The wind roared, its frosty bite stinging the thin strip of exposed skin belonging to Dr. Elena Winters. A pair of thick-gloved hands wrapped around a hand auger, whose sharp metal teeth slowly cut through the pristine ice. Dr. Winters adjusted her grip and shifted the weight of her petite frame, urging the stubborn auger to bore deeper. A halo of white swirled around her headlamp whose feeble beam barely pierced the Antarctic twilight. If it were not so dark, an observer might see that a few hundred feet from the struggling headlight was a large tent. Its shape resembled an Indian lodge, and its bright red fabric popped in the monochromatic landscape. It was about the size of a small school bus, encasing those nine hundred cubic feet with a small measure of protection from the brutal elements. Scanning around the tent, one would find concentric circles of small, rectangular flags colored with the same obnoxious red as the tent fabric. These circles began at perhaps ten meters from the tent and continued to radiate outwards in twenty meter intervals until they reached Dr. Winter’s current location. Beyond the crimson tent and its collection of little flags was nothing but ice and snow, blinding white with a tinge of glacial blue here and there in all directions as far as the eye could see.

Six long months ago, Elena had arrived on the runway of McMurdo Station a weary academic seeking to discover herself in the unforgiving Antarctic landscape. Unfortunately, that epiphany of self-discovery had not yet arrived. Rather, Dr. Winters labored day after day in the stifling darkness of Antarctic winter drilling and studying ice cores. Her fingers had somehow developed blisters despite constantly being sheathed in thick gloves. Her toes felt perpetually numb, but she didn’t mind. The little crimson tent was her refuge, her shelter from the elements, her laboratory, and her home. Elena Winters did not belong with the faint of heart. Spurred by a burning desire for discovery, a groundbreaking paper with her name at the top, she persisted.

With a labored grunt, she jerked the auger from the ice in a practiced motion. She exhaled, a cloud of breath disappearing into the frigid air. She transferred the ice core to a table within the makeshift camp she had set up not far from the drilling site. She released a perfect cylinder of bluish, yet crystal-clear ice.

She quickly pulled off her gloves and opened her notebook, beginning a new entry.

Sample 671-B

2024/12/02

surface ice core removed w/ 10 cm hand auger

Her pencil paused mid-note. Something about the ice caught her eye. Beneath the usual crystalline patterns was a faint, irregular shadow - too linear to be natural.

She frowned and leaned closer, her breath fogging the surface of the core. The shadow was dark and distinct, like the edge of an object suspended in the ice.

“What’s that?” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the wind buffeting the tent.

She rotated the core under the lamp, her gloved fingers stiff and clumsy. The shadow remained, taking shape as a sharp rectangle.

Elena’s curiosity flared. Objects buried in ice weren’t unheard of - dust particles, volcanic ash, sometimes even the odd meteorite fragment. But this...this was something else.

Setting aside her tools, she reached for her ice saw and began slicing carefully into the core. Each motion was slow and deliberate; any misstep could fracture the delicate structure and destroy the mystery inside. Minutes ticked by, the only sound her steady breathing and the rasp of the blade against frozen layers.

Finally, a small section broke free. Nestled inside was a corroded metal container, its edges crusted with frost. Elena’s heart quickened as she examined the object. It was small, just big enough to fit in both hands, with faint markings etched into the surface - symbols or perhaps letters, worn by time.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered to the box, as if it might answer her.

Elena Winters stared at the metal box as though it had sprouted wings and might take flight at any moment. Her gloved fingers trembled slightly as she brushed the frost from its surface, revealing more of the faded etchings. They weren’t random scratches—they were deliberate, geometric, almost like a language she didn’t recognize.

The wind outside rattled the tent’s fabric, a constant reminder that she was alone in one of the harshest places on Earth. Yet the isolation suddenly felt secondary to the tiny artifact in her hands. Every instinct screamed at her to keep it contained, but curiosity—a force stronger than fear—propelled her onward.

She carefully pried at the container’s seam with a small metal tool, coaxing it open. A hiss escaped as the frost gave way, and the lid tilted slightly. Inside lay a folded piece of material, brittle with age, as well as a smaller, cylindrical object. The cylinder was coppery and heavy, almost like a miniature time capsule.

Elena’s pulse accelerated. She gently lifted the cylinder, noticing strange symbols carved along its length. Her fingers traced them, trying to decipher their meaning, but nothing in her training as a glaciologist provided even a hint.

The folded material was more perplexing. It appeared to be a map, drawn in faded ink on a fabric-like paper. Lines intersected in impossible angles, some forming geometric patterns she couldn’t immediately identify. Along the margins, there were markings—coordinates?—but they weren’t in any system she recognized.

A low wind gust shook the tent, and Elena instinctively drew the cylinder and map closer to her chest. The Antarctic night pressed against the thin red walls, whispering secrets that only she could hear.

Her thoughts swirled. How could a container like this end up here, buried beneath centuries of ice? Was it human? Or something else entirely?

Elena’s headlamp flickered, the battery struggling against the cold. Shadows stretched across the tent walls, and she realized with a shiver that she was no longer thinking about ice cores or scientific discovery in the abstract. This was something bigger—something that could change history, or rewrite it entirely.

She set the cylinder and map carefully on the small metal table and pulled her notebook closer. Every instinct screamed to document everything. Her pencil moved with urgency:

Found small metal container in ice core 671-B. Contains unknown cylindrical object and a fabric map. Symbols undeciphered. Possible historical artifact. Immediate preservation required.

Her eyes darted to the map again. One of the strange coordinates seemed to align, roughly, with a point nearby—just beyond the tent, past the outermost circle of red flags she had set months ago. Her breath caught. Had she unknowingly drilled right on top of it?

For a moment, Elena considered the storm outside, the risk of stepping into the open Antarctic night. Then the fire of discovery surged within her. This was why she had come here. To uncover what others couldn’t—or wouldn’t.