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Rating:
Mature
Archive Warning:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Categories:
F/FF/M
Fandoms:
幼女戦記 | Youjo Senki | Saga of Tanya the Evil (Anime)幼女戦記 | Youjo Senki | Saga of Tanya the Evil (Manga)幼女戦記 | Youjo Senki | Saga of Tanya the Evil - Carlo Zen (Light Novels)The Last of Us (Video Games)Snowpiercer (2013)The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)Mad Max Series (Movies)Dead Space (Video Games)Scorn (Ebb Software Video Game)SOMA (Video Game)Atomic Heart (Video Game)Children of ManThe Long Dark (Video Game)Road - FandomI Am Legend (2007)Little Tail BronxUtawarerumono | The One Being SungStray (Video Game)Frostpunk (Video Game)Dying Light (Video Game)Days Gone (Video Game)World War Z - Max Brooksworld war ZNo I'm not a Human (Video Game)The Book of Eli (2010)Fallout 1
Relationship:
Astrid Greenwood/Will Mackenzie
Characters:
Tanya von DegurechaffWilford (Snowpiercer)Daryl DixonMerle DixonWill DixonLee EverettDeacon St. JohnWilliam "Boozer" GrayNux (Mad Max)Immortan Joe (Mad Max)The People Eater (Mad Max)Protagonist (No I'm not a Human)Eli (Book of Eli)Solara (Book of Eli)Richard Grey | The Master (Fallout)Astrid GreenwoodWill Mackenzie
Additional Tags:
SurvivalSurvival HorrorPost-ApocalypseCrossoverOne Shot CollectionOne ShotReligionPoliticsArmyWarBlood and GoreZombie Apocalypse
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:2025-06-19Updated:2026-06-01Words:342,238Chapters:17/?Comments:83Kudos:271Bookmarks:83Hits:16,170
When the World Falls, the Devil Becomes an Angel
KsiadzRobak21
Chapter 2: "The Eternal Train" (Snowpiercer, movie)
Notes:
Note author:
Okay, first of all I have to admit that I didn't expect so many comments 😅😅 I didn't know that such ideas would be liked so much, that's why I decided that Threadmarks will be ideas and general concepts with chapter indexes, and Sidestory will be one-shot chapters.
Will it work? I don't know, but I think that such a division will be so that there is some order here.
PS: English is not my native language, so don't be offended if there are any mistakes in the text, they happen to me during translation 😅
Enjoy reading.
Chapter Text
Note:
But now it's time for Tanya in Snowpiercer!
"It's so wonderful to feel full, there is a kind of peace that comes to a person only when you have a full stomach."
May 20, 2029
Inspector Emerich Brauer was only seven years old when the world ended. At that age, children usually learn to read, lose their baby teeth, and carefree draw the sun in the corner of the page. He was learning how to close the door to the last warm car before the onslaught of freezing desperados would ram it open one final time. Now he was twenty-two. And he was too tired, too jaded to pretend anything still moved him.
They walked slowly down the narrow corridor of Car 7‑Gamma. The air smelled of a stifling mix of damp clothes, rot, and boiled soy. The walls were scuffed; the floor was sticky. Brauer winced with every step, raising his eyebrows in undisguised disgust.
"Damn…" he muttered under his breath, kicking an empty plastic bucket standing in the middle of the aisle. "This isn't a train. It's a sty. Pigs ought to live here, not people. Although…" He looked around at the faces staring at him silently from the bunks. "…the difference is minimal," he muttered. "And they're calling this the middle class?" he scoffed.
Behind him walked the old guard. A retiree. Mr. Kleiber. He was silent as always. A living statue. Maybe a ghost. He was over sixty, with a spine as straight as a steel rod. Supposedly, he once worked on securing the first cars, back when shooting into a crowd wasn't considered a crime but merely "preventive measures."
Brauer stopped suddenly, puffed out his cheeks, and sighed theatrically.
"What a miserable place… dampness, stench, lice, and their fucking revolutionary mentality. As if living by a cesspit grants some noble title." He muttered, scratching his unshaven chin.
Kleiber said nothing. He simply halted, staring ahead like a stone carving.
"Really, Herr Kleiber, I don't know how you can stay silent," Brauer said coldly, smiling. "Although… maybe it's your way of atoning? After all, your generation built all this. Car by car, compromise by compromise. And now the young have to clean up the mess."
The car trembled beneath their feet. Far ahead came the muffled sound of a siren through the metal. Brauer adjusted his gloves bearing the Wilford Industries logo and spat into a corner where the shadow of a thin girl watched them in fear.
"'Middle class,' my ass." the inspector rolled his eyes. "Dear God, if that's the workforce, I don't want to know what kind of shit these rats live in…"
Again, Kleiber said nothing. He only resumed walking.
Brauer followed, leaving behind glances full of fear, anger, and hope. But to him, they were just the eyes of parasites. The metal door of the car slid shut behind them with a groan. The air was thick with human sweat, dampness, and old paint. Inspector Emerich Brauer stopped and looked at another hunched passenger with exaggerated disgust.
"Documents." He extended his hand in thick, cream-colored gloves, not hiding his revulsion. "Can't you smell yourself? But you still have the duty to be a registered piece of trash, so show me your papers."
