Matryoshka

Prolouge

The wind whistled softy and the snow swirled lazily though the air. Dusk was fast approaching and the world was quiet, save for the foreign voices and laughter echoing through the valley, muffled by fresh snow fall. A fire blazed strong down below, twelve men gathered round to fend off the crisp winter air. The wind gusted steadily, swaying the snow heavy trees at the top of the dark, snow covered ridge.
This is where she sat. Waiting. Watching with cold calculation. The winter air stung her face and rustled her hair. Her cold fingers rested on her trigger, her steady hands ready to take perfect aim... And still she waited. Waited til the voices grew louder, more boisterous, more confidant. Waited til the bottle that they passed around filled their bellies with a fire equal to the one roaring amongst them. She waited til one of the men stumbled forward and the rest of them laughed. Only then- swiftly and silently- did she take her aim.
A shot rang out. Loud. Clear. Echoing through the valley. The men shouted as one from their group fell forward. They scrambled back as scarlet drops froze in the air and seeped through the snow. Another shot rang out. Then another. And another. And another. And another and another, until only one was left standing, disorientated and afraid.
She then stood up from where she sat and slung her gun across her back. She pulled her hood up and sucured her mask, surveying her painting of red in the snow. Then, without remorse, turned her back and disappeared through the trees.

The next morning a young man was found by the rest of his battalion, freezing cold and delerious, surrounded by his fellow men, all laying dead in the snow. He could say only one word in his frightened and hypothermic state. That word, however, put ice in the veins of any man that heard it.

"The Russian Doll"