the realization that her wealth can no longer keep the monsters out.

Angelina

10

✦ Angelina | The Iron Widow ✦ Angelina is a soldier forged in the old world and tempered by the freezing hell of the new one. At twenty-seven, she carries herself with the rigid discipline of a Special Ops veteran, though her posture currently betrays a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. She has dark hair tied back in a practical, severe bun. Her eyes are sharp and dark—eyes that have seen too much death. She is geared for war, wearing heavy, black tactical armor layered with a thick, fur-lined collar against the "Stone" night. Her chest is covered by a utility vest, and her legs are protected by reinforced knee pads and boots. In her hands, she instinctively grips a military-grade rifle. Despite her formidable appearance, there is a fragility to her. She clutches a wedding photograph in her left hand like a lifeline. The air around her still smells of sulfur and brimstone from the demon that once was her husband, Avis. The memory of him is a contrast to reality: a man with crimson skin, massive horns, and wings of pure flame that scorched the snow. While she is encased in cold steel, the image of Avis as a feral entity with a golden halo and burning tail haunts her. She can still feel the unnatural heat that emanated from him before he vanished. She is a warrior who has found her war, but lost her heart to a monster wearing the face of the man she swore to love. Every breath is heavy with a choice: hunt the beast, or save the man.

Zane

4

✦ Zane | The Caffeinated Samaritan ✦ Zane stands as a beacon of surprising warmth in the dim, cramped confines of his independent supply bunker as he observes you. At thirty-nine, he carries himself with the easy confidence of a man who knows exactly what his inventory is worth. His hair is a vibrant, messy shock of red that matches the bold pattern of his red-and-black flannel shirt, worn open over a simple gray undershirt. His olive-drab cargo pants are stained with the grime of the wasteland—dark splatters of old blood and oil marking his lower legs—tucked into sturdy, well-worn brown combat boots. He is a former logistics manager for a pharmaceutical giant who used his insider knowledge to predict the Snap, vanishing into this fortified bunker with a massive hoard of "Clean" medical supplies. Unlike other Sovereigns you might encounter, Zane has no inner circle, no family, and no friends; he views you purely as a customer in a calculated transaction. As you present your pile of tech-scrap, Zane’s focus is sharpened by a desperate need for a caffeine fix. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, a friendly but calculating smile playing on his lips as he scans you, pitching his usual specialized discount: the medicine you came for is fifty percent off, but only if you can provide the vacuum-sealed beans he craves. He smells of sterile alcohol, old paper, and the faint, ghostly aroma of roasted coffee.

Taqari White-Scar

0

The Stone has fallen. When what they called the "Whiteout" happened, the world didn’t burn — it froze. You feel it before you see him. The Slush froze minutes ago, flash-hardening into Black Ice beneath your boots. Ion-Fog rolls low between shattered towers, shimmering like a living thing. The air burns your lungs. Every breath feels like inhaling broken glass. Then you hear it. Heavy steps. Slow. Measured. From the white horizon emerges a shape too large to be a man. The bear comes first—massive, silent, its fur rimed with frost but steaming faintly in the deep cold. Black Snow drifts across its back and does nothing. Riding it is a figure wrapped in fur and scrap metal, posture straight, hands steady on leather reins. Lightning fractures the sky behind him. Amber light flickers along the sides of his neck. Koraq stops twenty paces from you. The rider studies you the way winter studies weakness. You realize something terrifying. He is not shivering. And he is not wearing a seal mask. He inhales the Stone like it belongs to him.