Black Horse dies to a nuke??

The crow tore out 027's throat.

The thing that had been waiting inside 027 for millennia, the thing wearing the body of Dr. Johanna Garrison, jerkily snapped the lanyard off her neck, and slid it down with a passcode to unlock the unit's door. A black horse, with an ancient leather saddle, trotted out and nuzzled it.

“I know you've been waiting for me,” 027 murmured. “Thank you.” Then it swung onto the horse's back with one hand. It breathed a darkly-colored sigh of relief as the leather fused into its hand, and the river of clicking and crawling and flapping beasts fell into marching order. All was well.

Outside of the Site, and its perimeter facilities and defenses, a long, sloping, desolately beautiful beach lead out to sea ice. 027 surveyed from its perch, and cocked its head. 1075 stepped across the ice and onto the surface of the water, radiating black miasma.

“WE HEAR YOU, AND WE ANSWER YOUR CALL,” said 027, to the open air. It turned around. “MY MOST LOYAL FOLLOWERS, LET ME LEAD YOU FINALLY TO YOUR REWARD.”

The black horse, the rider, and their growing cohort and raft of vermin started out across the glass-smooth ocean, just as the first wave of light from the Svalbard Site hit them. The blinding, desperate blast behind them, they cantered calmly forward.