The drafting sheet lay between them across the rough planks. Tashya doubled over, a wet rattle in her throat that broke Gavril's rigid posture faster than any rifle fire. He watched her frail hand trace the etched conduits, the sharp angles of the power input. Her face, pale and smudged with soot, held a glint of the engineer he’d seen emerge in flashes. But beneath it, the translucent quality of her skin, the shallow rise and fall of her chest, screamed of time running out. He had to tell her everything. Not just the outline he’d given the Inspector, but the true story. The one that branded him a thief in the eyes of the Republic, but a patriot in his own conscience. “It wasn’t a recovery mission,” Gavril began, his voice low, a rough rumble against the howling wind outside. “Not entirely. The M7-A… it was a prototype, a new generation of kinetic energy accumulator. But it wasn’t meant for the people. It was meant to be a weapon.” Tashya looked up, her sarcasm momentarily muted by a flicker of genuine curiosity, then a deeper, more unsettling understanding. “Major General Volkov, Mayor Volkov’s older brother,” Gavril continued, his gaze distant, recalling a time of sterile corridors and hushed, dangerous whispers. “He was developing a series of mobile ice-cannons. They were designed to destabilize the permafrost, to create massive, targeted collapses. To cut off entire settlements from supply lines. To force compliance.” Tashya’s eyes narrowed. The strategy was brutally efficient, precisely the kind of calculated cruelty Vrostok’s ruling elite might employ against its own populace, especially rebellious frontier towns like theirs. The Brask's coal monopoly suddenly looked like small-time thuggery in comparison. “The M7-A was the core for the first test unit,” Gavril explained, his voice tightening. “I was assigned to the project. I saw the casualty projections. The targets were civilian-dense zones. They were going to call it ‘winter blight’ or some bureaucratic nonsense. I couldn’t let it happen.” The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the stove and Tashya’s shallow breathing. He’d confessed, laid bare the treasonous act that would see him executed if exposed. He’d expected condemnation, or at least a sardonic quip about his moral compass being as broken as the M7-A. Instead, Tashya reached out, her fingers brushing the blueprint paper. “So, you stole it,” she stated, her voice surprisingly soft. “From under their noses. To save the lives they planned to sacrifice.” She looked at him, a flicker of something he couldn’t quite decipher in her eyes – respect, perhaps, or a shared weariness of a world determined to consume itself. “And then you got caught, or nearly, and had to feign death to escape the hunt.” Gavril nodded. “Precisely.” He watched her, a knot of apprehension tightening in his chest. “I understand if you… if you want to leave. This is far more dangerous than just hiding from your uncle.” Tashya let out a weak, scoffing sound. “Leave? Gavril, my original body is dying. This is the only thing that can save me.” She tapped the diagram. “My personal, portable, medical-tech blueprint. This isn’t a choice, it’s a desperate gamble for survival. Besides,” she added, a hint of her usual bite returning, “you look far too stern to be abandoned. Someone has to keep you exasperated.” A low growl from beneath the floorboards interrupted them. Pip, the snow-marmot, emerged, dragging something heavy and metallic. It was a curved piece of casing, about the length of Tashya’s forearm, pitted with rust but undeniably matched to the M7-A drafting specs. It looked like it had been buried for some time. “What in the blazes…?” Gavril muttered, kneeling to examine it. “Where did you find this, you fluffy menace?” Pip chittered, nudging the metal with his nose, then scampered towards the back door, letting out a series of urgent squeaks. Tashya’s gaze darted between the curved housing, the print, and the marmot’s flicking tail. “The kids,” she rasped, piecing the fragments together despite her fogged mind. “They were digging by the woodshed. They said they found a ‘shiny rock’ that tasted like dirt and ‘sparkles’.” Gavril’s head snapped up. “The woodshed? That’s where I buried it! I dismantled the M7-A into two halves to make it less obvious, less useful to anyone who might stumble upon it. The main core, the largest piece, was secured under the old oak, the other half… by the woodshed.” He ran a calloused hand through his hair, pressing his lips thin. “So this is half of the casing. But where’s the power conduit itself?” They both knew the answer before it was spoken. The Brask cousins, the spy in the greenhouse. Their earlier 'snooping' hadn't been idle curiosity. They had been searching. And they had found something. “The spy,” Tashya said, her voice a thin whisper. “The one Niko and Luda trapped. He was digging in the yard. He must have found the other half.” Days remained. She had days, perhaps a week, at most. Her lungs felt like shards of ice, her coughs growing more frequent, more ragged. Gavril’s face locked tight, muscles twitching along his temple. “They have it. That insufferable snake, Brask. He’s probably trying to figure out what it is, or sell it to the highest bidder on the black market.” He stood, pacing the small space, his hands clenching into fists. “We need to get it back. Now.” “The Brask factory,” Tashya clarified, pushing herself up, though her legs felt like jelly. “He wouldn’t keep something so valuable anywhere else. It’s the most secure place he has, probably locked away in his personal office vault.” “It’ll be crawling with his men,” Gavril warned, running a thumb over the paper draft. “It’s a desperate infiltration. We’ll need a plan. And we’ll need to move fast.” His gaze swept over her, taking in her pallor, the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cold. Suddenly, a piercing, mechanical shriek tore through the air – the town perimeter alarm, a raw, guttural wail that signaled an unprecedented threat. Moments later, the cabin shuddered under the impact of a tremendous gust of wind. The snow outside, already deep, erupted into a blinding, whiteout blizzard. Heavy flakes, thick as coin-sized pearls, slammed against the windowpanes, obscuring everything. Then, through the swirling white chaos, dark shapes began to materialize. Not just one or two, but a dozen, perhaps more. Heavily armed silhouettes, converging on the cabin, their forms distorted by the gale, but their intent terrifyingly clear. They were surrounded. And winter had truly come to claim its due.

Skeletons in the Snow