SSSD - Sit beside Dr. Golda Haugen

There’s a certain type of person who can join CCL without being nervous. Alison has a feeling that people like that are rare. She doesn’t think of herself as shy; she is by no means closeted, but there has always been a difference in the way that she sees herself and the way that she pictured the idea of a CCL girl in her fantasies, at least before joining. She supposes that this is what people mean when they talk about imposter syndrome.

Vividly, she remembers her initiation: being in the TV room at the house, surrounded by topless CCL girls. Wearing only her panties, a green pair of 3 for 10 dollar cotton briefs from Old Navy, she had gingerly straddled Diagra, CCL’s venerable Sybian.

She remembers the feelings, and the sound of her own panting mingled with the chanting from the girls.

“Eye contact! Eye contact!”

And trying to maintain the staring contest with the naked officer kneeling right in front of her until she came with a shiver and a slightly pathetic moan. Alison remembers the feeling of seven or eight hands gently rubbing her back and being surrounded by bodies, listening to applause and cheering as she came down from that orgasm.

That was months ago. Even if she hasn’t bedded every girl in CCL House… or any of them, formally, she’s not an imposter if she’s actually doing the things. Being a respected CCL girl and the go-to Shibari engineer isn’t nothing. Doing the things.

Alison smiles at Golda and removes her towel, hanging it on a hook.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know it was optional.” She crosses the small sauna and joins Golda on the bench. They aren’t squeezed in, but in the steamy air, the contact between their arms, thighs, and hips feels volcanic. Golda looks mild. A little too mild. She’s taken aback by Alison’s boldness. Not displeased, but it has put her off-balance.

Ro hesitates, and her throat bobs visibly as she swallows. Then she removes her towel, revealing a pale, creamy, washboard chest with the tiniest nips that Alison has ever seen. Her hair color is gorgeous, and she’s completely untrimmed down there. Bright red from embarrassment and heat, she sits across from them, keeping her legs tightly together. She realizes that’s not enough to hide her bush, so she puts her hands in her lap to do that.

Alison recognizes and respects that monumental act of courage. She can take credit for setting a positive example. Alison smiles reassuringly at Ro and maintains her façade of cool. She resists the urge to squeeze her own thighs together. She can’t spread like Golda has, but she stays relaxed. Is Ro looking? Alison is neatly groomed down there, but that doesn’t make her any less self-conscious. She forces herself not to pay attention to where Ro is or isn’t looking, and stays focused on Golda. She can’t help but be amused at how this situation has regressed her to middle school, where the female body and nudity is suddenly such a big fucking deal. It makes her want to laugh.

Golda returns her smile, and her mask of haughtiness slides into place.

“Welcome to Antarctica,” she says.

“Thank you. I’m very excited to be here,” Alison replies, holding her gaze.

“Good,” Golda says. She’s easy enough to read. She likes the look of Alison, but she’s hoping for a little more meekness. Too bad. Alison has no range as an actress. She knows how to do her cool, aloof act. Pretending to be meek? Not happening. Besides, there’s some authenticity in her flirting. Golda’s bombshell body begs to be touched.

Relaxing isn’t the word for the session in the sauna, but Alison enjoys bathing in Golda’s attention all the same. She feels limited by only speaking English but manages not to make a fool of herself.

Warm, dry, dressed, and out of the sauna’s stifling heat, it feels like waking up from a dream. The cook’s name is Birgitte. She’s a brunette about Alison’s size, although more slender. She presents as friendly enough, but Alison senses an edge and smells drama.

Everyone appears for dinner, and Alison people watches contentedly, eating a thick stew of potatoes, carrots, and beef. Marit seems less tense when she’s eating; she chatters with Signe animatedly. Golda speaks quietly to Dr. Linda Dagnall, whose short hair is all messy for some reason, and she’s wearing only a white undershirt with no bra. Alison’s not judging; the Norwegian scientist looks sexy as hell, pokey nips and all. Niv is on Golda’s other side, also a part of that conversation. Julie is beside Alison, but she eats in silence, deep in her tablet.

Alison doesn’t catch a single word of what is said.

After dinner, she is chosen to accompany Signe on a brief tour of the exterior, while Ro is to be shown some things inside. It’s nighttime and the temperature is at an **** low; the idea is that Alison, who is a bit more robust, can handle that better. The Norwegians expect the Americans to compare notes so that everyone is briefed.

