Enemy at the Gates

  The Walker kept following the road, cautiously but without stopping. I had pushed even deeper into the city without trouble. I was already passing by the roundabout monument to the heroes of the city’s defense during World War II. It was an impressive monument, with sculptures symbolizing the brave soldiers and civilians mobilizing to defend their land, and the high price paid to stop the invasion. There was also a museum there with weapons, relics, and flags from that difficult era. Today, that same monument was surrounded by a city under siege. Despite the snowstorm, several pillars of black smoke could be seen everywhere. There was rubble in the streets, machine-gun nests hidden on corners, civilians taking refuge in the metro, tanks speeding toward a frontline that shifted every minute.

  A terrible landscape in which I had already seen this same city before.

  The first time I arrived here was in the summer of that terrible year, when by a twist of fate I had won a tourist trip to the city. On the morning of my last day as an innocent person, I was walking these streets like just another lost tourist. I had come from taking photos of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral, camera still in hand, map in the other, backpack full of clothes, trying to ask for directions to get back to the hotel that afternoon. I didn’t even speak Russian.

  By noon, I saw my first dragon flying across the sky. Everyone stared in confusion, a mix of awe and fear. I still remember how it flew east.

  Thirty minutes later, I killed my first dragon — one that had come out of nowhere and was trying to eat a family and their children at the entrance of that same museum of the grim world war. That same afternoon was when I first met Rose Raven. She had seen her husband Damien Raven die an hour earlier so she could escape the laboratory. We joined her and her team in a desperate fight to escape the city by any means possible.

  I didn’t set foot in this city again until almost four years later, after making the dangerous journey through the metro from Moscow to here, seeking revenge for Luna. Back then, the city truly was in ruins. A city destroyed by the violent reign of the dragons, a city of raw stone and ice, unrecognizable from the one I had escaped before. That same World War II monument was one of the few landmarks the dragons’ fire breath had not completely burned. The goal that day was to reach the north, recapture Rose’s laboratory, and use the portal to launch an invasion into the dragons’ place of origin. I remember how we survived in this city thanks to the hundreds of nuclear bunkers that were built during the Cold War. Those same bunkers were later used by us as shelters, bases, and hospitals.

  Six years passed before I finished off the last of the dragons. Overlord was nothing more than a corpse cast into the vacuum of space and burned in its atmosphere. When I took the Codex, I was asked to make a wish. I simply wished that life would go back to being the simple thing it once was — but without dragons.

  I woke up suddenly, asleep on the steps of that museum. One of the guards came to wake me, thinking I was drunk. I got up, gathered my things, and headed to the hotel, happy to think it had all been a dream.

  But later, by the Neva River, Lisa stopped me in my tracks. I knew she was an angel even though she pretended to be human. She was dressed in white with a straw hat. She thanked me for managing to win and end the dragon wars that I thought had just been a long lost dream. She placed the Luna Core crystal in my hands as proof that all my misfortunes had been real — not as punishment, but as memories never to forget and a reminder of their worth.

  Shortly after, I received a call from home. My sister was in the hospital on the other side of the world. At that same moment, Rose Raven was dying of cardiac arrest in the arms of her husband Damien.

  That was the last time I had set foot in this city.

  Now I am back here — armed.

  PRIEST:

  “Hey Valkyria, everything okay?”

  “You’ve been staring in that direction for several minutes.”

  VALKYRIA:

  “Everything’s fine. I’m moving forward.”

  “I’m just thinking about how to cross the river.”

  I’m looking at the Neva River. My objective is on the other side, but all the bridges have been destroyed. I need to find a way across. The river is clearly frozen in this miserable cold, but the real question is whether it can hold fifty tons on just two points of contact. If the Walker falls through, it’ll be immobilized for several minutes while I try to pull it out — an easy artillery target.

  I can’t believe that after so much time and technology, crossing a river in wartime is still a pain in the ass.

  Ahead is Palace Bridge. It has a bunch of craters, but maybe I could go that way and jump if a section is missing. The Winter Palace of the Tsars is also nearby, so I could take shelter there if I need to abort the plan.

