White as far as the eye could see. Grey too - in places where the snow had been blasted away by the wind but this wind was no simple breeze. With no obstacles in it's path - the wind too was cruel and viciously unforgiving. Sending slivers of ice into your eyes, attempting to blind you - kill you.

Most of Russia sometimes seemed designed to kill you.

To a simple hunter like Stantin Filipov, that seemed to be the entirety of it. Life would try to kill you as soon as you were born - as though it regretted your very existence.

Yes, that seemed to be the long and short of it.

He'd been checking his traps for game when he first noticed the figure on the horizon. The tactical vest stood out like a black mark against the pure white of the snow around him. He wore no jacket - his arms bare to all that the freezing temperatures could throw at them and he trudged doggedly through knee-high snow.

But that could not be possible! They were out in the tundra. Miles from anywhere a turisticheskiy could possibly stumble - and if he were not a tourist, what was he? Judging by the vest - some kind of military? Was he voyennyy?

It took the old man far longer than it should have to see that he was carrying something on his back doggedly across the snow. The little bundle was wrapped in a coat that should have been on him and most of what the old man could see was red - a bad sign.

The man, young and fit by the looks of him, seemed entirely unconcerned by the freezing temperatures or risk of frostbite to his exposed arms - arm. The other was plated in some kind of metal. Stantin did not like that. He asked in flawless Russian 'Can you direct me to the nearest outpost?'

Stantin blinked in surprise. 'Where did you come from, friend? We are miles from the nearest point of civilization.'

The man winced as he shifted his precious bundle and Filipov finally glimpsed the limp little thing. The red he'd seen on the horizon was hair. Judging by the length, a little girl. She was pale and unmoving, wrapped tight in the coat. It almost looked as though she were asleep - but most did when they died in the snow. Especially the children. Always looked like they were sleeping.

Filipov met the stranger's steely blue eyes, aware the man had seen his interest in what he carried.

'Our plane crashed.' He replied carefully. 'We were the only survivors.'

That, at least, explained the smell of fuel and ash that had engulfed them as they talked. Stantin did not want to point out that it honestly looked like he was the only survivor; The little girl looked to be dead.

'The nearest village is east.' He muttered and pointed. 'I can take you-'

'Thank you, I'm sure I can find it.' He replied curtly.

Stantin was taken aback. Surely the man wasn't intending on walking the entire way there? It was at least ten miles over terrain that even his Jeep - the der'movyy staryy rzhavymi it was - had trouble manoeuvring.

'I do not think you should do that, my friend.' He advised. The man shook his head. Clearly not wanting to trouble him, or possibly bring trouble to him. 'If not for you, then for the girl.' He added.

The man stiffened and glanced over his shoulder for a second, staring at the mass of red hair, waving in the harsh wind. He turned back and nodded to Stantin. 'Fine.'

They walked to the truck silently and Stantin held the door open for him to lower the half-frozen bundle into the back seat of the car.

The poor little thing looked tiny, engulfed by the thick jacket and the seat.

'Perhaps you should take the coat for yourself?' Stantin asked carefully.

'No.'

That was the end of that. He did not want to push this man. The tundra could do funny things to a person's mind. Especially when - Stantin got into the driving seat and glanced at the back of the car for merely a second before starting the ignition - You had been through something so traumatic.

They said not a word to each other, though the stranger occasionally looked at the bundle on the backseat of the Jeep. Despite attempting to keep his mind off of it - because questions only led to trouble out here - he still had to wonder was she his daughter? Or could he simply not bear to leave her corpse to the unforgiving wind and snow? It was questions that he dare not put to the seemingly cold-resistant man - he seemed more than capable of causing trouble.

Stantin left them at the outpost as planned, the metal armed man clutching the bundled coat to his chest. That should have been the end of it - the hunter watching the rapidly fading silhouette of him clutching what was probably his daughter to his chest, refusing to believe she was dead - from his rearview mirror

Two days later, however he was interrogated by some very efficient people.

They had barged into his shack in the middle of the night, didn't bother to ask for valuables - though they ransacked his home well enough. They were not here for petty change.

At first he thought they were KGB - or ex-KGB but that didn't track right. Their Russian was not as flawless as the stranger's had been, nor did they seem to particularly enjoy the lovely Russian weather. They did ask plenty of questions about the stranger he'd rescued from the wilderness. What they'd spoken about, what he'd done, the little girl he was carrying - they'd asked if she was still alive. Stantin had laughed despite the fact that they'd just dislocated three of his fingers at the top joint and movement really hurt - they'd kept asking and asking about her as though she were still alive.

He told them she was dead - looked dead - but they just continued as though they doubted his story.

He told them all he knew but it did not seem to be enough to satisfy them.

However, hours later, after his leg had been broken and his hands were mangled - after teeth and nails had been pulled and deep-set bruises inflicted - they left him.

And Stantin Filipov regretted ever helping that stranger and his child.

A/N: No good deed goes unpunished as they say.