From behind him emerged old guard Kleiber—silent as if he were carved from ice—and beside him trotted the younger, bulkier but curious guard Lamm, who had that unhealthy need to join in conversations.
Brauer glanced at the passenger's papers with undisguised boredom.
"Allowed stay. Protein circulation permit. No cross‑level passage authorization. Typical."
He returned the papers carelessly, as though discarding something filthy.
They moved on toward the rear cars. The floor creaked, the lights flickered. Brauer sighed heavily and shook his head.
"Wonderful, just wonderful. First I finish my reports in a car with the temperature of Nice's beach, and now they want me to wallow in the back compartments full of cockroaches and unemployed philosophers. Why the hell did they send me here?" He massaged his pale, smooth forehead. "My father got me this job not to trudge along the train's tail but just to check some papers now and then and handle shitty business."
Lamm, walking on the left, raised an eyebrow and snorted. "What's wrong, Herr Inspector? Is something happening?"
Brauer snorted at the guard's impudence, but finally, as a gentleman, he answered: "Oh yes." he scoffed hollowly. "They say the conductors registered strange disturbances in the last car. Communications were down for half a day. The central panel reported temperature anomalies, as if someone tampered with the systems. And now, of course, they have to send me to check whether this is another damned revolt, sabotage, or…" He stroked his chin with a focused look. "Or whether we're missing a car on the roster."
"An extra car?" Lamm raised his brows high, a flush spreading across his chubby cheeks. "B-but how?"
"Just a theory from one of the conductors." the inspector rolled his eyes, adjusting his bow tie. "Nonsense."
Kleiber said nothing. He only quickened his pace by half a foot. Always the same. The silent watchdog of the old order.
"Or maybe those kids at the end are up to something again," Brauer muttered, grinding his teeth. "Just wait until one of them gets to the cooling valves and we all die because some vermin from Car Thirteen decided they could be heroes."
They walked on. Deeper. Quieter. With every step the smells grew sharper. The walls more worn. The lights cast longer shadows.
The last car of the train was empty. Gray canvas curtains muffled the light. Someone had spilled something thick and red—maybe soup, maybe not—by one of the passages. Inspector Brauer stopped, cursed softly, and lifted the hem of his long coat.
"Probably some lackeys in the rear compartments playing at cannibalism again. Always ends up like this when we don't come in swinging the baton," he sneered.
Kleiber, a step behind, spoke for the first time in hours:
"No." His voice was quiet, rough. Tired.
Brauer frowned and looked over his shoulder. That single word carried something… stifling. Something heavier than fear.
"No?" he repeated ironically. "Then maybe they've started eating their own children?"
Kleiber didn't answer immediately. He walked past Brauer, bent slightly as if examining tracks on the floor, but his gaze was elsewhere. Deeper. In memory.
"After Gilliam's death…" he began quietly, "…something changed."
Brauer raised his eyebrows, surprised.
"Gilliam? That old idealist?" the inspector snorted, pulling out the handheld tablet from his satchel—one of the few that survived the end of the world, bearing the Wilford logo. With quick finger movements, he powered it on and began scrolling through the "suspected" passenger catalogs of the train.
"Oh, here he is," the inspector smiled. "Gilliam—no surname, seventy years old, considered the 'leader' of these rats, right?" he asked with a chuckle, though he paused, blinking slowly. "He was… their leader?" the inspector whispered, puzzled.
"Yes." the guard confirmed flatly.
...
...
...
...
...
...
"Fuck…" the inspector clutched his face. "Fuck, the boss will kill me for this… we've just lost a damned mole."
"A mole?" Kleiber raised his brows slightly. "So that's what it was…"
"All right!" the inspector shouted in pure frustration, drawing slow breaths. "Why… am I just now being informed? About the mole's death?"
Kleiber did not meet his eyes.
"He died suddenly." he sighed heavily. "The silence that followed him was deeper than any scream. And that's the problem."
Brauer squinted, as if trying to solve a riddle.
"So what? No revolt, no shouting, no kids hurling bricks at the fans…" With a swift swipe on the tablet screen, he tossed the mole's file into the trash. "And that's what's bothering you?"
The old guard looked at him with an empty, extinguished stare. Deeply absent. There was something in his eyes Brauer hadn't seen in a long time—not fear. Something worse.
"They haven't tried anything in five years." His voice was like the slow, dull toll of a bell. "Not once. No organized group. No prayer. Not a single escape attempt, not a single fight. Even the children… stopped crying." the guard spoke slowly. "Do you know what that means, Inspector?"
At the front of the car, hinges creaked. Quiet cracks echoed from the darkness.
Brauer furrowed his brow. His lips trembled slightly. For the first time in a long while, something pricked his neck.
Unease.
"Well, splendid…" he muttered. "They're organizing." he stated dully. "But to what end exactly?"
Silence.
"And that, Herr Inspector…" Kleiber added softly "…should raise your blood pressure."
They walked on. The car grew darker, colder, and the silence only thickened. The ceiling lights' glow reached no further than a few steps. The air carried the scent of dampness, mold… and something else. Something metallic.
Inspector Brauer still strode ahead, dragging heavy boots, his holstered glove at his side, and the eternal grimace of disgust on his face. Behind him, the guards followed step by step.