  But while looking across the city beyond the river, toward Peter and Paul Fortress and the surrounding rooftops… something doesn’t add up. Beyond the small island, there are normal buildings next to what looks like a pirate ship.

  The rooftops.

  In a city under bombardment, damage is chaotic — impacts here, fires there, random collapses. But from my position, mentally counting damaged buildings within a five-hundred-meter radius, I see a geometric pattern. Too many northwest corners destroyed. Too many rooftops with perfectly circular holes at the same angle, as if someone removed bricks strategically to create lines of sight.

  “A sniper,” I muttered.

  Not infantry.

  A Walker sniper.

  Unlike a normal sniper who’s at most two meters tall, a Walker is a giant robot between five and ten meters depending on configuration. Even though they’re vaguely humanoid, it’s easier to think of them as vehicles. But a vehicle would normally be restricted to streets or open areas — which is stupid for something that relies on opportunistic attacks.

  That’s why Walker snipers, like WWII tank destroyer units, operate from places they absolutely shouldn’t be. And who would expect to see a giant robot inside a building, just waiting? They only need the same thing all snipers need: clear lines of sight and multiple escape routes.

  I jerk hard to the right, driving Crimson Empress into Karavannaya Street just as a metal rod as thick as my arm punches through the spot where my cockpit had been half a second earlier.

  The impact echoes through nearby buildings. Where my Walker had been, there’s now a crater in the asphalt, with radial fractures extending ten meters in every direction. The projectile — a high-velocity tungsten penetrator — went through the facade of what looked like a café and exited through the other side.

  There’s no gunshot sound. Only the whistle of the projectile already past, and then the secondary explosions of whatever it hit.

  VALKYRIA:

  “Shit! Contact!”

  “Sniper! Walker sniper! Massive caliber!”

  “I don’t have an exact location of where the hell she is!”

  “I think she’s roughly between the Kunstkamera and Peter and Paul Fortress across the river!”

  “Distance unknown!”

  PRIEST:

  “Copy, we’re checking what that could’ve been.”

  GLASS:

  “At least two kilometers away.”

  “A standard Walker camera wouldn’t have that kind of range in this environment.”

  “So either she has spotters positioned elsewhere, or she’s using basic optics and has terrifying aim…”

  WAR LADY:

  “Hey, do you think she’s got you locked?”

  VALKYRIA:

  “She aimed precisely at my position. She clearly saw me and took her time lining up the shot. It was pure luck she missed.”

  WAR LADY:

  “Have you repositioned? Don’t stay by the riverbank — fall back a few blocks and take cover between buildings.”

  VALKYRIA:

  “Already did. Don’t worry.”

  “I think I shook her scope. She probably has a general idea where I am, but not exactly.”

  “I’m behind the Winter Palace now.”

  “Big surface area. Lots of windows. Hard to monitor everything.”

  WAR LADY:

  “Good. Immediate danger’s passed.”

  “Take it slow. There hasn’t been a second shot. That means she’s deciding whether to continue.”

  “If she fires multiple tungsten rods, she could punch through the building and hit you.”

  “But those rounds are expensive. Not something the rebels want to waste lightly.”

  IDOL:

  “From data we extracted from the White Army tablet, no allied units are on that side of the river. High probability this is another rebel element trying to delay loyalist forces from crossing north.”

  “Possible positive ID: IRON STAR BATTALION — 3rd Company ‘Ghost’.”

  “Walker Model: S-88 STRELOK-01.”

  “Callsign: RUSALKA.”

  “Training: Tolyatti Military Academy of Chemical Technologies.”

  “Specialization: Applied mathematics / advanced ballistics.”

  “Combat experience: Veteran of the Continental War (Ukrainian front).”

  “Decorations: Order of Courage, Medal ‘For Merit in Combat.’”

  VALKYRIA:

  “So in short, this isn’t her first rodeo.”

  “Lucky for her, it’s not mine either.”

  “I’ve done sniper work during the Continental War too, now and then. With normal rifles, not giant robots — but the idea’s the same.”

  “…Problem is, Crimson Empress isn’t built for this kind of engagement.”

  “She’s a direct-combat model. Medium to short range. Not two-kilometer duels. I just don’t have the firing platform.”

  “There’s no way I shoot across the river and actually hit her.”

