“Our responsibility is to do what we can, learn what we can, improve the solutions, and pass them on.”

— Richard P. Feynman

Britain perched atop a rusted gantry like a grizzled hound. He glared down at a pack of whelps while his boots ground grit into the iron grating. The Gateway's roar clawed the air, a guttural hymn that shook the earth like a beast rousing from a millennia's slumber. The Northland wind howled through the spire's lattice. It was bitter with ash and the tang of scorched steel, tugging at his patched coat like a beggar's claw.

He glanced at the battered clipboard in his hand. A yellow warning light blinked next to Conduit Lambda Seven. Pressure variance. He frowned and tapped the screen until the light died. Sensors were always glitching in this heat. He didn't have the spare parts to chase ghosts.

His eyes, sunken in sockets bruised by sleepless nights, raked the recruits below. Bags heavy as coal sacks dragged his eyelids half-shut. Three decades he'd clawed through this hell, from boy to man, grunt to foreman. His flesh was a map of scars from rad-burns and blowouts, his lungs a rasp of dust and spite. Once, he'd craved this post, a lad drunk on tales of glory. Now, he spat on its ashes. The Gateway was a cruel mistress that drank lives and shat ruin.

"It takes guts, lads," he bellowed. His voice was a gravel churn over the hum, kneading his temples where a headache pulsed like a forge hammer. "More'n most've got in their shrivelled sacks."

His glare swept the sorry lot. They were green as spring sap and wet as drowned rats, a gaggle of bony whelps fresh from mammies' skirts. Not a proper man among them, he reckoned. Damn the Forge. There was a sprinkling of girls too, knobby knees and limp wrists mocking his pleas to Barbuda for brawn. He'd begged for steel, not this pack barely fit to lift a spoon. Yet here they huddled, shivering in the shadow of the spire. The rust-eaten titan soared skyward, its iron skin aglow with a dull, angry sheen that could blister flesh at a glance.

"You'll sweat blood here," he roared, straining over the Gateway's bellow. "Harder'n you've ever dreamed. Mark me."

He watched them wilt beneath the prefab barracks' ring. They stood a mile from the Firewall's searing edge, close enough to taste its heat—a dry, metallic sting that scorched the throat—but far enough to dodge its molten wrath. Step outside without gear, and the sun would brand you red as a furnace in minutes. The Northland Kingdoms clung to life in these techno-feudal scraps stitched from the Purge's ashes, their fields choked barren. And the Southland? A void science couldn't pierce.

"We've held this gate one week exactly," he growled. He swatted the clipboard again as the yellow light flickered back to life. Persistent little bastard. "A bloody miracle. One week prying a crack through hell's own gut."

He jabbed a finger, gnarled as old oak, toward the sky. "That sun, that spiteful bitch, she's clawin' to slam it shut. Your job's to keep her mitts off. Simple as that."

The Gateway loomed behind him. It was a marvel of desperation. The northern spire was a skeletal tower of iron and nano-weave, while its base was a maw of conduits pulsing with coolant that hissed like serpents. It vented steam reeking of oil and rust. A tunnel punched through the Firewall's molten veil, bridging a dying Northland and a Southland none had mapped since the ancients' fall.

Britain's chest tightened. Three decades back, he'd been one of those green lads. He had been a boy with eyes wide as the first spire rose, a boy who'd lost mates to its hunger. He remembered welders melted, flesh dripping wax-like. The stench of charred meat was still a ghost in his sleep. He pushed the memory down. He ruled this butcher's yard now. His climb had been a ladder of corpses, each rung a petty spat with Barbuda's iron grip.

"You'll be squaded," he barked, the sermon spat a thousand times. "Two welders, two drillers, two joiners, a foreman, a collector. Your kin now. Eat, shit, snore on their clock."

He paused. His eyes glinted like chipped flint. "Don't love 'em. No mates here. Most'll die."

A ripple of fear stirred the group. Wide eyes met shallow gasps. Britain felt a twinge of guilt, a sharp stone in his gut, but he buried it under the gravel of his voice. Fear kept them sharp. Hope got them killed.

"Death's your shadow," he pressed, savouring the necessary chill. "Welders melt. Flesh drips like wax. Drillers? Blowouts shear 'em to mist. Red rain on your boots."

Panic flickered in their eyes. Good. They had signed for "civil work," not this abattoir. The Gateway drank lives through rad-burns and sabotage, even if a century's tech dulled the edge. Nano-weave suits and iron horses helped, but one slip meant ash.