"Something changed after Gilliam's death," Kleiber repeated quietly. "But not only in the moods. In… the structure. They've organized, that's true." He nodded slowly. "But in such a style…" he grimaced heavily. "Gilliam was more the kindly old grandfather type, you know, Inspector? A sort of second Jesus, you might say…"
"He was like a little teacher to them, you know? A spiritual guide on the path of morality and finding the human soul." added guard Lamm hastily.
"All right…" the inspector squinted slightly. "So, a hippie?"
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Both guards looked at each other, their faces twisted. Guard Lamm answered:
"No…" he drew out the word uncertainly, "you could say that, yes."
"All right…" Brauer nodded slowly. "So after Gilliam's death, what did they do? Some hippie shit?"
"No, worse." Guard Kleiber shook his head, adding in a very quiet voice, "Nationalism."
A heavy, tense silence fell over the car…
…
…
…
"What?" the inspector grunted in disbelief. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I don't know where it started, but you should know, sir, I served in the army, so I know how it looks," Kleiber emphasized heavily. "At first it began with simple things—morning roll call, assignment of duties, introducing a currency… and banks."
"Banks?" the inspector sneered. "Are you fucking telling me fairy tales?"
"No." Guard Lamm shook his head. "Someone's playing capitalist…" He shrugged. "They're also doing something strange at the last car."
"And what might that be?" the inspector frowned slightly.
"We don't know." Lamm sighed awkwardly, scratching his neck. "They won't let us pass beyond the last three cars."
"What do you mean 'won't let'?" Brauer snorted. "What the fuck does that mean? Did they chase you off with clubs?" He looked at them both with pure contempt. "Are you scared of half-starved morons?"
"No. They stand. Silent. Watching." Kleiber stopped. His eyes shadowed with memory. "And though they haven't said a word, no one dares go further. As if they're guarding something."
The inspector snorted derisively through his nose. "We should've cut off their food and let them die like rats."
Kleiber looked at him. Slowly. Heavily.
"We did." he said quietly. "For a whole year nothing reached them. Neither protein nor water. We closed their supply lines. Monitored every conduit. For twelve months they got nothing."
Brauer stopped.
He turned slowly, frowning.
"And?"
"And…" Kleiber stared into the distance, hardly believing his own words. "They survived."
Silence. One of those silences that falls like snow on a grave.
The inspector raised his eyebrows high. His face showed consternation bordering on alarm: "So what? Were they running some fucking rat farm or what?"
Lamm, the younger guard, spoke up uncertainly, glancing between Brauer and Kleiber.
"Uh… Herr Inspector, I… just to say… even with breeding rats, a… that population is impossible…"
"What population?" the inspector raised one eyebrow, impatient that he was only now getting crucial information.
"Well, uh… about two thousand seven hundred…" Lamm placed a finger on his chin, thinking hard. "Maybe a bit more…"
Brauer blinked.
Then he grabbed Lamm's face. Not brutally—more… mechanically. As if to make sure he really heard that.
He looked him straight in the eyes, his voice empty, stripped of emotion.
"In last month's reports it was seventeen hundred," the inspector emphasized heavily. "What are you playing at, guard?" He squeezed Lamm's cheeks. "How the fuck did it become a thousand more in a month? Did they fuck in some orgy?"
Lamm swallowed. Kleiber just watched.
"I… I know, Herr Inspector. But… there are more of them. We saw them on the cameras. We counted. Even children. Lots of children…"
Brauer stepped back. Something in his eyes cracked. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe the collapse of rationality. Maybe something deeper.
Kleiber looked at him grimly. "I told you something changed."
Up ahead, the doors creaked. A cold draft swept through the car like the sigh of the dead.
"This is nonsense," Brauer hissed, quickening his pace. "Fucking legends from the rear tail. I want specifics, Kleiber. Not fairy tales."
The elder guard did not answer at once. Instead, he paused and pressed his fingers to his temples. He massaged them nervously, as if trying to chase away something that wouldn't let him rest.
"We don't have specifics… only whispers. Rumors. But…" he trailed off and looked Brauer straight in the eyes. "They spoke of… the 'Cook.'"
That one word sank deep. An echo in the dead metal.
A chill ran down both guards' spines, as if cold had seeped into their uniforms through invisible cracks.
"What fucking cook are you talking about?" Brauer snorted. "What, did a field kitchen appear to them?" He laughed loudly. "So the cook makes them rat soup or nail pâté?" he mocked. "Unless she's got a little book called 'A Thousand Ways to Eat a Human: Best Parts—Brain, Liver, Heart.'"
"When we sent people into the cars for routine checks…" Lamm spoke quietly, "…sometimes they said they smelled it. Warm, cozy… broth. Like from grandma. Enough to make your stomach howl." He licked his lips as he spoke.
"Real broth," Kleiber added with an almost melancholic smile. "With stock, parsley, noodles… Then someone else spoke of steak. Fresh. Bloody. Non‑protein loaf. Real meat."
Brauer froze. Then he burst out laughing. A short, empty, mocking laugh.
"You've lost your minds over your food fantasies. Starvation hallucinations, gentlemen. Broth and steaks… maybe pierogi with mushrooms and homemade compote next?"
No one answered. Only the cold light of the last compartment flickered nervously, as if even the electricity here wasn't at ease.
In front of them stood a line of guards.