  “And even in low-power stealth mode, I’m bright red.”

  “She just sees a giant red robot walking through the streets. Easy target.”

  PRIEST:

  “Come on Valkyria, you’re the expert here.”

  “Please tell me you have a plan.”

  VALKYRIA:

  “Oh, of course I do.”

  “You’re gonna love it. This move always catches them by surprise.”

  I start rummaging through the cockpit until I find an MRE. I reduce Crimson Empress’ profile and emissions to the minimum, shift into a more comfortable position… and start eating.

  Looks like today’s lunch is turkey and cheese sandwiches. As always, with a nice soda to lift the mood.

  PRIEST:

  “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, VALKYRIA?!”

  “You’re in a sniper duel! Why the hell are you eating right now?!”

  VALKYRIA:

  “Huh? Why? Because right now is the best possible time.”

  “No idea when I’ll get another chance to eat.”

  PRIEST:

  “You won’t have a later if the sniper blows your head off!”

  VALKYRIA:

  “She’s not going to do anything. She’s a sniper. Her job is to do nothing.”

  “…Snipers are lethal, yes — but more than that, they’re patient. They spend hours, days watching their target, always waiting for the perfect moment.”

  “And they’re human. Not perfect.”

  “Especially in an active war zone where you can’t assume nobody expects a sniper. Here, everyone expects one. That means constant paranoia.”

  "Did they see me? Did she relocate? Is she lining up a shot I won’t see? Are her three unseen friends flanking me from the left? Is she calling artillery on my position?"

  “Those thoughts are dangerous. Bad advisors.”

  “She lost sight of me, but she knows I know she exists.”

  “Right now that sniper across the river is probably scanning the entire riverbank nonstop, terrified.”

  "What if she comes out from another street where I’m not looking?"

  “Hypervigilance. She can’t maintain that forever. Either her nerves eat her alive, or she relaxes a bit.”

  “So the best thing I can do right now… is nothing.”

  PRIEST:

  "You’ve got to be crazy if you think this is going to work."

  WAR LADY:

  "No, actually it makes sense, even if it doesn’t look like it."

  "If I were the sniper, I’d definitely be doubting myself right now."

  "Valkyria isn’t the only threat out there. The White Army is also hunting for enemies."

  PROVIDER:

  "Battlefield situations are always changing. Eating and resting when you have the chance has benefits too."

  "For example, it can lower adrenaline levels, which helps stabilize pulse, reduce tremors, improve decision-making, and prevent cognitive tunnel vision."

  PRIEST:

  "She’s eating during a sniper duel, for God’s sake?!"

  "Am I the only one who sees how stupid this is?"

  "Besides, she’s made of water. Half the things you said don’t even apply to her."

  "She shouldn’t even need food — she just eats because she’s a glutton!"

  PROVIDER:

  "Well, a soldier in a combat zone being a bit gluttonous when the opportunity comes up is normal…"

  While I kept eating and enjoying the soda, I saw that about 50 meters from me another tungsten rod pierced straight through a building and impaled itself in the one across the street in front of me. Without a doubt, it was the sniper being annoying again. A few seconds later, another shot passed, this time only about 10 meters from my Walker. Same result — a metal bar embedded in the building ahead.

  PRIEST:

  “Valkyria! Be careful!”

  “I think she’s located you!”

  VALKYRIA:

  "Don’t worry, she’s just harassing me."

  "She’s firing because she’s frustrated."

  "She knows I’m around here, not exactly where I am. Otherwise, the shot would’ve hit the Walker."

  "She’s shooting to see if she can provoke a reaction from me and relocate me."

  "She’s studying me right now, but she’s got nothing."

  "This just means she’s more nervous than I expected."

  WAR LADY:

  "Hey Valkyria, waiting and eating might be affecting the enemy, but you know you’re not going to win by waiting for her to die of old age, right?"

  "What’s the real plan?"

  VALKYRIA:

  "I know it sounds dumb considering I used to be a sniper too, but I don’t like complex math."

  "Hey IDOL, three shots have landed in different places. Think you can triangulate her position using the shot angles and my location?"

  IDOL:

  "Valkyria, ballistic triangulation calculation complete. Probable area of sniper “RUSALKA” identified."

