The wind howled, rattling the cabin's ancient timbers. Outside, the dark shapes remained, solidifying into hulking men draped in thick, snow-dusted coats, their rifles stark against the gale's fury. Gavril moved, a blur of practiced motion, pulling Niko and Luda behind him, his body a shield. He drew his sidearm, the cold metal gleaming briefly before he tucked it against his chest. “Stay low,” he commanded, his voice a low growl that carried over the storm. “Tashya, keep them inside.” “Oh, I intend to,” Tashya retorted, her voice lacking its usual flippant edge. Her gaze, however, was not on the encroaching men, but on the small, unassuming pressure plates embedded into the porch steps. She’d built them in a bored afternoon, just in case the mailman got too enthusiastic. “They’ll trip the ‘welcome mat’ first.” One of the figures, broader than the rest, raised a heavy-caliber rifle. The distant crack of a shot was swallowed by the tempest, but a splintering impact against the doorframe confirmed their intent. Gavril swore under his breath, nudging the children deeper into the shadow of the pantry door. “They’re not waiting. They’re here for the core.” Tashya’s lips thinned. “Let’s hope they enjoy a hot bath.” She pressed a discreet button disguised as a loose nail-head near the window. Outside, a low hiss began, hard to hear over the gale, then rapidly intensified. The leading thugs, emboldened by their initial shot, surged forward, their boots crunching on the packed snow of the porch. The first few hit the pressure plates. A series of metallic clicks echoed, drowned out by the sudden, violent roar of high-pressure steam. Hidden vents, strategically placed around the porch and leading path, erupted. Scalding vapor, thick and blinding, shot upwards, instantly obscuring the attackers in a churning cloud of white. Screams tore through the air. Not cries of pain, not yet, but startled, guttural roars of surprise and disorientation. Men stumbled, thrashing wildly in the searing mist. The steam, heated by Tashya’s rudimentary but effective heat exchanger, was designed to disorient and sting, not to maim. But it was enough. As the first wave reeled back, coughing and sputtering, another, more insidious defense activated. A faint, almost invisible shimmer pulsed along the snow-covered fence lines, hard to spot against the drifting white. “The perimeter fence has an… *electrified deterrent*,” Tashya announced, a hint of dry satisfaction in her tone. “Just for those who can’t take a hint.” Two more thugs, attempting to flank the cabin through the deeper snow, brushed against the fence. A sharp crackle rent the air, followed by a grunt of pain as blue arcs of static discharge danced across their heavy coats. They convulsed, dropping their weapons with clangs against the icy ground, their bodies spasming before they collapsed in the snow, temporarily incapacitated. The remaining attackers, now thoroughly confused and singed, hesitated. Their initial aggression had evaporated, replaced by a panicked uncertainty. “What in the blazes is this?” yelled a voice, thick with rage, muffled by the swirling white. “Get in there, you fools!” A new sound ripped through the storm's shriek – a high-pitched whistle, followed by a heavy thud as something massive landed nearby. The cabin shuddered violently. Gavril’s brow furrowed. “Mortar fire,” he snarled, sweeping Niko and Luda further back. “They’re getting desperate.” Another whistle, closer this time. A dark, cylindrical shape arced through the obscured sky, a terrifying projectile aimed squarely at the cabin’s wall, directly above where Luda was trying to peek out. “Luda, down!” Tashya shouted, scrambling forward, but it was too late. The projectile descended with horrifying speed. Gavril lunged, pure instinct driving him. He threw himself forward, twisting his body to shield the small girl and pressing her flat against the floorboards. The mortar round slammed into the timber wall with a deafening CRACK, not a direct hit, but a glancing blow that tore through the thick planks with a sickening rip. Splinters exploded inwards, a shower of jagged wood and ice. Gavril let out a sharp, ragged cry, a sound of pure, unadulterated pain that sliced through the cacophony of the storm. Tashya scrambled forward on hands and knees. Gavril lay on the floor, half-covering Luda, his face pale, his teeth gritted. A grotesque shard of timber, thick as her forearm, was impaled deep in his left thigh, pinning him to the floor. Dark, arterial blood pulsed around the wound, staining the rough-spun fabric of