Moss leads the survivors across the cracked ice, their shadows long and the stormy sea indifferent behind them.Moss stands firm on the ice, his crew shivering behind him, as the alien structure's circular hatch begins to open.Moss stands firm on the ramp, hands gripping tightly, as stormy waves crash around the suited Antarctikans below.Sūrya touches the mesh implant at her temple, her profile illuminated by the storm's indifferent light, while Moss's silhouette looms in the background.Sūrya kneels over Moss, her hand on his forehead, both figures bathed in the habitat's diffuse, storm-indifferent light.Moss stands on the ice, half-turned back to the failing *Blacktide*, his amber-streaked eyes reflecting the storm's indifferent light.Moss grips the rope-ladder rung above the ice, his knuckles waxy, fingertips chalk-white, breath fogging in the frigid air.Moss trudges across the snow-crusted ice, clutching the green signal receiver, his thin, wet clothes flapping in the relentless southern wind.Moss stands composed, hand half-raised, as the stormy sea churns and survivors emerge from the dark hatch.