  VALKYRIA:

  "Okay, good job. Tell me."

  IDOL:

  "Projected coordinates: Seven-story residential building northeast of the Kunstkamera, approximately between Universitetskaya" "Embankment and Mendeleyevskaya Line. Margin of error: 35 meters horizontally."

  VALKYRIA:

  "Thirty-five meters? With three impacts and your computing power, it should be more precise."

  IDOL:

  "Confirming inconsistency. Ballistic vectors of impacts 2 and 3 converge on a consistent point: possibly third floor, northwest window of building D-4."

  VALKYRIA:

  "And impact 1?

  IDOL:

  "The second shot’s vector shows an angular deviation of 1.7 degrees from the first’s expected trajectory from that same origin point. Possible explanations: extreme wind error, or…"

  VALKYRIA:

  "…Or the firing platform moved between the first and second shot. Standard procedure. Shoot, move a few meters, shoot again to avoid exactly this."

  "But 1.7 degrees at 2 kilometers… that’s not lateral movement of an entire Walker."

  IDOL:.

  "Correct. At that distance, a lateral displacement of the entire S-88 Walker to achieve that angular change would require movement of approximately 60 meters."

  VALKYRIA:

  "She fired the second shot in… how long?"

  IDOL:

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Ten minutes after the first."

  VALKYRIA:

  "That’s how long she watched to see if I’d come out again."

  "And the third came 74 seconds later."

  "She didn’t change position, just adjusted the aim to look elsewhere because she would’ve seen me."

  "So she didn’t move. She moved the gun."

  IDOL:

  "Trajectories suggest slightly shifted origin points. Calculation: lateral displacement of approximately 3–4 meters between shots 1 and 2, and 1 meter between shots 2 and 3."

  WAR LADY:

  "That’s almost nothing for a Walker. Could be stuck."

  VALKYRIA:

  "Not stuck. Anchored."

  "A sniper Walker needs a stable platform. Massive recoil"

  "It has to be anchored to the floor, probably to the building frame too. It can’t run without abandoning a position that took hours to set up. It can only pivot the torso and weapon."

  "The second shot came from the same building but a different window or floor, adjusting angle to search for me after I hid."

  WAR LADY:

  "Even with that info, RUSALKA is a professional sniper."

  "And she’s already made the worst sniper mistake — firing multiple times from the same place."

  "I don’t think she survived a continental war by making such basic mistakes. She must have some margin built into her risk."

  VALKYRIA:

  "...…"

  "I agree… If she was really selected for the IRON STAR BATTALION, her skills must be beyond exceptional compared to other candidates."

  "....…"

  "But most likely she simply can’t move. Her job is to stop anyone from crossing the river, and that’s the best spot. If she relocates now, she loses hours of work. Hours spent setting up a new position, hours during which the White Army could cross while she’s distracted."

  "Which is why I imagine she has a very good spotter."

  GLASS:

  "Technically she’s mounted in a Walker, so being a sniper in a giant robot is closer to being a precision firing platform than a human shooter in a window."

  "She probably has a real-time precision targeting system, so she doesn’t have to calculate everything constantly — just let the internal computer handle everything except looking through the scope."

  "And since she has screens and computers, she doesn’t need a human spotter. In this weather that would be very ineffective."

  "She could just have multiple thermal cameras placed along the riverbank or on top of buildings, all coordinated with a central system.

  "Multiple spotters spread across the city."

  VALKYRIA:

  "Not the whole city. Otherwise she would’ve hit me through a building already — her shots are capable of that."

  "She only has them on the other side of the river. That’s why she still has to work like a normal sniper. Most rebel forces are in the north, with only occasional incursions in the south."

  GLASS:

  "We could still try using LIDAR to scan....."

  VALKYRIA:

  "And with the power of that thing, melt the ice around me?"

  "No good. We’d just tell her where I am."

  PRIEST:

  "VALKYRIA, time matters. In a week Damien will be dead."

  "I need you to rescue him in hours, not days."

  "Please tell me you already have a real plan."

  VALKYRIA:

  "Unfortunately, yes. And I hate it."