They said nothing. Standing in silence by the heavy, bolted doors leading to the rear tail. Each with a waxen face. Pale, empty eyes. Their uniforms ill‑fitted, as if worn from duty, not conviction.
Inspector Brauer looked at them, narrowed his eyes.
"Well, since we're here… open those fucking doors." He motioned to them.
"Um… are you sure?" asked the older guard with the gray mustache uncertainly. "Now?"
Brauer stared at them for a long moment. "Those are the orders," he said firmly.
"Maybe it's better not to?" asked the second guard. "It's a pretty awkward time for them, you know?" he tried to explain, coughing awkwardly. "From experience, at this hour it's easy for a riot to start…"
"And a few of us usually end up dead," emphasized another guard.
"Exactly," the gray‑moustached guard nodded slowly. "Or we can just tell you what's going on back there—after all, you elites probably just have paperwork to do, right?" he half‑smiled.
Brauer frowned deeply, catching a whiff of… meat? Or something like roasted vegetables?
"We go." the inspector grunted shortly, crossing his arms. "Orders from above."
The guards murmured, slightly embarrassed, and looked to Kleiber. Kleiber sighed, massaging his temple and patting Lamm on the shoulder.
"You have to understand, sir, these are veterans, so… well…" Lamm began.
"Enough of this bullshit!" Brauer snarled, and in one motion punched the younger guard in the face. Lamm staggered, clutching his nose, blood flowing down.
"For yammering about some cook and broth, seriously?" the inspector spat on the train floor. "Get your asses moving—now. You, you, and you. Move out."
He pointed to three guards at the entrance. They exchanged uncertain looks but followed him—automatons of discipline. Four armed men, and behind them the two stragglers: bleeding Lamm and silent Kleiber like shadows.
CRACK!
The lock ground. The doors opened with a metallic groan. They entered together, guards with batons at the ready, and the inspector braced himself to see the real sty.
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
The car did not look as Brauer expected.
It didn't stink.
No death, no excrement, no rot. You couldn't smell hunger. True, there was no luxury, no electric light, but… it was orderly.
Children sat calmly along the walls. The adults neither cowered nor wailed. Everyone looked… alive. Normal. As if this place were better than the middle cars.
Brauer knitted his brows. His throat felt dry.
"We come on behalf of order." he cleared his throat, his voice echoing off the metal walls. "I am Inspector Brauer, sent by the personal orders of the Great Wilford, your savior. Let me remind you that it was Wilford who gave you life aboard our magnificent miracle‑train…" He leveled them with a threatening glare. "Remember, by the will and blessing of Great Wilford alone do you live here." He pointed at each of those dirty, unclean people. "You! Miserable mortals, you have been granted the gift of life! Life which—through your rebellions, uprisings, and spilled blood—you do not appreciate! But! Fortunately, there is a chance for your salvation! Only through hard work for the good of the train! So it may circle the world forever, so its engine may endure eternally!!" The inspector concluded his grand monologue as the guards applauded automatically.
"Now I'll get a raise…" the inspector thought to himself, adjusting his bow tie. Just spout some religious bullshit about "evil Wilford coming for your asses," and you'll calm the masses. Ah… the sooner this mess is over, the sooner I can get that juicy steak the world‑renowned chef made…
Silence.
No one moves. No one bows. No one cries or begs.
They stare at him. Calmly. Without emotion. As if he'd said something… completely alien.
And then Brauer notices it.
"Oh, fuck…" he swallowed involuntarily, the saliva gathering in his throat.
There was no fear in their eyes.
No respect.
None of that unconditional reverence he had known his whole life aboard the train.
"Something's not right here," he whispered to himself, furrowing his brow slightly.
Next to him, Kleiber shifted from foot to foot. Lammel wiped the blood from his nose and watched the children—their faces, too clean. Their clothes, too neatly patched. Their bodies... too healthy.
"Put on a show for them," the inspector finally ordered. "Shout. Aim your weapons. They need to know we came from up top."
Two guards stepped forward. Raising their rifles, one shouted, "On the ground! Everyone down!"
The children only stared in silence. No one moved.
Someone at the back of the car said something. Quietly. In a whisper. But the sound carried through the entire length of the compartment.
"Who knocks on the door, goes first into the pot."
Brauer turned toward the voice.
"What was that?" he growled. "Who said that?!" He pointed at the crowd. "Maybe ten lashes will do you good, huh?! Everyone on this train has their place! Everyone has a designated place!"
But no one answered. They only stared. The same calm eyes.
As if they knew something he didn't.
As if they weren't waiting to be rescued.
As if they already had everything they needed.
It smelled like dinner.
Brauer inhaled deeply, as if trying to dispel the absurd scent of meat that shouldn't exist here.
"Fuck this," he suddenly snarled. "I've had enough of these games."
He strode quickly toward one of the children—a boy, maybe ten years old, with cropped hair and dark eyes, far too calm for his age. He grabbed the boy roughly by the arm and yanked him forward. The boy didn't resist. Didn't cry. Didn't even tremble.
That enraged Brauer even more.
"If no one here's in charge, that means everyone is guilty!" he shouted, turning to the passengers. "This is your last chance. Who's playing leader here?! Who's pretending to be the new Gillam?!"
No one moved.
