The wind on the surface did not just blow; it hunted. It sought out every gap in the armor, every loose seam in the fabric, pressing its icy claws against the skin until the nerves screamed and then went dangerously silent. Arthur Cousland trudged through the knee-deep drifts of grey ash and frozen particulate, his breath pluming in ragged bursts before him.
The heat cloak Snow White had lent him was a miracle of engineering, a shimmer of thermal energy that kept his body from shutting down, but it could not feed the furnace of his metabolism. His goddesium legs, tireless and relentless, churned the snow with mechanical precision, but the biological man attached to them was flagging. Every step felt like wading through molasses.
Two hours had passed since they left the surveillance tower. The landscape had shifted from dense industrial ruins to a flatter, more open expanse of collapsed residential zones. Skeletons of suburban houses jutted from the ice like broken teeth, their windows dark and hollow.
Snow White stopped. She didn't slow down or turn gradually; she simply ceased movement, becoming as still as a statue amidst the swirling grey. Arthur, head down and focused on placing one foot in front of the other, nearly collided with her.
"We are losing efficiency," the Pilgrim stated, her voice cutting through the howl of the wind without raising in volume. She turned to face him, her pale eyes scanning his vitals with a clinical detachment that Arthur was beginning to realize was her version of concern. "Your pace has decreased by fourteen percent in the last kilometer. Your body temperature is stable, thanks to the cloak, but your motor functions are lagging."
Arthur leaned against a slab of concrete, grateful for the pause. He wiped ice from his beard, his fingers numb despite his gloves. "I'm fine. Just... adjusting to the gravity."
"Incorrect," Snow White countered. "You are running on fumes. How long have you been surface-side?"
"Since the crash?" Arthur calculated, his mind feeling sluggish. "About thirty hours."
Snow White nodded once. "And your last nutrient intake?"
Arthur laughed, a dry, cracking sound. "Dinner. Before the patrol. So... thirty-two hours ago? Maybe thirty-three."
The Pilgrim shifted the massive weight of *Seven Dwarves* on her shoulder, the anti-ship rifle looking absurdly large against her small frame. "Unacceptable. A human operating in extreme cold burns calories at triple the standard rate. You are in a caloric deficit. If we continue, you will collapse before we reach Sector Six."
She looked at the horizon, then adjusted her trajectory by fifteen degrees north. "Change of plans. We are detouring."
"Detouring?" Arthur pushed himself off the concrete, forcing his limbs to obey. "You said the elevator was a week away. We don't have time for sightseeing."
"We are not sightseeing. We are hunting," Snow White said, already moving. "There is a pre-war agricultural zone two kilometers from here. A farm complex. The silos were reinforced. There is a statistical probability of non-perishable storage."
Arthur fell in step beside her, his curiosity piqued despite the exhaustion. "You think there's food left after a hundred years?"
"The Surface is a graveyard, Commander," Snow White said, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. "But graveyards are full of buried things. Survival out here is not about skill. It is about luck. Sometimes you find a pristine crate of military rations. Sometimes you find a tin of peaches that kills you. Today, we roll the dice."
The trek to the farm took another forty minutes. The terrain grew uneven, the ground churned by decades of Rapture movement and environmental decay. When the silhouette of the barn emerged from the gloom, it looked less like a sanctuary and more like a trap. The main house was a crater, but the barn—a massive structure of corrugated steel and reinforced concrete—still stood, though its roof groaned under the weight of the snow.
Snow White signaled for a halt. She dropped into a crouch, blending perfectly with a snowdrift. Arthur mirrored her, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Contact," she whispered.
Arthur peered through the gloom. Three shapes prowled the perimeter of the barn. They were small, quadrupedal Raptures—scavengers, likely looking for biomass or heat signatures. Their sensory eyes glowed a dull, menacing red as they sniffed at the rusted doors.
