Nico was driven by the impossible scent of sustenance, as he pushed his failing body onward, the freezing gale at his back. He drew closer, just a bit closer, the expanse of the snow beginning to fracture, which revealed dark, jagged teeth against the white snow.
What first appeared as a rock formation in Nico's eyes resolved into a grotesque tableau of wreckage: a crash site. His eyes fixed themselves on the jagged metal scraps, twisted and gnawed by the rust and frost, lay scattered like fallen giants' bones across the landscape.
Patches of faded, crimson stains, long frozen and indistinguishable from the rust. Broken structures, half-buried in drifts. Looming above it all, directly in Nico's path, was the colossal, broken shell of an aircraft -- a mangled beast of war.
"These things... They're practically the aces of all known nations," Nico commented in awe.
Its sheer size and the violence of its end made the air around it feel heavy and suffocating.
Nico's instinct took control of him, as he ducked under a wing ripped clean from the fuselage and squeezed through a splintered opening into the dark maw of the aircraft's interior.
The air inside was still, deathly cold, and smelled faintly of burnt wiring and decay. His eyes, accustomed to the blinding white, struggled to pierce the gloom,
but as he moved deeper, his foot scraped against something hard. He looked down to see the remains of what could only be a human skeleton, oddly preserved. Then another. And another. Dozens of them, slumped in seats or sprawled across the floor, all skeletal, yet with chilling remnants of dried, leathery flesh still clinging to the bones. The realization hit him with a sickening lurch: this wasn't a fresh kill.
"Are these even Darsion soldiers?" Nico questioned.
This crash site wasn't days old, or even weeks. These men had been here for years, preserved by Fjellheim's relentless cold, yet somehow unfinished. It was a museum of death.
It was then, amidst the horror, that the scent of food, already a powerful verdict to Nico's senses, intensified, overwhelming the smell of decay.
Nico gave out a gulp, not out of nervousness, but out of hunger. The tension thickened around him like the frigid air as he navigated the wreckage.
"The scent... It's maddeningly close now, almost within reach."
It was dulling his senses to everything else. Just as he rounded a particularly twisted piece of fuselage. It was a soldier, slender and agile, roughly 5'9" with the athleticuild of someone accustomed to hardship, no older than 18 or 19.
His face was gaunt, streaked with dirt and blood, but it was his eyes that burned into Nico -- wide, desperate, and utterly feral.
The Darsion soldier didn't hesitate: he lunged forward. His dark, compact rifle was raised, and Nico registered the glint of the barrel just an instant before a shot occurred.
"...Damn it all, of all times to get attacked, it's of course now."
He didn't think; he reacted. The crack of the bullet tearing through the air sang past his ear as he threw himself sideways.
The Darsion soldier was driven by pure desperation and he didn't hesitate. He burst into the aircraft after Nico, his rifle held by his side, and ready. The enclosed space was dark, a tangle of torn wiring and sharp edges, a death trap for the unwary.
As the Darsion soldier plunged into the gloom, expecting to corner his prey, Nico materialized from the shadows like a phantom. His knife was already in motion. There was no time for a preamble.
The knife was driven brutally towards the Darsion soldier's face, aiming squarely for his right eye. A sickening squelch could be heard, followed by a choked gasp, and the soldier reeled back, clutching his face, as he was momentarily blinded and disoriented by the pain.
Before he could recover, Nico followed through with a high, snapping roundhouse kick. The arc connected with the side of the soldier's head, just above the ear.
The Darsion soldier dropped like a stone, unconscious and sprawling amidst the debris.
Nico stood there, as his eyes were as wide as an owl. He had just killed a man, his very first kill on Fjellheim. All he did was perform the moves that his commander had taught him, and look how that ended up. He wasn't even a great hand-to-hand combatant.
But, that silence broke through as Nico knelt beside the fallen soldier, ignoring the blood that welled from the ruined eye. His fingers efficiently frisked the man's stiff, tattered uniform, searching for what he knew had to be there.
After a brief moment, he found them: several sealed pouches. This was standard Darsion military fare -- compacted nutrient blocks made of synthetic protein and gruel. It was meant to sustain a soldier for days on minimal intake.
It was flavorless, but that's all Nico had, and he had to deal with it.
He tore open the first one with his teeth, and gave it a try.
'...Bland.'
"Why couldn't Ilbaris deliver us some real food," he briefly complained.
Nico gorged himself quickly, the desperate hunger overriding any sense of caution. The fuel flowed into his system, giving him a wave of warmth, which began to spread through his freezing limbs.
The crushing weight of fatigue had finally eased off, only just a bit, which, in this place, was more than enough.
However, cutting through the silence of the craft, a new sound emerged. A low, guttural moan, followed by a ragged sob.
The Darsion soldier he'd just struck down was stirring. He hadn't delivered a killing blow, merely one to incapacitate. But now, with his own senses sharpened by the food, Nico turned his gaze fully to the figure.
Under the dim, diffused light filtering through cracks in the fuselage, the man seemed to be shorter from a clearer point of view. Nico had estimated him at 5'9", a lean but capable combatant. Now, with a clearer eye, the soldier appeared closer to 5'7", his athletic build belying a frame that was far too slight.
And his age... Nico had pegged him for 18 or 19 in the heat of the moment, the desperation in his eyes making him seem older, more hardened. But as the sobs wracked his body, revealing the trembling shoulders and the youthful curve of his cheek, Nico realized with a chilling certainty that the boy was much, much younger.
Perhaps he was no older than himself, or barely more.
A tangled mess of brown hair lay matted with blood on the grime-covered floor.
'He was just a kid. A victim of war.'
The realization settled over Nico like a fresh layer of snow, cold but oddly clarifying. This was a child, forced into a uniform, driven by the same gnawing hunger and desperation that had plagued Nico for days.
They were on opposite sides, but beneath the tattered uniforms and territorial lines, they were brothers in misery.
Nico pushed himself up from his knelling position. He wouldn't leave him to die here, not like this. Not another one.