Brauer dragged the boy to a metal corner by the side wall. He pointed at a distinct set of pipes and valves—technical "grips" for thawing and warming limbs. Everyone from the rear cars knew them. Set a valve wrong, and you could lose fingers in a minute.
"Right here!" the inspector snarled, red in the face. "You crushed your fingers to survive, didn't you? Learned pain like a prayer!"
He yanked the boy by the neck and pressed him over the frozen valve. The boy stared calmly ahead, not begging with a word or sob.
Brauer raised his voice to a scream:
"Either I find out who's in charge here, or I shove this brat's head inside! And I won't pull it out until the skin peels off his skull!"
The boy closed his eyes.
The guards stood frozen. Lammel swallowed hard. Kleiber clenched his jaw. But no one moved.
The car fell silent.
And then... slowly, from somewhere deep in the back of the car, a sound emerged.
Not words. Not footsteps.
Just a soft, melodic, drawn-out laugh.
Feminine.
Warm.
Completely out of place in the frozen world of the great train.
Brauer turned his head sharply.
"So that's our new leader, huh?" he muttered, brow furrowing.
Before the inspector could press the boy to the metal valve, footsteps echoed.
The silence in the car was almost sacred, as if the very steel of the train had stopped breathing.
People parted.
And she simply walked in.
Thirty years old, maybe less. Short blond hair, an irregular scar cutting across her right cheek—too deep for an accident, too precise for a butchering. Eyes of steel, cold, so blue they looked silver. Left arm—a prosthetic. A military uniform so old and worn it was impossible to tell what nation it had once belonged to, if any.
She walked slowly, unafraid. There was not even a trace of anger on her face—only focus. She stopped in front of Brauer.
"Fascinating phenomenon," she began, her voice quiet but carrying through the car like fire through dry forest. "People are so convinced the train gives them life, they forget who really gives life to people."
She looked at the boy. He only nodded, not moving an inch.
"The will to survive. It's the purest form of human nature. When a man is full and safe, he thinks he's civilized. That he has rights. Morals. Values." She paused for a moment, then her lips curled into something resembling a smile. "But take everything from him. Leave him naked, frozen, and starving. Truly starving... and then you'll see what it means to be human."
She stepped closer, looking Brauer straight in the eyes. He couldn't move, though he didn't know why.
"You know, Inspector..." her voice was almost friendly now, "there were some who claimed the rear car was a breeding ground for parasites. That it needed to be 'cleaned out'."
"So they took our food. Our heat. Our medicine. Even water."
She took another step. Now she stood right beside the boy. She placed her metal hand on his shoulder.
"A year later they came back to collect the corpses. But there were no corpses. Only us."
She tilted her head slightly, her gaze shifting—as if she were looking at an insect pinned to a board.
"And no, we didn't farm rats. Rats died. But we lived." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Because hunger, Inspector... hunger crosses boundaries you people never even dreamed of. And once you cross those lines... they don't come back."
Brauer said nothing. His hand, still holding the boy, trembled.
Woman smiled wider—there was nothing human in it.
"So I ask you: who exactly do you think you're intimidating? The ones who survived without your ration cards? Who kept each other warm in a tangle of limbs and woke up just to eat their own tears?" She tilted her head the other way. "Who do you think you can teach obedience, you, who never had to choose whose child dies today so another can stand tomorrow?"
She fell silent.
The car went quiet with her.
Then woman spoke again, dryly, without emotion:
"Let him go."
And Brauer... let go.
The boy darted into the crowd like a jay, rushing into the arms of an older dark-haired woman with tired eyes.
"Come quickly, my son," the woman murmured quietly as the boy buried himself in her embrace.
"Mama, don't be scared. The cook can handle it. She always does."
"The cook?" the inspector furrowed his brow deeply, eyeing the woman. "So she's the one the guards were talking about..."
He wiped his hand on his coat with clear disgust, as if he'd touched filth.
"Right... you must be the new leader, huh?" he growled, straightening himself to boost his authority. "Too mouthy. Too confident. You think just because you've got this mob under your thumb, you're someone?" He snorted, looking down on her—though truth be told, she wasn't very tall.
And truth be told, neither was he. He is almost 1.80 meters tall. Looking at her... maybe 1,70 meters tall? Or 1,60 meters tall?
Woman simply raised an eyebrow, brushing a stray lock from her forehead. The prosthetic hissed softly with the motion.
"I'm not a leader," she replied calmly. "I simply gave them what no one else could. And I had the means... and the will to use them."
Her tone was soft, composed, but... there was something else in it. Something that made the sounds in the car go quiet, the air grow thick. Something eerily familiar to anyone who had seen people walking the edge of humanity.
The inspector furrowed his brow, his hand dropping down, signaling the two guards:
"Take her."
The guards moved toward her.
But at that exact moment...
…the car changed.
Not literally. Not physically. But something in the people's eyes. They no longer looked.
They watched. Judged.
Their bodies didn't move, but the air grew even thicker, as if every inch of space was suddenly filled with unease.
The inspector felt it first. He instinctively stepped back half a pace.
The gazes.
Not just indifferent, not just hateful.
Hostile.
Definitely hostile.
That man by the wall, bearded, his hair braided like a damn Viking—he was holding something under his coat.
Something heavy.
Too big for an improvised weapon, too familiar to ignore.