  "...…"

  "RUSALKA is waiting for a Walker to come out of this building at some point."

  "Right now her weapon, optics, and sensors are tuned for a 50-ton giant robot on this side of the river."

  "Her thermal cameras are looking for any heat difference to blow someone’s head off."

  "So she leaves me only one option."

  Without finishing, I stood up from the seat and took off my coat. Then I slowly removed the ARKsuit armor and melted the slime that was my underwear back into my body. I became a slime again, entirely made of water and transparent.

  PRIEST:

  "VALKYRIA, what the hell are you doing?!"

  VALKYRIA:

  "What else? Getting ready to cross the river."

  PRIEST:

  "You’re going to cross the river naked? It’s like -30 degrees out there!"

  VALKYRIA:

  "Even though I’m made of water, I won’t freeze, remember?"

  "I’ll curse the cold, though…"

  "But my body will be at absolute freezing temperature, which means her thermal cameras won’t see me."

  "The snowstorm makes it hard to see, and I’m semi-transparent blue, walking on frozen ice beside the bridge."

  "Unless she’s specifically looking for ghosts, she won’t see me. Once I’m on the other side, I just move inside buildings so she never spots me."

  "......"]

  "My plan is simply to walk up to the sniper and stick a knife in her."

  PRIEST:

  That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.

  VALKYRIA:

  And that’s exactly why it’s a good idea.

  "..…"

  "Okay, listen carefully. I’m going to try crossing the river, but I won’t push my luck."

  "In ten minutes, not less, move the Walker so it crosses that intersection there — obvious but fast."

  "in 20 minutes, I want you to move the Walker, grab that car over there, and throw it into that building."

  "That’ll force her to react and see what happened, giving me another window."

  "Then shoot a bit — you don’t even have to hit anything, just strike a random building."

  "She’ll likely locate the Walker’s position by tracking the shot trails — that’s what I want. I want her at maximum tension, expecting a long-range shot, not expecting me nearby."

  "Then I’ll just open the cockpit and give her the knife."

  "After that I’ll try to blow up the ammo depot or something — that’ll be your signal that it’s clear and you can move the Walker forward to pick me up."

  "...…"

  "If all goes well, in an hour we’ll be moving again."

  WAR LADY:

  "Are you sure you’ll have enough time in one hour?"

  PRIEST:

  "We don’t have time, we have no other choice."

  "Valkyria, I know this is stupid, but please be careful."

  "Despite how it looks, I feel like I see more of you back than Damien."

  "Besides, as GHOST says, we already have too many ghosts with her wandering around our home."

  GLASS:

  "I’ll be configuring the Walker to follow your instructions."

  "I’m going to leave it as a routine, so it will follow those orders autonomously, meaning it will carry them out even if the connection is cut."

  "I’ll be on standby for the signal to relocate Crimson Empress. Please trust that she’ll be in good hands with me."

  VALKYRIA:

  "Well then, I’m heading out."

  "Please don’t screw it up."

  …..

  One last breath, enjoying for a final second the warmth of the Walker’s heating. I took my combat knife in one hand and the lever in the other, then pulled. The hydraulic hinges of the Crimson Empress groaned as they opened, and then the cold hit me.

  This wasn’t the earlier cold, softened by the cabin insulation and the Arksuit. This was a different cold. A cold that didn’t just bite at the skin, but slipped straight into the soul—a cold that screamed that nothing alive should be there. The wind, which from inside had sounded like a distant lament, transformed into a bestial howl that lashed against my bare body. Each horizontal snowflake stabbed like a tiny needle of ice. I felt the surface of my body—my water—respond immediately, densifying, fighting not to solidify completely. I wouldn’t freeze, not like a human. But I would feel every degree below zero like a slow, liquid torture. It felt like I was burning alive.

  But what struck me the most wasn’t the extreme cold on my body.

  It was the silence.

  The loneliness, the endless snowfield, the uncertainty — it all reminded me of the brutal winter days in Moscow. The city was different, but the feeling was the same.

  I had always been alone on this mission, ever since the jump. But knowing there were voices on the other side, a team, my mother, my wives… that had been an illusion of company. Now not even that remained. It was the absolute silence of the battlefield, broken only by the wind and the distant rumble of artillery to the north. It was the loneliness of both predator and prey on opposite sides of the river.

