Ignat stared at the dog tag, then at Drusya’s inert form in the gutted artillery tank, then back at the dog tag. Air hitched in his throat, whistling thin and sharp in the freeze. The roaring bear emblem, the name—*Drusya Vaneva*. It was impossible. He knew that name, everyone in Krasnograd knew that name. It was etched into memorials, whispered in hushed tones, sung in heroic ballads. The Apex Hunter. Dead. Gone. And yet, here it was, in his hand, dredged from the filth of her kitchen. He edged towards the tank, his movements jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. “Drusya?” His voice cracked, barely audible above the low hum of the ancient ventilation unit. “Drusya, wake up.” A low groan rumbled from within the tank. “Five more minutes, Morosov. The algae paste isn’t going to ferment itself.” “No, no, it’s not the… the algae. It’s this.” Ignat held out the dog tag, the smeared blood now a stark, unsettling crimson against the dull steel. “This… this is yours, isn’t it?” One bleary eye cracked open. Drusya squinted at the offending object, then at Ignat’s trembling hand. “My what? Looks like a glorified washer. Did you find it in the dishwater? Good, means less rust for the next cycle.” She yawned, a cavernous, unhurried affair that seemed to suck the oxygen from the cramped space. “Now, if you’re done admiring my… washer, I’m trying to achieve optimal REM for my morning shift.” Ignat’s jaw dropped. “Optimal REM? Drusya, this is an Apex Hunter dog tag! Yours! ‘Drusya Vaneva’!” He practically shrieked the name, brandishing the tag like a weapon. She sighed, a sound of deep, profound suffering. “Morosov, must you be so… *loud* before noon? If it’s mine, it means I’ve already done whatever boring thing it represents. Probably a bad memory. Throw it in the scrap heap. Or melt it down for a stew pot, I don’t care. Just make sure it’s quiet.” She closed her eye, dismissing him entirely. Just as Ignat opened his mouth to protest, a low rumble vibrated through the floor. The metal walls of the ‘Rusty Skewer’ groaned, a cacophony of protesting rivets and stressed plating. A stack of empty nutrient paste cans clattered from a shelf. Drusya popped an eye open and levered herself upright. “What in the blazes was that?” she grumbled, pushing herself up with surprising speed. Then, a second, more violent tremor ripped through the slum quarter. The entire diner lurched, sending a cascade of pots and pans crashing from their hooks. Ignat stumbled, clutching at a greasy counter. A precariously balanced tower of rusted gears and scavenged clockwork, Drusya’s meticulously crafted “Morning Gong” alarm clock, wobbled precariously, then disintegrated into a shower of springs and broken cogs. Drusya stared at the mechanical carnage, her face a mask of silent fury. “My… my sixteen-hour wake-up call,” she whispered, her voice dangerously flat. “It took me three cycles to calibrate that specific clatter sequence.” Before she could fully process the loss, the door to ‘The Rusty Skewer’ exploded inwards with a deafening *CRUMP*, torn from its hinges. Standing in the jagged frame, silhouetted against the blizzard-whipped wastes, was Commander Petrovic. His uniform, though patched and worn, bore the insignia of the Krasnograd Enclave’s highest military echelon. His face was a thundercloud of stress, his eyes scanning the chaotic diner, settling on Ignat, then on Drusya. “Morosov!” Petrovic’s voice boomed, cutting through the lingering vibrations of the quake. “I tracked your unauthorized comm-frequency signature to this unregistered establishment. And what do I find? You, consorting with… *her*.” His gaze narrowed, falling on the dog tag still clutched in Ignat’s hand. “And you, woman! You have some explaining to do about stolen military property! That dog tag belongs to Apex Hunter Vaneva! Impersonating a fallen hero is a capital offense in the Enclave, even if you’re just a common scavenger who stumbled across it!” Drusya merely blinked at him, then glanced at the smoking remains of her alarm clock. “Capital offense, huh? What about ruining a perfectly good nap schedule, then smashing my bespoke time-keeping apparatus? Is there a capital offense for that, Commander?” Petrovic took a step inside, his boots crunching on shattered ceramic. “Don’t play coy with me, civilian! Where did you get that dog tag? Speak up!” But as he spoke, his nostrils flared. A complex, intoxicating aroma, thick and savory, permeated the air, a scent utterly alien to the algae-infused reality of Krasnograd. It was the smell of Drusya’s slow-simmering Razor-Grizzly stew, bubbling gently in a repurposed reactor core, its richness blooming in the cold. It was bone marrow and tender meat, slow-rendered fat and fragrant herbs, all mingling in a symphony of pure, unadulterated flavor. Petrovic stopped mid-stride. His eyes, previously narrowed in military sternness, glazed over. His rigid, regulation-straight posture collapsed completely. A single tear, then another, traced a path down his weather-beaten cheek. The commander, who had faced down hordes of irradiated mutants and countless bureaucratic nightmares without flinching, was openly weeping. “What… what is that smell?” he choked out, his voice a pathetic whimper. His entire body trembled. He looked around wildly, his gaze landing on a chipped ceramic bowl filled with the steaming, reddish-brown broth Ignat had just ladled out for a waiting customer. Before anyone could react, Petrovic lunged. He snatched the bowl from Ignat’s stunned grip, ignoring the yelp of protest, and buried his face in the stew. He slurped, not caring about dignity, the broth scalding his tongue. Hot, rich, meaty, it was everything his body craved, everything his memory had forgotten. He cried harder, great, shuddering sobs that shook his entire frame, the tears mixing freely with the savory liquid. He ate, not with a spoon, but with his bare hands, shoveling the tender grizzly meat into his mouth, his uniform be damned. “My… my god,” he blubbered between mouthfuls, his words thick with stew and emotion. “This is… this is what food tastes like? I’d forgotten! All those years… the algae paste… oh, the humanity!” Drusya watched him, a faint flicker of annoyance in her expression. “Someone’s making a mess. Ignat, get him a napkin. And tell him not to chew so loud; some of us are trying to enjoy the silence.” Ignat, still reeling from the sudden shift, stared at his commander, who was now practically swimming in stew. “Commander? Sir? Your orders… the dog tag…” Petrovic waved a meat-stained hand dismissively. “Orders? What orders? This… this is the only duty that matters!” He took another ravenous bite, a bone-deep sigh escaping his lips. “Forget the dog tag, Ignat. Just… just get me more. Please, for the love of the Enclave, get me another bowl!” Suddenly, Petrovic’s wrist-mounted comm-unit shrieked to life, a frantic burst of static and terrified shouting. Petrovic ignored it, focused solely on the remaining stew in his bowl. Ignat, however, flinched. The voice on the comm was tinny but clear, filled with panic. “Commander! Commander Petrovic! Do you read me?! This is Outpost Four Emergency Broadcast! We have a Code Vermillion! Outpost Four has been… it’s been flattened! Wiped off the grid! A colossal… *thing*! It’s moving, sir! Heading… heading straight for the smell! It’s heading for Sector Null!”

The General and the Stew