The second one, the man with the scar across his eye, was holding a child with one arm, his other hand resting on his belt where something gleamed. Metal. Crouched in the corner, an old man with empty eyes held a knife made from a fragment of pipe. Two women were clutching something beneath their scarves.
Everything looked prearranged.
Quiet.
Perfect.
Woman gave a slight smile.
She took a step toward the inspector.
"Are you ready for the consequences?" she asked in a whisper. But it was not a whisper of fear. It was the whisper of an executioner leaning over a neck.
One of the guards froze.
The other took a step back.
The inspector swallowed hard. He looked at the faces around him. Each one said: do it, and you won't leave here alive.
"This… this is mutiny," he hissed, though without conviction. "It's Wilford's betrayal, ha! You filthy, worthless rats! You should have died back in that god‑damned winter!"
Woman narrowed her eyes. Her voice was icy.
"Wilford didn't spend a year here without food. We did. He didn't leave children to lie dead through the night so that at least one might live until morning. We did. He didn't feed the living with what remained of the dead. We… did."
She stepped closer. Now there were only inches between them.
"So I ask you one last time: are you prepared for what will happen if even one of you makes that damn move?"
Silence.
The guards glanced at each other.
The crowd waited. Silent. No shouts. No cries for revolution. Because it was no longer a revolution.
It was a new power.
A power that had survived hell and ceased to fear it.
"Fuck this!" the inspector screamed, drawing his weapon.
BANG!
BANG!
The car rang with the roar. A shot flew upward, shattering the metal grating beneath the ceiling. Dust rained down like ash on everyone present.
"I am lord here! A passenger of the front train! First class!!" he ranted, his face draining of blood, his voice distorted with rage and fear. "You are vermin that devours your own children when no one's watching!"
He held his gun high, though his hand trembled slightly.
"Seize her! To the interrogation room! And to the cell! Immediately!"
The guards hesitated, looking from woman to the unmoving crowd. Empty, dead faces. Yet something in their eyes said that one reckless move, one misstep… and they would all die here.
After a moment, two of them moved. One gripped woman's prosthetic arm, the other her other arm. They walked slowly, nervously. Woman offered no resistance. She walked on without a word, quietly, her head bowed slightly, as if bored.
The crowd… did not surge forward.
Not yet.
But the tension was thick, as if the car itself were breathing—shallowly, anxiously, waiting. Not for an order. For an impulse.
The inspector straightened his coat, holstered his gun, trying not to meet anyone's gaze. Beads of sweat ran down his temple. He noticed the Viking with the braids was still staring at him. Not moving a foot.
As woman was led through the doorway, she paused and turned her head.
"Please make sure," she said coldly, almost in a whisper, "that the cell they put me in is well‑sealed. Because when I come out of there… I won't be talking anymore."
A chill ran down his spine.
The guards pushed her onward, and she disappeared behind the next doors, as though returning to the hell from which she once emerged.
The inspector stood motionless.
He no longer dared to laugh.
And somehow… he no longer felt like the lord.
[TEN MINUTES LATER]
The room was austere. Metal walls, the cold glow of outdated lamps, the smell of dampness and old sweat. Cigar smoke lazily curled through the air, drawing spirals above the inspector's head.
He leaned against the wall, his military coat draped carelessly over his shoulders, a cigar clenched between his teeth, eyes fixed on the steel floor.
"I didn't sign up for this shit," he grumbled. "I was supposed to check system interferences, not chat with a fucking cult from the corpse car."
Beside him, the senior guard was silent for a long moment before replying slowly, "Better take it easy with that girl."
The inspector looked at him as if he were an idiot.
"Take it easy?" he snorted, drawing deeply on his cigar and exhaling smoke. "She's not some first-class princess—she's the leader of barbarians. You think the Spaniards treated Native Americans nicely?" He rolled his eyes. "Sure, they came in 'peace and friendship,' then slaughtered everyone, raped women left and right, and settled all the land… Though it was really the English Protestant settlers with genocidal instincts, while the Spanish and Portuguese colonizers preferred the cross and the crown—typical Protestant settler only knew 'kill, kill, kill.'" He laughed ironically, inhaling again. "But I suppose you'll ask what we're going to do with her, right? Simple: we kill her, end of story."
The old guard didn't react. Finally he sighed and added, "Maybe so. But look at how those people looked at her. She changed something in them. They're loyal to her. To the bone."
The inspector snorted, flicking his cigar butt to the floor and stamping it out.
"All the more reason to destroy her. It's too easy to make a messiah out of someone like that."
"Or maybe she already is," the guard murmured. "And that's the problem."
The inspector rolled his eyes theatrically.
"Fuck it. I'm going to talk to her."
He strode out confidently, fury and frustration pulsing under his skin. He opened the door to the interrogation room.
Woman sat calmly. One leg crossed over the other, hands clasped in front of her. Her steely-blue eyes looked straight at him. No fear. No emotion. As if she could see right through him.
Her uniform was still torn and stained with blood, her prosthetic dusty, but she herself looked… composed. Too composed.
The inspector closed the door behind him. The room suddenly felt too quiet.
"All right, 'Messiah,' let's talk," he said, sitting down opposite her and resting his elbows on the metal table. "Who the hell are you?"
Woman smiled faintly. Unhealthily faintly.
"The one who survived," she replied.