  I grabbed the combat knife I had taken from the emergency kit. Its polymer grip was icy against my palm. It wouldn’t warm me, but it was a familiar piece of metal, an anchor to reality. I squeezed it and jumped from the edge of the cockpit.

  The fall was short, but the impact in the piled snow shook me. The layer of ice cracked under my bare feet, which immediately burned at the contact. It was horrible torture, like walking on needles or boiling coal, as inhospitable as hell itself. A wave of regret filled me completely. I quickly thought about telling them all to hell with this and going home as soon as possible — sitting in the living room laughing with the others, drinking hot chocolate, decorating the house for Christmas. But instead, I was in a besieged city, artillery fire passing overhead. That world was very far from here, and my only way to win it back was to keep walking forward.

  I didn’t look back at the Crimson Empress. My Walker was now a decoy, a metal corpse meant to draw RUSALKA’s gaze.

  I began to move slowly and carefully. I knew thermal cameras wouldn’t detect me, but they only had to switch modes and they’d see something moving along the river. If there was a human observer and not just cameras, maybe they’d notice something strange slowly approaching.

  I crawled toward the Palace Bridge — or what remained of it. Large sections had been blown apart, leaving gaps that showed the black, frozen river ten meters below. But the pillars and shattered spans offered something invaluable: breaks in line of sight. From her nest, RUSALKA would have a clear cone of vision over the streets and the open shore. But under the bridge’s shadow, among the concrete rubble and twisted beams, there were blind spots — I hoped enough to reach the other side.

  I advanced pressed against the base of a pillar, my pale blue translucent body almost indistinguishable from the frost and ice coating the stone. The wind howled even harder through the river channel, an icy wind tunnel stealing my heat at an alarming rate. I just prayed to let it pass and tried to stay as cold as possible, even if it hurt. I had to endure. This knife would be dedicated to her for making me go through this hell.

  A gust of wind hit so insanely strong that for a moment I felt like I might be blown away without control. In panic, I hugged one of the bridge pillars. Even more afraid, I thought that had been my final mistake — that I had finally made the error that would lead me to my grave. But nothing happened. I waited a bit longer just to be sure. Nothing. Maybe I’d been forgiven for that mistake — but only one had been overlooked. The next one would surely be my end.

  One. Two. Three. I counted the seconds between the strongest gusts of wind, moving during those brief pauses. That’s how hunting works. With patience. She has it. So do I. One step of agony, then move the foot to the next. Every centimeter tested my will to keep going with this stupidity. I felt the horrible choking shock of plunging into icy water, biting my own mouth too hard from the cold.

  In the distance, I could more or less see the buildings where that damned sniper was watching from. Just a couple of old Soviet buildings, but today they looked like a horrible tower of judgment, with an all-seeing eye watching, analyzing, judging. All you can do is hope it doesn’t turn its gaze toward you. I felt watched by something superior to me in every way. One mistake and I’d be horrifically impaled at the river’s bottom, death stalking me, and all I could do was hold my breath and count to three.

  If I was wrong, I’d die without ever understanding why.

  But for a moment, I felt alive… I felt challenged to the maximum… I felt like I had an equal rival.

  But I don’t want to be Icarus touching the sun. I’m better than that.

  Crossing under the bridge was an eternity. Every meter was a small, miserable victory. Finally, I emerged on the other side, at the base of the Peter and Paul Fortress. I was on the northern shore. In RUSALKA’s territory.

  I carefully descended a half-collapsed stone staircase. The river ice wasn’t smooth but a chaotic topography of raised plates, mounds of accumulated snow, and debris dragged by the current before freezing. I moved crouched, using every irregularity as cover. The wind here sounded different, a sharper whistle over the ice.

  I advanced about fifty meters. The D-4 building was getting closer. The tension was a steel cable where my stomach would be. Every second I expected the supersonic crack of a shot, the ice exploding around me.

  And then I felt it.

  It wasn’t a sound. It was a sensation. A faint metallic click, muffled by snow, transmitted through the ice into the sole of my foot. I froze instantly — frozen in a non-thermal sense.