"Quit tremblin'," he snapped, his grin curling mean to hide his own fatigue. "Been decades since it was that bad. Just tuggin' yer strings."

It was a lie, slick as oil, but their relief warmed him like sour ale. He'd seen a welder fry just last month. Flesh bubbling black. The stench had stayed a week in his nose. Chuckling low, he dove into assignments.

"Chad, Guam, Mali. Lambda Seven. Chad, drill. Guam, foreman. Gear up, report. Mali…"

His snout wrinkled as he raked her with a look. She wasn't just another recruit. Her overalls were baggy, but she stood with a stillness the others lacked. Her chin was high, no quiver in her lip. Her eyes were too sharp, taking in the gantry, the vents, and him. She looked like a spy. Or worse, a critic.

"Collector," he said. "You're on mop-up. Sensors and rad-bags. You harvest the data and the samples the drillers kick up. Don't muck it, lass. That data is worth more than your life."

"Count on me, chief," she snapped back.

Gutsy. Trouble. He scribbled on his pad, smirking. Chad and Guam would be drooling over her by dusk, a spark for an "incident" Barbuda would flay him over. Let them rot. His promotion dangled before him, a ripe fruit he would not let slip.

The spire's hum swelled. Conduits glowed and coolant hissed steam that stung with oil and rust. Beyond the barracks, the Northland sprawled in cracked earth and skeletal trees clawing a sky choked with ash. Rats gnawed refuse in prefab shadows while crows wheeled with ragged cries. It was life's scraps in a land dying slow. Britain's gut twisted. Scandinavia's frost held a decade, his isle's bogs a year less. This gate was breath or tomb.

"Next!" he roared.

The hum swallowed his voice. A recruit stumbled as a nearby conduit hissed, steam scalding his arm red. The boy yelped, clutching the burn.

Britain's laugh barked harsh. "First lesson. Watch yer step, or it's ash."

Guam stepped up. He was broad and scarred, eyeing the injured whelp with disdain. "Soft sod. Won't last a shift."

"Prove you will," Britain shot back, flint-sharp. "Foreman's no nursemaid. Squad dies, it's your arse."

Guam nodded, grim. Chad shuffled beside him. He was wiry and twitching, clutching a drill-bit like a talisman. Mali lingered. Her gaze flicked to the spire again, curiosity glinting past her bravado. She wasn't looking at the height; she was looking at the vent patterns. Assessing.

Trouble, Britain thought. Barbuda had sent her to test him, he'd wager. A spy or a thorn. Promotion hung just a rung up from this butcher's yard to a citadel desk, away from the hum haunting his dreams. He would not let her spark a mess to choke it.

"Gear's there," he said, jabbing a thumb at a prefab. Nano-weave suits hung inside, patched with rust, visors scratched but humming glyphs. "Welders get torch-packs and nano-sealant. Drillers take bits and coolant rods. Joiners, rivet-guns and alloy strips. Collectors, grab your sensors. Learn 'em or burn."

A shadow stirred. Chad tripped, the heavy drill-bit clattering from his grip. Before it hit the deck, Mali snatched it mid-fall.

"Careful, twig," she grinned, handing it back.

Chad flushed. Guam's scowl deepened. Britain's gut clenched. Petty differences. Seeds of strife. Last month, a foreman had knifed a joiner over rations. Blood on his boots, Barbuda's lash on his back. Not again.

"One week," he muttered to himself. Antigua's jaunt south was three days past her last ping. Fool girl. Her iron horse was a marvel, yet the Firewall's heat could melt even that. Barbuda would flay him if she vanished. His climb hung on her thread too.

"Move!" he roared.

The hum swallowed the order as recruits scattered like rats. Mali lingered a second longer, eyeing the blinking light on his clipboard before turning away.

"Shift it, lass!" Guam barked.

She jogged to catch up. Britain looked down at his hand. The yellow light on Conduit Lambda Seven wasn't flickering anymore. It had turned a solid, angry red. Pressure spike. Critical.

His gut sank. He'd ignored the warning signs, too tired to care, and now the bill was due. A blowout was brewing, and this pack of children was walking straight into it green.

"Firewall take me," he growled. Death's shadow loomed, and he knew, with a heavy certainty, that he wouldn't be climbing over their corpses alone.