The inspector leaned back in his chair. He produced a notebook and an old automatic pen from his pocket. The metal click as he placed it on the table sounded loud in the silence.
"Last name."
"Degurechaff. Tanya."
"I know your first name. Date of birth."
"September 18, 2000."
The inspector looked up from his notes, surprised and disbelieving.
"Twenty-nine years old… you look older."
"People mature faster when they're starving," she answered dryly.
"Occupation?"
"Cook," she said without hesitation.
The inspector raised an eyebrow as if he'd just heard a confessed serial killer claim to be a masseuse.
"A cook, huh?" he sneered. "What do you cook? People?"
Tanya didn't reply.
She didn't take her eyes off him. Her face was as calm as a glacier. Not a muscle twitched.
The seconds dragged on unpleasantly. Too long.
The inspector felt something cold creep up his spine. He shifted in his chair as if an unseen mist had settled on his shoulders.
"Hello? I was joking," he said, perhaps too quickly. "A 'no' or 'crazy psycho'—anything. But stop with the…," he gestured to her face, "that expression."
Still silence.
Only that stare. Icy. Calculating. Too calm.
The inspector cursed under his breath, snapped shut his notebook, and leaned back.
"You know what worries me most?" he asked. "Not your silence. Not that you survived a year with no rations. Not even that you've got a hell of a loyal following behind you."
"What is it?" Tanya asked. Her voice was low, each syllable sharp as a razor.
The inspector leaned forward.
"That I'm starting to be afraid of you." He tapped his fingers on the table. "And you know what I'm most afraid of?"
...
...
...
...
Tanya stared at him a long moment.
...
...
...
...
...
...
"Child support," the inspector snorted abruptly. "So this nervousness of mine is just a temporary emotional breakdown that I can quickly neutralize with persuasion or brute force for the sake of my health."
"So you're just going to kill me," Tanya stated flatly, looking at him with boredom.
"Well, 'killing' is a strong word," the inspector drawled, adjusting his bow tie. "Maybe it's better phrased as 'ensuring the continued survival of the human race so it doesn't spiral into civil war and accidentally kill itself off,' see how that sounds better?" He leaned forward over the chair. "Marketing is important, young lady."
Tanya raised one eyebrow.
"Shouldn't that 'ensuring the continued survival of the human race' also consider the high risk of inbreeding among first-class couples? Everyone knows what happens in fifty years when those wealthy pairs have one child—or none at all."
"That's a long-term plan…" the inspector coughed, pupils widening.
"Damn, she's right: only six kids in fifteen years among those people. At this rate in thirty years cousins and siblings will be fucking brothers," flashed through his mind as he grabbed his pen and quickly jotted it in the margin.
"Well, you've clearly got something upstairs, right?" he snorted, pretending the deduction didn't impress him. "You've got a head on your shoulders to spot such an unlikely opportunity on our lovely train." He waved his hand dismissively. "You must understand, our plans are meticulously prepared—right up to a hundred years ahead."
"So you'd better cook this shit instead of philosophizing about an impossible cataclysm, which, I stress, is purely absurd."
Tanya's eyes remained calm. She didn't flinch, even as the inspector hurled more insults and proposals that under different circumstances would have cost him knocked teeth. Perhaps that was why she remained silent.
"I should be in first class right now, drinking a whore's tits, not wasting time with you," the inspector snorted, shaking his head. "Although… I admit, you look pretty good for war and grime."
He paused, looking down at her.
"If you changed your attitude, maybe I could get you a spot in the presidents' whorehouse. Better than—" He trailed off when she didn't react again.
Silence.
Finally he cleared his throat and slumped back in his chair, rubbing his face with his hand.
"All right. Fuck it. Since you're not big on talking, let's start simple."
He fell silent for a moment, staring into her eyes.
"How did you get on the train?"
Tanya lifted her chin slightly. For a split second, something flashed in her eyes—not pride, not contempt… something deeper. A memory, perhaps. The shadow of truth.
"Hell froze over. Literally," she began quietly. "I was in the ruins of Ljubljana. Alone. Hungry. No roof over my head. No weapon. Nothing. A man doesn't need God when he has a rifle—but when only hunger and snow remain, he begins to understand what hell is."
The inspector raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"Then Wilford's people came. They said it was the last hope. That they were leaving behind a dead world and entering one governed by rules. Heating. Rations. Safety. Well… I had no better choice then."
"So you got on," the inspector muttered. "Just like that. And now you run the back end as if you were born there."
"I don't run it," Tanya said firmly. "I organized it. I showed them how to survive. People listen to those who don't die when it gets really cold."
The inspector frowned, pondering for a moment.
"And so? You survived a year without food just because of… organization?"
Tanya smiled faintly—and that smile unsettled him more than anything she'd said before.
"Tell me, Inspector… do you really want to know the answer to that question?"
The inspector stared at Tanya in silence for a long moment, then drew on his cigar slowly. Smoke drifted in the stifling interrogation room, where no rules existed except his whims.
Then he laughed.
Loudly. Roughly. With an irony that sounded like teeth grinding on bare metal.
"I almost believed you," he snorted. "Really. A beautiful story. Hell, hunger, ruins, miraculous rescue. Drama. Humility. And suddenly you're 'the one who organized.'"