"Three Watchers," Arthur murmured, his hand drifting to his heavy pistol. "They haven't seen us. If we circle wide to the east, we can use the drainage ditch to bypass them. No need to waste ammo."
Snow White looked at him as if he had suggested they try to fly by flapping their arms. "Bypass?"
"Yes. Stealth. Avoid engagement."
"No," Snow White said, the word heavy with a terrifying finality. She unslung *Seven Dwarves*, the metal clicking softly as she deployed the bipod into the frozen earth. "I do not leave Raptures alive. Not one. Not ever."
Before Arthur could argue, the air shattered.
The sound of the anti-ship rifle was not a bang; it was a physical blow. The concussive force kicked up a cloud of snow around them. downrange, the center Rapture simply ceased to exist. One moment it was prowling; the next, it was a cloud of shrapnel and black oil.
The remaining two Raptures shrieked, their optical sensors swiveling toward the noise. They didn't even have time to charge.
*Crack. Crack.*
Snow White worked the bolt with blinding speed. Two shots, two kills. The remaining machines crumpled into scrap metal, their cores shattered before they hit the ground. The echoes of the gunfire rolled over the plains like thunder, dying away into a heavy silence.
Snow White stood up, shouldering the smoking rifle. "Threat neutralized. We scavenge."
Arthur stared at the burning wreckage, then at the small Nikke walking calmly toward the barn. "Subtle," he muttered, standing up and following her.
Inside, the barn was a cavern of shadows and dust. It smelled of rust and ancient, decayed straw. Snow White produced a glow stick, cracking it to bathe the interior in a sickly green light. She moved with purpose, ignoring the rotted machinery and overturned tractors, heading straight for a reinforced supply locker in the back office.
Arthur watched the door while she worked the lock. The metal groaned and gave way.
"Jackpot," she said flatly, though her tone didn't change.
Arthur hurried over, hope flaring in his chest. Inside the locker were several crates. Snow White pried the lid off the first one.
Water. Plastic jugs of distilled water, sealed and frozen solid, but intact.
"Thaw required, but potable," she assessed, setting two jugs aside. She opened the second crate.
Cans. Dozens of them. The labels had long since rotted away, leaving only the rusted tin. Arthur reached for one, his stomach giving a painful lurch of anticipation. He turned it over. The bottom was bulged outward, the metal distended under pressure.
"Damn," Arthur hissed. "Botulism. The seal is compromised."
He checked another. And another. Every single can in the crate was swollen, the contents fermented into poison over the last century. A third crate contained what looked like grain sacks, but as soon as Arthur touched one, it disintegrated, revealing a nest of dried rat droppings and grey dust.
"Useless," Arthur said, tossing a rusted can back into the box. The disappointment was a physical weight, heavier than the fatigue. "We risked a firefight for poisoned beans and rat shit."
Snow White didn't speak. She picked up one of the swollen cans. She pulled a combat knife from her boot, punctured the lid with a wet hiss of escaping gas, and pried it open. The smell that wafted out was atrocious—a mix of rot and chemical decay.
Arthur gagged, covering his nose. "Snow White, don't—"
She tilted her head back and emptied the can into her mouth.
Arthur watched in horrified fascination as she swallowed the sludge without blinking. She wiped her mouth with the back of her glove.
"Caloric density is low, but acceptable," she noted. "Taste is... historical."
"That's going to kill you," Arthur said, stepping back involuntarily.
"I am a Nikke. My digestive systems are reinforced. I can process biological matter that would liquefy your organs," she explained, reaching for another can. "However, the bacterial load will likely result in... internal ventilation. I suggest you maintain a five-meter distance for the next hour."
Arthur stared at her. "You're kidding."
"I do not joke about flatulence, Commander. It is a tactical liability." She downed the second can. "This sustains me. But it does not help you. You cannot eat this."
She looked around the gloomy office, her eyes narrowing. Suddenly, she froze. Her head snapped to the right.