“Our responsibility is to do what we can, learn what we can, improve the solutions, and pass them on.”

— Richard P. Feynman

Britain perched atop a rusted gantry like a grizzled hound. He glared down at a pack of whelps while his boots ground grit into the iron grating. The Gateway's roar clawed the air, a guttural hymn that shook the earth like a beast rousing from a millennia's slumber. The Northland wind howled through the spire's lattice. It was bitter with ash and the tang of scorched steel, tugging at his patched coat like a beggar's claw.

He glanced at the battered clipboard in his hand. A yellow warning light blinked next to Conduit Lambda Seven. Pressure variance. He frowned and tapped the screen until the light died. Sensors were always glitching in this heat. He didn't have the spare parts to chase ghosts.

His eyes, sunken in sockets bruised by sleepless nights, raked the recruits below. Bags heavy as coal sacks dragged his eyelids half-shut. Three decades he'd clawed through this hell, from boy to man, grunt to foreman. His flesh was a map of scars from rad-burns and blowouts, his lungs a rasp of dust and spite. Once, he'd craved this post, a lad drunk on tales of glory. Now, he spat on its ashes. The Gateway was a cruel mistress that drank lives and shat ruin.

"It takes guts, lads," he bellowed. His voice was a gravel churn over the hum, kneading his temples where a headache pulsed like a forge hammer. "More'n most've got in their shrivelled sacks."

His glare swept the sorry lot. They were green as spring sap and wet as drowned rats, a gaggle of bony whelps fresh from mammies' skirts. Not a proper man among them, he reckoned. Damn the Forge. There was a sprinkling of girls too, knobby knees and limp wrists mocking his pleas to Barbuda for brawn. He'd begged for steel, not this pack barely fit to lift a spoon. Yet here they huddled, shivering in the shadow of the spire. The rust-eaten titan soared skyward, its iron skin aglow with a dull, angry sheen that could blister flesh at a glance.

"You'll sweat blood here," he roared, straining over the Gateway's bellow. "Harder'n you've ever dreamed. Mark me."

He watched them wilt beneath the prefab barracks' ring. They stood a mile from the Firewall's searing edge, close enough to taste its heat—a dry, metallic sting that scorched the throat—but far enough to dodge its molten wrath. Step outside without gear, and the sun would brand you red as a furnace in minutes. The Northland Kingdoms clung to life in these techno-feudal scraps stitched from the Purge's ashes, their fields choked barren. And the Southland? A void science couldn't pierce.

"We've held this gate one week exactly," he growled. He swatted the clipboard again as the yellow light flickered back to life. Persistent little bastard. "A bloody miracle. One week prying a crack through hell's own gut."

He jabbed a finger, gnarled as old oak, toward the sky. "That sun, that spiteful bitch, she's clawin' to slam it shut. Your job's to keep her mitts off. Simple as that."

The Gateway loomed behind him. It was a marvel of desperation. The northern spire was a skeletal tower of iron and nano-weave, while its base was a maw of conduits pulsing with coolant that hissed like serpents. It vented steam reeking of oil and rust. A tunnel punched through the Firewall's molten veil, bridging a dying Northland and a Southland none had mapped since the ancients' fall.

Britain's chest tightened. Three decades back, he'd been one of those green lads. He had been a boy with eyes wide as the first spire rose, a boy who'd lost mates to its hunger. He remembered welders melted, flesh dripping wax-like. The stench of charred meat was still a ghost in his sleep. He pushed the memory down. He ruled this butcher's yard now. His climb had been a ladder of corpses, each rung a petty spat with Barbuda's iron grip.

"You'll be squaded," he barked, the sermon spat a thousand times. "Two welders, two drillers, two joiners, a foreman, a collector. Your kin now. Eat, shit, snore on their clock."

He paused. His eyes glinted like chipped flint. "Don't love 'em. No mates here. Most'll die."

A ripple of fear stirred the group. Wide eyes met shallow gasps. Britain felt a twinge of guilt, a sharp stone in his gut, but he buried it under the gravel of his voice. Fear kept them sharp. Hope got them killed.

"Death's your shadow," he pressed, savouring the necessary chill. "Welders melt. Flesh drips like wax. Drillers? Blowouts shear 'em to mist. Red rain on your boots."

Panic flickered in their eyes. Good. They had signed for "civil work," not this abattoir. The Gateway drank lives through rad-burns and sabotage, even if a century's tech dulled the edge. Nano-weave suits and iron horses helped, but one slip meant ash.