  I looked down, slowly, without breathing.

  The snow at my feet had shifted under my weight, revealing the edge of a bluish-white painted metal disc, almost perfectly camouflaged. A flat disk the size of a small truck tire. The Cyrillic letters were worn, but I recognized them instantly: TM-62.

  A Soviet anti-tank mine.

  My heart stopped completely.

  I stayed motionless, the icy air trapped in my throat. The cold that had been torture was now a blessing, proof I could still feel.

  But physics had been on my side. I hadn’t triggered the demon beneath the snow — it was an anti-tank mine, designed to detonate under more than 300 kilos of pressure. I barely weighed 70. That’s why I hadn’t depressed the fuze enough. Still, the terror was the same.

  I didn’t dare move. My gaze slowly shifted toward the Crimson Empress, which at that very moment was executing the second phase of the plan. I saw my Walker, moving somewhat robotically under GLASS’s automated control, grab an abandoned civilian car half-buried in snow. With a motion of its mechanical arm, it lifted and hurled it with brute force into the facade of an office building two blocks away. The impact was spectacular: shattered glass, twisting metal, a dirty geyser of dust and snow.

  RUSALKA’s response was immediate and furious.

  I saw her fire without hesitation. The only thing that saved my Walker was Momo’s engineering — she had anticipated the counterattack and integrated a subroutine for it to dodge and withdraw before giving her another opportunity.

  Through the hole in the wall, I saw the orange flash of the explosion, followed by a dull boom that shook the ground under my feet. The moment to act was now.

  I moved toward the S-88 STRELKOV, its angular, functional silhouette like a metal spider crouched in the gloom. Its legs were anchored with cables to the building’s main beams, and its long-range cannon — a thin, deadly tube — pointed inertly toward the window.

  My hand rushed to the emergency cockpit access release and pulled it, while the other was ready to go for my opponent’s throat. A twist, a hydraulic click, and the hatch opened with a sigh of pressurized air. The interior was lit only by standby lights, green and red blinking in steady sequences.

  But it was empty.

  There was no pilot seat. No manual controls. Just a central console with a monitor showing five different views of the riverbank and the bridge, all thermal, all with automatic tracking reticles. In the lower corner, a small logo: a stylized wolf’s eye, and beneath it the words:

  “VOLCH-1 SYSTEM: STANDBY”

  A complete trap. A decoy. A remote firing platform. RUSALKA had never been here.

  I heard the alarm inside the Walker. A message appeared on the monitor:

  “Sorry, but the sniper is in another castle.”

  “Game Over”

  Then I heard multiple nearby detonations — the terrifying scream of death from Katyushas, the banshee whistle of World War II rockets. I ran at full speed to the window. I could barely make out the smoke arcs they were leaving. It was clear what their target was: the building complex where I was.

  I couldn’t believe it — but I wasn’t even angry. I was genuinely impressed by the cleverness of the move. And yet I was smiling, for the challenge, for the difficulty, for the thrill of being alive.

  “HA HA HA HA HA!”

  “I can’t believe it, you really have the brains, girl.”

  “Maybe you do have the talent to play in the big leagues.”

  She wasn’t looking for line of sight. She just needed me in a pre-planned fixed position.

  The first rocket hit three buildings to the left. The explosion was a dull thunder that shook the ground under my bare feet, followed by the crash of collapsing glass and masonry. Dust and snow rose into a gray cloud that swallowed the evening light. The second and third impacts sounded almost simultaneously, closer, vibrating the floor beneath me.

  She had won this round. She had led me into a well-planned trap. But a trap only works if you stay inside it.

  Run. Survive. Win later.

  The order was primitive, animal, burned into every fiber of my being. Outside meant death. It had to be deeper, away from windows, away from exterior walls, away from the open sky that was now nothing but death’s scythe screaming my name in blind search.

  I spun on my heels, my blue bare feet sliding on dust and debris. The cold pain vanished, replaced by adrenaline and fear of the impatient judgment coming. The decoy Walker’s emergency lights blinked, briefly illuminating my route: a door at the back of the room — nothing more than a metal panel half torn from its hinges. Beyond it I could see a concrete wall and stairs, and beside them, a green arrow painted on the wall, an old Soviet sign with peeling paint:

  ПОДВАЛ

  (Basement)

  I ran in panic instead of strategy, driven by the desperate need to see another day. Another impact, so close the shockwave knocked me down. I got back up immediately.