*Squeak.*
The sound came from behind a pile of rotting burlap sacks.
Snow White moved. It was a blur of white motion. She stomped her foot down hard, the impact shaking dust from the ceiling. When she lifted her boot, she reached down and pinched something between her thumb and forefinger.
A rat. Large, grey, and very angry, it writhed in her grip, its tail whipping back and forth.
"Protein," Snow White announced, holding the rodent up to the glow stick like a prize.
Arthur looked at the rat, then at Snow White, then back at the rat. "No."
"Yes," she insisted, stepping closer. She pulled a smaller, sharper knife from her belt and held it out to him, handle first. "You are in a deficit. You need fuel. This is fuel."
"It's a rat, Snow White. A surface rat. It probably glows in the dark."
"It is meat. It is fresh. It has not spoiled." She shook the rat, which squeaked indignantly. "The Surface does not offer menus, Commander. It offers chances. You take them, or you become part of the scenery."
Arthur looked at the knife. His stomach roared, a painful, cramping reminder of his hollowness. He thought of the high-grade steaks in the Officer's Mess. He thought of Anis's soda. He looked at the dirty, struggling creature in the Pilgrim's hand.
"I don't know how to skin a rat," Arthur admitted, his voice quiet.
"Gut it. Keep the organs out. Roast it until the meat is grey. Do not burn the calories shivering while you decide." She pressed the knife into his hand. "Do it. Survival is not dignified."
Arthur took the knife. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He was a Commander of the Ark. He had faced Tyrant-class Raptures. He had stared down CEOs and monsters. He could eat a damn rat.
He took the animal from her. He tried not to think about it as a living thing. He thought of it as a biological battery.
***
Forty minutes later, the smell of roasting meat filled the small office, strangely appetizing despite its origin. Arthur sat by a small fire made from broken chair legs and chemical tablets Snow White had provided. The rat, skewered on a piece of clean wire, sizzled over the flame.
He pulled it off the fire. It looked... well, it looked like a burnt rat.
Snow White watched him from the doorway, having finished four cans of the toxic sludge. She looked perfectly fine, though she did occasionally shift her stance.
"Eat," she commanded.
Arthur took a bite. The meat was stringy, gamey, and lacked any seasoning, tasting faintly of metal and earth. But as he chewed, his body responded with desperate gratitude. Energy. Heat. Life.
He ate quickly, tearing the meat from the tiny bones, forcing himself to consume everything edible. He didn't let himself think about the texture. He just focused on the warmth spreading through his chest.
When he was done, he sat back, wiping grease from his lip. He felt human again. The trembling in his hands had stopped.
"Better?" Snow White asked.
"Surprisingly, yes," Arthur admitted. He looked at the small pile of bones left on the crate lid. "Though I don't think I'll be ordering it at the Outpost's Hotel."
Snow White walked over, picked up the wire skewer, and inspected the leftovers. "You left the marrow. And the cartilaginous endpoints."
"I think I reached my limit."
She shrugged and popped the remaining bones into her mouth, crunching them with a sound like grinding gravel. She swallowed them dry. "Waste nothing. The surface remembers waste."
She kicked snow over the small fire, extinguishing it instantly. The darkness rushed back in, but Arthur felt ready to face it now.
"Pack the water," Snow White ordered, checking the action on *Seven Dwarves* again. "The noise of my rifle will have drawn attention. We have lingered too long. We move now."
Arthur stood up, slinging the water jugs over his shoulder using a length of cord. He adjusted the heat cloak, feeling the goddesium in his legs hum in anticipation.
"Lead the way," he said.
Snow White opened the barn door, the freezing wind rushing in to greet them. She looked back at him, her expression unreadable but her eyes intense.
"You ate well, Commander. You might survive yet."
They stepped out into the night, leaving the empty cans and the memory of the fire behind, two specks of heat moving relentlessly across the frozen hell of Sector Seven.