Misha: Snowfall and Fire

Author’s Note:

This is Misha’s story — a brilliant drone technician posted to the Russian front. He’s logical. Precise. Emotionally restrained. But when pushed beyond the edge, even logic has its limits.

The truck dropped me off at 23:00. Mud and ice clung to the wheels like parasites. The driver didn’t wait — just kicked the gas and disappeared into the dark while I was still closing the door. I stood alone in the cold, the sky a low gray lid, the snow beneath my boots uneven and dirty.

I found the dugout not by sight but by smell: smoke, piss, and the rot of unwashed men. The snow near the entrance had been trodden flat — no crunch left. I followed it with my boots and my nose. No signage. No light. Someone could break a leg out here, walking blind.

Inside, two men grunted when I entered. They were smoking, boots on the table, like they owned the place. They didn’t offer names and didn’t ask mine. I found the empty bunk and lay down. No point starting anything. I needed sleep. Work would begin soon.

---

I woke at 07:00. My internal clock doesn’t miss.

The other two were still asleep — or passed out, more accurately. Boots still on. Filthy uniforms. One of them snored like a dying generator. The air smelled worse than it had when I arrived.

I sat up and reached for my diary.

I remembered Sima.

It was getting dark, and she asked me to walk her home — so I did.

We stopped under a streetlamp, just beyond the edge of her yard. The snow fell slowly, making a cone of falling stars in the light.

We looked up, and for a second, it felt like we were rising through them.

When I looked down, she was looking up at me — right into my eyes, her breath fogging the cold air.

I thought my heart would detonate.

I kissed her — or she kissed me — it didn’t matter. It was brief. Soft. Shy.

But in that moment, I’d crossed a threshold into something enormous.

I wrote it down as clearly as I could. Words fail, but I do my best. I preserve things. If I don’t, no one will.

By 07:30, I’d washed, eaten, and set up my station. Outside, the wind had picked up — low, steady, like an animal breathing through its teeth. I took the drone out and unfolded its wings. The battery was sluggish from the cold, so I warmed it under my arm before running diagnostics. Servos responded with a slight lag. Acceptable tolerances. I ran a short test flight, marked the coordinates, and returned.

When I opened the dugout flap, I heard laughter.

I froze.

They were awake — both of them — and one of them, Semenov, was holding my diary.

“Her upturned face, my exploding heart,” he read aloud in a high, mocking voice. “Jesus. What is this, poetry?”

Vlad let out a wheezing laugh. “Snow kisses? Is this your little sex journal, drone-boy?”

I stepped forward and took the diary from Semenov’s hands. He didn’t resist — not at first.

“You had no right,” I said. “That was private.”

“Oh, look at him. Getting noble,” Vlad sneered.

“You laugh at love,” I said, “because you’ve never been decent enough to deserve it.”

That landed. I saw it in their eyes — confusion first, then anger.

Semenov shoved me. “You calling me indecent, freak?”

I stood my ground. “I’m calling you morally defective.”

I threw my coffee mug at his head. It missed and shattered against the wall.

They swarmed me.

Fists, boots, elbows — a mess of violence and noise. I tried to shield my face. My ribs lit up with pain. My vision blurred.

When they were done, I was on the floor, bleeding into the dirt. But I still held the diary.

“You don’t even understand what you’ve done,” I said quietly.

They laughed. Walked away. Sat back down like nothing had happened.

---

I left the dugout without speaking.

The cold helped. I focused on it — the sharp air in my lungs, the sting of wind on my split lip. I walked to the ridge near the comms post and unpacked the drone again.

Same drone. But I flew it differently this time.

I knew the enemy’s scanning patterns. I knew what would draw their attention. I flew high and slow, just long enough to be seen. Just long enough to give them something to track. Then I landed it on the roof of the dugout and walked away.

It didn’t take long.

The explosion came like a hammer — distant but final. The dugout vanished in a fountain of mud and fire. Smoke boiled up into the gray sky.

I didn’t smile.

I just stood there, the controller still in my hands, and thought of Sima — snowflakes on her eyelashes, her hand in mine, the warmth of her breath in that silent, perfect moment.

Thanks for reading.

I drop a new story every week — fiction with bite, blood, and no clean exits.

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— Ross