They rapidly acclimated to the cold. Minimizing exposure time proved to be the most critical factor, which meant half of every hour was spent huddled together in one of their cramped plastic igloos. Despite their appearance, the shelters possessed excellent insulative qualities that minimized how much heating had to be done to make the space habitable. Sam could make some friction with her kinetic talent to warm the air once they sealed the door and the igloo would still be comfortable by the time their half hour break ended. Then it was time to don gloves, hats, and scarves for another half hour of work.

The bathroom proved the easiest and quickest facility to prep. It needed only three steps to be ready for action. First, a trench dug under it to channel waste water towards the ocean. Second, it needed to be secured in place with bolts driven into the ground. Finally, clean snow and ice were fed into the hopper of a heater to be warmed into liquid for flushing and showering. The main tent, which they had tackled at the start, took significantly longer to set up. Another work detail had already run extension cords from batteries kept in a cave to each of the igloos serving as bedrooms.

By the time they had their third break, the light had completely faded outside. Extremely short days were an unfortunate consequence of settling into the far north. More than one person commented about the inevitability of the opposite problem: in a different season, the sunlight would last essentially all day.

Between the clock's insistence that the working day had not ended and Cassandane's silence on when quitting time would arrive, they kept working until the main tent had been erected. At which point, Sam made the executive position to transition to dinner prep and downtime. She felt like a cheap imitation of Erica as she assigned kitchen duty and told the rest it was "R&R" time.

Fred Whittaker tapped her shoulder while she was scowling at her feet. "Centurion? Might be a good idea to order showers. I have a feeling no one will want to get wet in the cold, and we don't need hygeine problems."

Sam groaned. "I don't even want to think about a shower right now."

"I mean no disrespect Centurion, but you've got to establish the routine early. We don't have much in the way of medical treatment up here. Blisters and funky infections can't get a toe-hold."

"Coming up here was a dumb idea," she muttered.

Fred shrugged. "I don't know about that. There are no civilians around to get caught in the crossfire. No religious nuts trying to shoot us up, either."

"Could have sworn I heard you complaining about the temperature earlier," she said.

"I complain about a lot of things. It's more a reflex than anything. Believe it or not, I'm happier with my life than I have been in years."

Sam squinted at the old man. "Because you don't get along with your wife."

"That's putting it mildly. The only reason we never divorced was because there wasn't enough money for the two of us to live separately."

"Your kids probably hate being at home."

"Adult step-children. And they never really interacted with me much. When they were younger, they would ask me permission to go out because they knew I didn't care enough to play twenty questions."

Sam let that conversation die. She didn't want to invite discussions into how messed up everyone in the EDA was. Anyone who hadn't joined with issues was well on the way to developing them. Fighting for your life, having friends die, being responsible for the deaths of innocent children . . . not a great recipe for mental health.

They lounged around in the main tent after dinner before everyone moved to the igloos for sleep. Though exhausted from the stress of the day and dealing with the bitter cold, Sam delayed settling into her cot. She needed to work on clearing the residue that had built up in her mind. For close to two hours, Sam labored to collect, compact, and burn away the lingering traces of nous, animas, and gravitas that were threatening to clog the mental plumbing and degrade her ability to use the talents. She reflected on the fact that her current efforts would not have been necessary if she became a full paragon. Massive power-up plus never needing to perform a boring maintenance task? Yes, please. If only it were that simple. From what Cassandane had told her, Nallit's threat of death for his paragon followers who didn't ignite had increased the rate slightly . . . and resulted in a lot of dead people. Motivation helped, apparently, but only a little.

Sam sighed. She had never been a motivated person. The only time in her life she had gone against her go-with-the-flow brand was the time she staged a breakout on the Angelship. Since then, she had faked motivation on occasion to spite Mike or avoid the appearance of incompetence. Pathetic, really. She wouldn't respect someone like that.

As she settled into her sleeping bag, Sam pondered an important question. If she couldn't escape being a leader in a superpowered army, what did she want to do with herself? The bare minimum? She could easily offload most of her work to other people, the way she had accused Mike of outsourcing his job to Erica. Considering the hands-off management style of Cassandane, Sam would probably get away with lazy leadership indefinitely. She could live with that, sure, but did she want it?

She had lost her best friend, possibly permamently, while acting as a leader. What did she have to show for that sacrifice? Nothing. Unless she stepped up and became something more than the fragile girl who hid in her closet when her parents fought. Give up her signature move of running away from problems. Stop deflecting criticisms with sarcasm. Basically, try to be Erica Spencer.

Or maybe turn herself into a hybrid creature combining Erica's detail-oriented leadership style, Cassandane's obsessive training style, and Kendra's no-nonsense interpersonal style. Those were three women she could see as role models. They each had their flaws, sure, but they all had strengths. Sam didn't think she had much in the strength column other than being a paragon. A wince formed on her face. She was the female version of Diego. Just some dumb entitled kid who lucked into getting all the powers.

Nope. It was time to grow up. Sam found her phone in the darkness and reset the alarm for an hour earlier than usual. "This is going to suck. Shame I can't just training montage this personal transformation thing."