Artyom’s Shadow (Volume 1)

As Sergeant Daniil Solokov looked out at the freezing Russian landscape, he realized something. “This place might just be hell frozen over.” He muttered to himself. For he was in the most forgotten military outpost in all of 1980’s Soviet Russia. He was the second in command of the entire base, a large and highly stocked outpost called Severny-17 where the most exciting thing that ever happened was someone misplacing a box of ammo, and the chain of command had long forgotten people even lived here. Severny is a place no one gets assigned to by choice though. Officially, it’s a listening post. Unofficially, it’s the Soviet equivalent of a WWE match. The soldiers under Solokov’s command were all on the verge of killing each other. Pay is minimal, the cold is relentless, and it doesn’t help that an unidentified group of assailants launch random surprise attacks on the base walls. They are precise, patient, and vanish into the forest like smoke. They never leave bodies or tracks. They never speak. No one can ever even hear them yelling orders. They just attack. They look like cursed shadows, but no one ever gets close enough to see them. But today, Daniil thinks, “I have much better things to do.” He tries and fails to give someone something to do, and instead just walks to the command hut. As he lifts the flap, he sees the base’s commanding officer, Colonel Mikhail Petrov smiles at him and lights a cigarette, even though the base is technically non smoking. No one really cares. “Sokolov,” he mutters, “I need you to keep this unit from tearing itself apart. We have men who won’t stand guard next to each other. And those… forest ghosts… are getting bolder.” He hands him a folder—typed reports, sketches, a few shaky eyewitness accounts.

“Figure out who—or what—is provoking these attacks. And keep the soldiers from killing each other while you do it.” Outside, they hear two privates scuffling. A rifle stock gets slammed on the ground. Inside, the radio crackles with distant static… then a whisper of something that doesn’t sound quite human. The colonel’s eye twitches, just slightly. Instead of leaving though, he stays in the tent. It’s the colonel’s birthday. He might as well say something. No one else will. The command hut feels like a pressure cooker until Daniil shifts the mood with a simple gesture—one that has become as rare at Severny-17 as a warm breeze.

Daniil snaps his heels together, gives Petrov a small nod, and say, “С днём рождения, товарищ полковник.”His cigarette pauses halfway to his lips. For a heartbeat he looks almost startled, like someone just reminded him he’s human. “You remembered,” he mutters, voice cracking at the edges. “No one else… well. Thank you, Sokolov.”Outside, the shouting grows louder. Daniil opens the door just long enough to bark at the two privates: “You—Artyom. Go down to the cellar. Bring up the bottle with the red wax seal. And don’t you dare drop it.” Artyom nearly salutes out of reflex, then thinks better of arguing. The fighting stops instantly. The promise of whiskey is a powerful force of diplomacy. A few minutes later the bottle lands on the table like a peace offering from an alternate universe. Daniil pours two glasses, filling the hut with the unmistakable scent of something that probably violates multiple regulations. Petrov chuckles, the sound dry and brittle.“You’ve saved more lives in this outpost with liquor than I have with orders,” he says, raising his glass. The two of them clink lightly and Daniil sits back down across from him. The wind curls around the hut walls, a slow moaning that could be just the storm. Or not. The colonel leans back, eyes searching the rafters as if the wood might finally give him answers. “This outpost…” he says quietly. “It’s changing. Men are whispering about things in the forest. Some say they’ve seen figures moving between the trees. Others… hear voices. At night, when the generators are low.”

He studies him, measuring how much to reveal.“Sokolov. Off the record. Have you noticed anything… strange out there?” His question hangs in the air like fog, mingling with the candlelight and the chill. Outside, something taps the metal siding—slow, deliberate, once. Then silence. Danill’s still seated with his glass in hand, a birthday celebration turning into something colder. Solokov leans in, and whispers in the colonel’s ear. “Now is not a good time” Daniil says, and rather loudly announces his plan to fortify the base, winking to show the colonel he has something else to say but doesn’t want to alert any spies. “What I actually want,” he murmurs, “is to lure whoever is listening. We set the base into motion, make it look like we’re bracing for an attack. But quietly… we prepare a trap in the east treeline. They always vanish in that direction.”Petrov nods once, sharply. “You’ve got instincts I’d bottle if I could,” he whispers. Bootsteps crunch outside—slow, heavy. Someone stops right outside the hut door. Not knocking. Not entering. Just… listening. Petrov doesn’t look at the door. He simply takes a long drink of whiskey, acting like nothing is off. “Senior Sergeant Sokolov,” he says loudly, “you have full authorization to begin your fortification plan immediately.” The footsteps stay. Waiting. Daniil’s move dictates the next game in this cold little chess match. Daniil rises slowly, the chair legs whispering against the wooden floor. Petrov keeps his face perfectly neutral, but his movement pulls a thin line of tension across his shoulders. He knows exactly what Daniil’s doing. He also knows it might not be Artyom out there.

Daniil’s hand slides to the pistol—cold metal, familiar weight. The hut is too warm, too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. He steps toward the door. The footsteps shift—just a single scrape, like someone adjusting their stance. Not the shuffling of a bored private. More controlled. More deliberate. He unlatches the door with his pistol angled low but ready. When Daniil shoves it open, a gust of frigid air punches into the room, tugging at both of their coats. Outside stands a shape. Just one. A lone silhouette in the dim yellow wash of the perimeter lamp. Snow swirling around him like ashes. “Artyom?” he calls, shoulders tense, finger brushing the trigger but not settling on it. He doesnt raise the pistol fully—no need to spook the kid if it is him. The figure steps forward into the light. Relief hits him first—It is Artyom. But it doesn’t fully settle. Something in his posture is off. He looks paler than he should, breath hitching, eyes darting past Daniil, into the hut like he’s checking to see if Petrov is alright. “Senior Sergeant,” he says quietly. No aggression. No hostility. But his voice is thin, stretched. “Sorry. I… didn’t mean to startle you.” Petrov appears behind Daniil in the doorway, pretending this is all normal. “Artyom. What are you doing out here?” Artyom swallows. His Adam’s apple jumps like a trapped bead. “I… I came to bring the rest of the bottle, like you asked. I thought you might want more.” He tries to smile, but the attempt collapses almost instantly. Daniil can feel a flicker in his gut—the instinct older than uniforms and nations. Someone standing that still in this cold should be shivering harder. Artyom’s breath makes no fog in the air. Just nothing. He notices Daniil’s eyes tracking it… and steps back. “Is something wrong, comrade?” he asks, too calm now, too careful. His pistol suddenly feels heavier. The snow falls harder. Petrov whispers behind him, barely audible, “Sokolov… what are you seeing?”