  I reached the door. The handle was cold and rusted. I pulled. It didn’t budge. Stuck or locked. A cry of frustration escaped me, drowned by another impact that made the walls groan.

  “No, no, no, no, NO.”

  I stepped back and kicked the door with all my weight, right beside the lock. The wood around the hinges cracked but held. Another impact. Another. Another. Until finally it gave way and burst open to my plea.

  The stairs appeared to my left, descending into darkness. I didn’t think. I jumped the first steps, grabbing the rusted railing. My footsteps echoed like war drums in the narrow shaft. Above, the howling grew deafening, like a freight train approaching at Mach 2 directly over my head.

  The world exploded.

  Not a sound — a force. The air turned solid and slammed into my back. The shockwave tore me from the stairs like a rag doll. I flew, spinning in the dark air, breath blasted from my liquid lungs. The metal railing twisted with a high-pitched scream. The concrete steps beneath me lifted and then disintegrated.

  I hit the first landing hard, pain flaring, but fear of the next blast was worse than the pain in my legs. Impacts followed in apocalyptic drumbeats that shook the building’s foundations. The floor where I’d been moments ago surely no longer existed. Dust, plaster, and brick fragments rained down. The ceiling above the stairwell cracked, a massive concrete beam tilting with a sound of structural agony.

  I crawled. I could no longer run from the explosions’ assault. Instinct told me if I stood up I wouldn’t live five more seconds. As everything trembled, I tried to get as far from the stairs as possible, desperately searching for a room corner that could be final shelter — or a tomb. I groped blindly in the darkness, finding a cold, damp wall. I curled against it.

  The sound was so immense it stopped being sound; it became air pressure slamming into me. My eardrums were the first casualties — a painful white silence. Larger chunks of debris fell from the ceiling. One the size of my head struck my shoulder with a dull blow. The pain was sharp and horrible, but that same pain meant I was still alive.

  Something enormous collapsed nearby — probably the building’s entire facade. A torrent of debris poured down the stairwell entrance, partially sealing it with a dull roar. The light vanished, plunging everything into near-total darkness, broken only by the distant glow of fires through cracks.

  And then, slowly, the roar faded.

  Then only silence, broken by the crackle of burning wood, the drip of broken pipes, and the slow settling of debris. I stayed still for what felt like eternity, listening. Just my own strained breathing, the distant dripping of pipes, the crackling fires above.

  I coughed, spitting water mixed with dust. I stood, trembling. The basement door was completely blocked by collapsed bricks and beams. The only shaft of light was gone, leaving me in almost perfect darkness.

  But I was alive. I had survived.

  My shoulder hurt, but it worked. One leg was numb from the impact, but not broken — not in the conventional sense. I was covered in dust, plaster, and small superficial cuts that didn’t matter compared to the damage I had avoided.

  Some debris fell from the ceiling, revealing a new ray of light. In it, I saw a security camera still functioning. It probably had nothing to do with anything, but I thought maybe RUSALKA was actually watching me through it — mouth hanging open, seeing me alive and standing despite her master move.

  A dry laugh — more a gasp than a laugh — escaped my throat. It sounded like sand and dust.

  “You didn’t kill me either. It’s a tie… for now.”

  “I’ll fix that mistake later, I swear,” I told the camera.

  I had survived a heavy artillery bombardment thanks to an overbuilt Soviet basement from the 1960s, Cold War era.

  By the time the explosions and collapses ended, the only thing left standing was me. I was simply serious. The fight was over. I had lost. But all this was just a delay in the grand scheme of things. Maybe I’d get the chance to challenge her again to a fair duel — but today was not that day. For now, what mattered was completing the mission.

  In the distance, I saw the Walker running at full speed along the river using its thrusters. When it got close to me, it lowered the cockpit slightly and automatically opened the hatch inward. Finally, I could feel warmth again. I immediately put my coat back on and equipped my armor while the Walker walked on autopilot.

  The Ravens’ mansion was finally close.