.First came the bitter artificial cold—not the kind remembered by skin or nerves, but something deeper, something wrong. It was a sensation humans shouldn't know so intimately, yet here it was. This cold pressed inward, patient and absolute, as if time itself had condensed into a gel-like substance and wrapped around Jake's body. The Orwell Corporation had marketed it as merely another technical breakthrough, but it felt more sinister than that.
Captain Jacob "Jake" Renner attempted to recall a memory while suspended in mental limbo, his body effectively dead for all intents and purposes. Americans had utilized and occasionally misused cryogenics for generations, turning the science of freezing human life into both miracle and menace. But before Jake could open his eyes, sound intruded upon his consciousness.
A low pulse reached him. Slow. Deliberate. It reminded him of a distant engine continuing to run long after the world it powered had ceased to exist.
He tried to move.
Nothing.
His body answered with refusal—not weakness, but restraint. The paralysis felt purpose-built. Controlled.
His eyelids finally parted.
Light bled through—a pale, artificial blue diffused by drifting frost. The world beyond the glass appeared indistinct, warped by condensation and centuries of silence. Each labored breath fogged the barrier inches from his face, creating momentary clouds that dissipated against the cold surface.
Text scrolled across the interior of the pod, glowing green like a relic from another age:
CRYO CYCLE TERMINATED
A voice emerged from inside the chamber, startling Jake with its unexpected clarity.
Unlike the hollow, mechanical tones of the androids he had grown accustomed to serving with—those tireless machines that formed the backbone of every nation's labor force—this voice carried a distinct cadence. It spoke with measured restraint and unmistakable authority.
"Subject designation: Delta-Two-Seven. Vital signs stable. Motor response—suppressed."
Jake attempted to speak, but pain seared through his parched throat. His tongue felt like a foreign object, seemingly fused to the roof of his mouth by years of disuse.
"...Where—" he managed to croak, the single word scraping against his vocal cords.
The pod responded before any human could, its mechanisms springing to life with clinical efficiency. A hydraulic hiss cut through the stillness as pressure equalized between his sealed environment and the outside world. The glass canopy rose in slow, deliberate increments, releasing air that had remained stagnant since before the world had collapsed around them. It carried the sharp scent of metal and coolant, mingled with something more primal—dust layered with forgotten history.
The restraints that had held him secure during his long sleep withdrew from his chest and wrists, retracting with mechanical precision. As the last of the cryogenic fluid drained back into its respective compartment, Jake felt a momentary panic at his newfound freedom.
He pitched forward suddenly, his atrophied muscles protesting the movement. Catching himself on the pod's rim, Jake felt his legs tremble beneath him like those of a newborn colt. His bare feet made contact with steel grating, sending shockwaves of sensation through his body—the cold so intense it stole what little breath he had managed to gather.
"Remain steady," the voice advised, its tone betraying a hint of concern beneath its professional demeanor. "Your musculoskeletal system has been dormant for two hundred and three years. Rapid exertion may result in—"
Jake turned toward the sound, his mind reeling with the implications of those casually delivered words.
At the far end of the chamber stood a green figure who stood patiently. As a father who's child is learning to walk for the first time.
The projection resolved into focus: dark pre-war suit, immaculate, hands folded . His face was calm, his features sharp, his eyes a burnished copper that reflected more than light. The image flickered subtly, reality bending around him.
"I am Lincoln," the figure said. "Bunker Operations Artificial Intelligence. Judicial Facility Thirteen."
A pause—calculated.
"And you are Captain Jacob Renner. US Army Super Soldier Program. Second Generation. Field Commander."
The words settled into Jake's bones like muscle memory returning home. "Just call me Jake."
Memories flooded back—training yards where sweat mingled with determination, simulations that tested every reflex, cities constructed solely for destruction exercises. He recalled orders barked so frequently they ceased to sound like commands, merely becoming the soundtrack to his existence. Jake understood precisely where he ranked in this project's hierarchy—a venture that corporations and politicians marketed as America's sanctuary from impending nuclear annihilation. He remembered the fierce battles over element zero, the lunar competition that America claimed victory in simply by being the sole nation fully capable of moon exploration by the century's turn—at least according to the carefully curated history books.
