White World

“What’s the temperature out here?”

The question drew Viktor’s gaze from the Omnitool strapped to his forearm. Dark eyebrows furrowed as he eyed the redhead hunched against the imposing wall of the mountain. His gaze shifted to the device on his arm.

“Negative thirty-nine degrees and counting.”

Stanley cursed. Viktor frowned. 

“Of all the days to get stranded,” Viktor looked back at his partner, blinking as the man continued to mutter, “It had to be the one day we have a job on a godforsaken, frozen rock in a galaxy nobody knows about.”

Viktor hummed in agreement. 


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