[ WP ] Antarctica has been turned into a prison colony and you have been sent there . Tell us about the experience .

The apes were definitely the last of my worries. Half my hand had dissipated into the wind. It was charred with ice cold snow. The edge of the hand, the stump, was lined with a fine white powder that was taking its dear time to cover what was left of my hand. In a few minutes the entire forearm would be gone. I watched and ran. At least it did n't bleed. The thermo suit wrapped around the rest of my body, keeping it safe for the moment. It still held. The apes behind me, although faster, would n't last long at this rate. Again I wished I had chosen the chair. The electricity would be hot, quick, maybe a little painful, but it would finish it. 
 
 We were the twelve thousand of Section 12. We lived in a prison. One so desolate, so left alone, that some had been born here and had never explored the outside. I was not born of the Capsule. I was a Wanderer, and I had to return. 
 
 No Wanderer had ever come back to the Capsule, to Sector 12. 
 
 Three years ago, when I first arrived, I wandered out to Outpost seven where the Mama lived. The oldest person in Sector twelve, and possibly all of Antarctica. `` Three centuries,'' she said to me when I came. We have lived here for just under three centuries, boy. It was not the last time I would see the white hairs on her lip. 
 
 At first I thought it was a testing facility. A sociological experiment. It had to be. With this amount of money the only revenue to funding this would be to delve into the sciences. However impractical, the ends would justify the means. I was right. It was a testing facility. Countless miles from Section 12 the apes were bred and in the next installation over there were other species of monkeys. With no one watching but cameras, I had seen the name of the project. 
 
 I was six centuries old, and this was n't earth. 
 
 
 I ran and then I flew. The make shift flyer that brought me there sat in the snow, ready to fly me back to Sector 12. The cold seeped in through the small bolted cracks between steel. It took me eight hours to return, and by two hours the engine had warmed the compartment enough to warm what was left of my arm so that it began to bleed. I bandaged my torn limb only then. I crash landed the flyer in front of Section 12. The domes, the living quarters, protruded from the snow. 
 
 Only one of the domes had put up a fight. It sat over to the left, the farthest away from the cluster of dome houses. Its tops were cracked where missiles had flown in. I was too late. 
 
 The cleaning party had come and gone. I was alone. 
 
 