Every exit has a room full of coats and cold-weather gear. There, Alison and Signe suit up to venture out with huge, chunky flashlights. The storm has begun, so they connect to each other with a three-meter line and a safety line connected to a post just outside the door.

The cold hits differently as they push out into the swirling snow. It was freezing when Alison got off the chopper, but that was daytime with minimal wind. The temperature is effectively way lower now, and the vast dark of the Antarctic night seems cold in itself.

Most of the signage is in both English and Norwegian; they have to shout to be heard over the wind, so Signe mostly just shines her light on things that matter and it’s up to Alison to come up with context. Vehicles, exits, entrances, emergency stashes… it’s a lot. Life in Antarctica is serious business. Paths between buildings and areas of interest are staked out with safety lines and lights. The lights of the outpost itself look pitiful and faint, even from a short distance, because the storm is so thick and angry.

“How long does it last?” Alison shouts as they round a corner of one of the garages.

“What?” Signe shouts back.

“The storm!”

“Cannot say!”

Jesus. Alison takes a deep breath to gather her courage and plunges after the big scientist. Signe draws up short and Alison runs into her. Signe probably doesn’t even notice. She’s fumbling with her phone in her giant mitten. She pulls down the scarf covering her face, then uses her teeth to free the flap that lets her fingers out so she can operate the screen of her phone. That is incredibly brave. Alison hopes she’s not about to have her first exposure to frostbite.

“What’s the problem?” she yells.

“Fire alarm,” Signe replies, face grave.

The facility is old, but it does have some modern updates like certain systems and alarms being tied to a central app that’s on everyone’s phone.

The big lights on posts flicker. No, not just those—all the lights. The power.

Signe stuffs her phone in her pocket and hurries forward. Alison slogs after her, through the dark. Another building looms out of the gloom. The lights are back on, but it’s still impossible to see anything. Signe hauls a door open and smoke billows out. She pushes through, and Alison goes in after her, coughing. They grab fire extinguishers from the wall. Alison doesn’t need to be trained in this; someone sets the kitchen on fire in CCL House pretty much every week. She pulls her pin and directs her spray at the base of the fire. Signe does the same, and they have it out in seconds. It wasn’t a big fire.

There’s a clang as Signe drops her spent extinguisher and jerks a panel open, using her keycard, then punching a code and yanking a handle down. The lights go out.

The thing that was on fire? That was the main generator. Signe has just shut it down. Makes sense; it’s probably damaged.

With their flashlights, they close the shed and make their way back, finding everyone waiting by the door, everyone holding a flashlight. Niv helps wrestle the door shut as they spill inside, tracking snow. Signe speaks rapidly in Norwegian. Marit and Niv immediately start to gear up. Golda barks orders to Julie and Linda, who rush down the hall. Signe hurries after them, still dressed for the cold. Golda breezes out.

Ro and Alison are left with Birgitte, the cook, who is smoking a cigarette. Birgitte looks at them and shrugs.

“Now we die,” she says.

Ro’s eyes pop open. Alison puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“She’s kidding,” she assures her.

About twenty minutes later, the situation is taking shape. The scientists rushed off to get their own backup generators running to preserve their samples. Marit and Niv went out to assess the damage. Golda went to try to report the fire.

Alison and Ro find themselves standing off to the side as the Norwegians hold a meeting in the rec room, lit by electric lanterns. After they seem to come to a consensus, Niv kindly comes to the Americans to explain what’s going on. They’re going to repair the generator in the morning; for tonight, there will be no power.

“And,” she says, looking embarrassed. “Because we have no power, it is necessary to…” She searches for the right phrasing in English. “Double up? To sleep? For warmth?”

Alison sees Birgitte exchange a look with Julie. Interesting.

“Because we cannot have our young American guests be uncomfortable,” Niv goes on ironically. What she’s telling them is sensible, not scandalous. Ro is terrified. Maybe at the thought of freezing to **** in Antarctica, or of sharing someone’s bed.

As usual, it’s up to Alison to speak first. Ro will follow her lead. Alison can’t just name the person that she wants to spend the night with; her image won’t allow it. She has to signal to Niv that her preference is to stick with Ro, or an openness to share with whoever.

Spend the night with Ro?

Or a Norwegian of Niv’s choosing?