"Quit tremblin'," he snapped, his grin curling mean to hide his own fatigue. "Been decades since it was that bad. Just tuggin' yer strings."

It was a lie, slick as oil, but their relief warmed him like sour ale. He'd seen a welder fry just last month. Flesh bubbling black. The stench had stayed a week in his nose. Chuckling low, he dove into assignments.

"Chad, Guam, Mali. Lambda Seven. Chad, drill. Guam, foreman. Gear up, report. Mali…"

His snout wrinkled as he raked her with a look. She wasn't just another recruit. Her overalls were baggy, but she stood with a stillness the others lacked. Her chin was high, no quiver in her lip. Her eyes were too sharp, taking in the gantry, the vents, and him. She looked like a spy. Or worse, a critic.

"Collector," he said. "You're on mop-up. Sensors and rad-bags. You harvest the data and the samples the drillers kick up. Don't muck it, lass. That data is worth more than your life."

"Count on me, chief," she snapped back.

Gutsy. Trouble. He scribbled on his pad, smirking. Chad and Guam would be drooling over her by dusk, a spark for an "incident" Barbuda would flay him over. Let them rot. His promotion dangled before him, a ripe fruit he would not let slip.

The spire's hum swelled. Conduits glowed and coolant hissed steam that stung with oil and rust. Beyond the barracks, the Northland sprawled in cracked earth and skeletal trees clawing a sky choked with ash. Rats gnawed refuse in prefab shadows while crows wheeled with ragged cries. It was life's scraps in a land dying slow. Britain's gut twisted. Scandinavia's frost held a decade, his isle's bogs a year less. This gate was breath or tomb.

"Next!" he roared.

The hum swallowed his voice. A recruit stumbled as a nearby conduit hissed, steam scalding his arm red. The boy yelped, clutching the burn.

Britain's laugh barked harsh. "First lesson. Watch yer step, or it's ash."

Guam stepped up. He was broad and scarred, eyeing the injured whelp with disdain. "Soft sod. Won't last a shift."

"Prove you will," Britain shot back, flint-sharp. "Foreman's no nursemaid. Squad dies, it's your arse."

Guam nodded, grim. Chad shuffled beside him. He was wiry and twitching, clutching a drill-bit like a talisman. Mali lingered. Her gaze flicked to the spire again, curiosity glinting past her bravado. She wasn't looking at the height; she was looking at the vent patterns. Assessing.

Trouble, Britain thought. Barbuda had sent her to test him, he'd wager. A spy or a thorn. Promotion hung just a rung up from this butcher's yard to a citadel desk, away from the hum haunting his dreams. He would not let her spark a mess to choke it.

"Gear's there," he said, jabbing a thumb at a prefab. Nano-weave suits hung inside, patched with rust, visors scratched but humming glyphs. "Welders get torch-packs and nano-sealant. Drillers take bits and coolant rods. Joiners, rivet-guns and alloy strips. Collectors, grab your sensors. Learn 'em or burn."

A shadow stirred. Chad tripped, the heavy drill-bit clattering from his grip. Before it hit the deck, Mali snatched it mid-fall.

"Careful, twig," she grinned, handing it back.

Chad flushed. Guam's scowl deepened. Britain's gut clenched. Petty differences. Seeds of strife. Last month, a foreman had knifed a joiner over rations. Blood on his boots, Barbuda's lash on his back. Not again.

"One week," he muttered to himself. Antigua's jaunt south was three days past her last ping. Fool girl. Her iron horse was a marvel, yet the Firewall's heat could melt even that. Barbuda would flay him if she vanished. His climb hung on her thread too.

"Move!" he roared.

The hum swallowed the order as recruits scattered like rats. Mali lingered a second longer, eyeing the blinking light on his clipboard before turning away.

"Shift it, lass!" Guam barked.

She jogged to catch up. Britain looked down at his hand. The yellow light on Conduit Lambda Seven wasn't flickering anymore. It had turned a solid, angry red. Pressure spike. Critical.

His gut sank. He'd ignored the warning signs, too tired to care, and now the bill was due. A blowout was brewing, and this pack of children was walking straight into it green.

"Firewall take me," he growled. Death's shadow loomed, and he knew, with a heavy certainty, that he wouldn't be climbing over their corpses alone.