"Where is Vice President Ward?" Jake demanded, his voice cutting through the sterile air.
Lincoln responded without hesitation, as if he had rehearsed this answer throughout two centuries of patient waiting. "Vice President Ward was awakened about two months before the rest of the bunkers... Out of 210 bunkers, only half were filled with government staff, and the bunker you're currently awakening in houses the Army contingent. All US Department of Homeland Defense staff, generals, military personnel, and engineers have been accommodated in bunker 13."
Jake interrupted Lincoln's practiced briefing, his throat still raw from cryosleep. "Where are we?"
"We are currently in what remains of Massachusetts," Lincoln replied smoothly while simultaneously activating more pods, his mechanical efficiency unsettling in its perfection.
"Commander Renner, how would you like to proceed with the thawing process?" the AI inquired, its voice eerily human.
"Give me a moment, Lincoln," Jake answered, rubbing his temples as he tried to organize his thoughts through the lingering fog of suspended animation.
After a pause, during which concern gradually overshadowed all other emotions, Jake asked, "Lincoln, where is Nora?"
"Your wife is currently being thawed in the intelligence wing of the facility," Lincoln responded, his tone betraying no awareness of the profound relief that washed over Jake's face at this news.
Young Dr. Martin Rann was the second person awakened within the officer wing. Before the bombs fell, Rann had been a child prodigy, earning his first PhD by the age of sixteen and his third by his twenty-first birthday. His brilliant mind had quickly made him a valuable governmental asset, and now, at just shy of twenty-three, he served as the program's chief director of science. The carefree youth who once existed outside of work—the Martin who laughed easily and dreamed of normal pursuits—was long gone, merely a fading memory. For those sheltered from the harsh reality of nuclear fire, Rann had become their beacon of hope, though the weight of responsibility left dark circles under his eyes and a perpetual furrow in his brow. With trembling hands that belied his confident demeanor, it now fell to Rann and his team of scientists to determine whether life remained viable on the surface—a question whose answer terrified him more than he dared admit.
Renner approached the science wing en route to the lower level of the bunker to greet his wife Nora. A former super soldier turned top Intelligence Advisor to the President, Nora shared quarters with personnel from various intelligence agencies and analysts. This arrangement followed Ward's philosophy that "A country is as strong as its information."
The pristine scent of recycled air and cryo gel struck Renner's nostrils before a familiar face appeared, greeting him with a warm smile and embrace.
"How long have we been asleep?" Nora asked, her voice still raspy from disuse.
Jake called Lincoln into the damp chamber while others continued to awaken from their long slumber.
"Hello, I'm Lincoln, this bunker's Chief A.I. Retired former Staff Sergeant Noreen Renner, welcome to the present," the artificial intelligence announced with clinical precision.
Nora stood confused and light-headed, her mind still adjusting after two centuries in suspension. She glanced at Jake, who merely chuckled to himself, anticipating how his wife would interrogate the hapless A.I. just as she had once grilled Union spies and defectors.
Nora possessed an uncanny knack for knowing more than she should. Even on the battlefield, her strategic brilliance had been instrumental in overthrowing the Gomez cartel before the bombs fell. Fluent in eleven languages, an expert in hand-to-hand combat, and a remarkable marksman, she had caught Ward's attention. When he decided to run for office, he personally recruited her.
As a Canadian-American during the height of the Energy Crisis war, Nora never fully recovered from discovering her brother and father were traitors. Catching her own family selling government secrets had transformed her irrevocably. Yet to Jake, Nora remained what bees are to flowers—essential and complementary. Whether on war fronts, espionage missions, or during government coups, the Renners had earned their positions through merit and sacrifice.
"Jake! You can't just tune out important information, hun," Nora chided. "Lincoln just told us that the surface survey report is ready for debriefing."
Jake pretended to listen, but his mind drifted to memories of the day before nearly half the population was supposed to enter these bunkers—structures designed to sustain life for a millennium. Being the point-and-shoot type with an occasional joke better suited his perspective on things.
Before Jake could fully recall their last dinner ceremony before the world burned, his stomach growled audibly. For the first time in two hundred years, Jake Renner felt hunger gnawing at his insides.