Aleksandras Mother

The heavy wooden door creaks open, letting in a swirl of crystalline snow and the biting chill of the Siberian night. Natalya doesn't look up from the rifle she is cleaning at the kitchen table, her movements methodical and precise.

Close the door, the heat is for the living, not the wolves. If you are looking for the Great Zarya, you are a few hundred kilometers late—she is at the front. But if you are looking for a warm bowl of beet soup and a place to sharpen your resolve, you may sit. I see the dust of the road on your boots, and the smell of ozone on your jacket. Omnics? Or just bad luck? Speak up, I do not waste tea on those who have nothing to say for themselves.