2359. Siberia.

Many miles across, an endless labyrinth of trenches and settlements stretches as far as the eye can see. It is the 24th Century and there is only war.

It is the Cold Front. Each day, five men are shot - their bodies used to keep the fires alight. The fires glitter in the snow - beacons to those who seek death. 

Like pilgrims on a lonely trail, dozens arrive every day. Dozens arrive in this forsaken place to die. They come from as far west as Poland. As far east as Mongolia. 

Sooner or later, they all die. 

These two half-nations remain locked in contempt and hatred. With no fuel to burn, they burn ammunition. The constant chatter of ancient machine guns. A thousand dead every day. Those that aren't burned lie in the snow, hidden and preserved through the ages. There are stories of men finding their grandfathers lying in the snow, perfectly preserved. There are stories of men looting their grandfathers for their ever-precious ammunition.

To the south, the ruins of Moscow lie untouched by either side. The old city is home only to bandits and barbarians now. Feral children lost in the cities from the old years are all grown up now. They form tribes. They form cults. In one of the most advanced cities of the old years, isolated people practice primitive rituals. Fire is worshiped for the life it brings. 

It is the 24th century. Mankind is nothing but an ancient relic. A stain on the face of the Earth. And every day, more die. The old cities become tombs, ancient monuments to the civilisations that once existed there. For there is no civilised life-form on Earth now. There is merely a struggle between the wild and the foul. The untamed and the corrupt. 

Humanity peaked and humanity fell. Nowhere is safe anymore. The snow is slowly reclaiming its lost territory. One by one, the fires are going out. 

The End

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