his trousers a terrifying, deepening crimson. Luda, thankfully unharmed, whimpered softly, clutching Gavril’s uninjured arm, her small face streaked with tears. “Gavril!” Tashya’s voice was a guttural snarl, all pretense of sarcasm and laziness stripped away, replaced by an incandescent fury. This was *her* family, *her* fragile peace, being torn apart. This was *her* fear, made horribly real. “Niko, stay with Luda. Don’t move him.” She didn't wait for a response. She launched herself towards the cellar door, her steps pounding with a frantic energy Gavril had never seen. He watched her go, his vision blurring, a grim satisfaction warring with the agony. “Tashya…” he rasped, his hand clamping over his wound. “Be careful.” She was already gone, plunging into the warm, verdant glow of the greenhouse. Pip, startled by her abrupt entrance, chirped nervously. Ignoring the marmot, Tashya sprinted to a row of shimmering, translucent stalks that pulsed with an ethereal green light. These were her ‘Vrostok Vital-Vines,’ bio-engineered for rapid cellular regeneration, primarily for plant growth, but their sap had… *other* properties. She ripped a thick stalk free, ignoring the sticky, sweet scent, and hastily squeezed the viscous, opalescent sap into a small, sterile vial. The liquid glowed faintly, a potent, volatile substance. Then, her eyes fell on another experimental harvest: a cluster of fist-sized, obsidian-black berries that radiated a subtle heat. These were ‘Ignis-Berries,’ highly unstable, highly explosive. She plucked a handful, tucking them carefully into a lined pouch. Finally, she grabbed her custom-built pneumatic nail-gun, a heavy, repurposed tool she’d designed for driving heavy spikes into permafrost, now loaded with sharpened, steel-tipped bolts. This was not a weapon for defense. This was a weapon for retribution. Back in the living area, Gavril had managed to staunch some of the bleeding with a torn piece of his shirt, but his face was slick with sweat, his breathing shallow. Tashya dropped to her knees beside him, her jaw set tight. She uncorked the vial of sap. “This is going to sting like a hundred angry hornets,” she warned, her voice tight. “But it’ll seal it.” With a steady hand, she poured the luminous sap directly onto the wound. Gavril gasped, his body tensing, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch, only watched her with an intensity that burned through the pain. The sap hissed as it made contact with the blood, beginning to congeal and spread, knitting itself across the lacerated flesh, shrinking the splinter, slowly, steadily, nudging it out. It was a crude, brutal application, but effective. Within moments, the gushing blood lessened to a trickle, the edges of the wound visibly shrinking. “Stay here. Protect Niko and Luda,” Tashya ordered, her gaze meeting his, unyielding. “I’m ending this.” Gavril set his teeth. He knew that look. The one that meant she wouldn't be dissuaded. “Tashya, don’t be foolish. It’s a whiteout. You can’t go out there alone.” “Foolish was letting them think they could threaten my family,” she snarled, rising to her feet. “And foolish was thinking I’d let them get away with it.” She hefted the nail-gun, its balance familiar in her hands. The pouch of Ignis-Berries clinked against her hip. Without another word, she unbarred the heavy door, the storm instantly roaring in, a furious, blinding white wall. She stepped into it, a lone, determined silhouette swallowed by the storm. She navigated by a grim instinct, the faint, half-buried tracks of the thugs her only guide. The wind tore at her clothes, the snow bit at her exposed skin, but her focus was absolute. She could taste the metallic tang of blood in the air, a phantom echo of Gavril’s injury. Ahead, a vast, looming shape began to materialize through the whiteout – the Brask processing factory, a monstrous silhouette of corrugated metal and smoking vents, barely visible even at this close range. The perimeter alarm had long since been silenced, but the distant, muffled shouts indicated chaos within. She reached the main loading dock, its massive, ironclad doors appearing impenetrable. Then, a low hum started, vibrating through the icy ground. The heavy doors, meant to withstand the harshest Vrostok winters, began to slowly, ponderously, slide open, revealing a cavernous, dimly lit interior. And from unseen speakers, amplified over the whine of machinery, a voice echoed, thick with smug satisfaction, unmistakably Uncle Brask’s. “I knew you’d come, little niece. Turn on the prototype!”

Whiteout Warfare