He rose, cigar between his teeth, and reached into the drawer of his steel desk. He threw a folded newspaper onto the table—its paper yellowed with age but still legible.
"There's just one problem, Miss Degurechaff."
He unfolded the paper. On the front page was a color photo—a young woman in her early twenties, short blond hair, the distinctive scar on her cheek. She wore a clean laboratory coat and smiled forcedly at the camera. The caption read:
"Brilliant young inventor develops new ultracondensed hydroponic cultivation method. Hope for a world in crisis!"
The inspector tapped the photo with his finger.
"That's you, isn't it?" he sneered. "Not a 'cook,' but a damn scientist. Inventor. Engineer. Miss 'Hope for the World.'"
He looked at her as if a new theory had just formed in his mind.
"So go on. But this time… stop talking bullshit. You're not some rat in the back cars. Who are you really, and what the hell have you been doing for the years?"
Tanya did not move. Her gaze shifted slowly to the newspaper, then back to the inspector.
And then she spoke—in that same calm, controlled tone that was the hallmark of someone with nerves of steel.
"I never said I was a cook by trade. I said I am a cook," she said slowly. "And the fact that I once tried to save the world… only proves how desperately it did not want saving."
"Stop spewing bullshit, Tanya." The inspector stared at her blankly. "Because I've got no fucking patience left for your kind, you vermin!" he spat. "I was supposed to be at a party right about now, where the last of the vodka and cocaine was gonna be handed out, so believe me, bitch, you've already fucked up my whole damn day." He snarled at her. "So talk, for fuck's sake—who the hell are you and what the fuck are you doing there?"
Tanya snorted quietly, settling a little more comfortably into the metal chair, though her prosthetic leg grated as she moved. A hint of amusement sparkled in her eyes, but there was something else there too—a shadow of control.
"So the pampered little brat from First Class actually knows more than how to light cigars and scream at people," she said coldly. "Bravo. Finally, a thought managed to crawl into that empty skull of yours."
The inspector rolled his eyes, as if to brush off her words, but he couldn't quite hide his irritation. Instead of responding immediately, he took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly, looking somewhere above her head. Only then did he speak, his voice steeped in disdain and a cocky attitude:
"When I was seven, I was already watching porn," he said calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "And I remember seeing you in one of those ads—those propaganda pieces from the government. Dressed all in white, with that fucking fake smile, like from a catalog for corporate orphans. With the slogan: 'Hope of Tomorrow. Future of Nutrition. National Pride.'"
Tanya didn't react. She didn't flinch. Only her steel-gray eyes stayed locked on his face.
The inspector slid his hand across a newspaper, then dropped it on the table and looked her straight in the eye.
"Your father was one of the lead designers of this fucking train," he said quietly. "Wilford's project was his dream. You, his daughter—the headline-making inventor, the genius of cultivation and synthetic biology... and now you sit here, in a filthy uniform, cooking soup for the cattle in the tail."
He fell silent, and the stillness between them was like a taut wire, ready to snap at a single word.
"So maybe you can fucking tell me," he hissed through clenched teeth, leaning in. "What did you do down there? What are they eating? What the fuck are you giving them that keeps them alive without rations, without help, without rebellion for five damn years?"
Tanya glanced to the side, as if the question bored her.
And then she answered, quietly, but with unmistakable amusement:
"Maybe I just reminded them how to survive. Without Wilford. Without your orders. Without First Class mythology. Without kneeling before a logo of gears and delusions."
"And maybe..."—her voice dropped, darker now, colder—"maybe I just let the world work the way it's supposed to. Without sentiment."
The inspector hissed through his teeth.
"That's not an answer."
"No." Tanya smiled faintly, just one corner of her mouth. "It's a warning."
The inspector stared at her for a moment, as if weighing every word that had just been said. Then, suddenly, he stood up, his chair screeching loudly, took a deep breath, and spoke with clear exhaustion:
"Alright, I'm done with this conversation for today. I'm going to get a drink."
Without waiting for a response, he left the room, leaving Tanya alone in silence undisturbed even by the murmur of other prisoners. Tanya sat motionless, her cold, unreadable stare saying more than words ever could.
The room was swallowed by heavy, taut silence.
[TEN MINUTES LATER]
Ten minutes later, the inspector sat hunched over a tablet in the flickering light of the train's command room monitors. Puffing on the stub of a cigar, he flipped through document after document, becoming more engrossed with every line in the story he was uncovering.
Her father — a name that kept appearing in the train's project reports — had been one of the lead engineers responsible for the train's food production systems, the same systems that now formed the heart of the rear section. But the official records were brutally clear: the man hadn't made it onto the train, and had died somewhere in the chaos of the world's end.
Tanya's mother — according to the data — had died during childbirth, leaving the girl an orphan at the very beginning of this hellish journey. Tanya herself was listed in the official records as "dead." Moreover, the documents included the note "missing," and the context of those words was clear — anyone who hadn't made it aboard the train was essentially marked for death.
The inspector shifted his gaze to the screen and took a slow drag of smoke, wondering what really lay behind the mysterious figure now sitting silently in a cell, as if she knew far more than she wanted to reveal.
He furrowed his brow and snorted under his breath:
"Something's not fucking right here…"
He grabbed one of the several old phones connected by a thick cable running the length of the train and quickly dialed his superior's number. After a few rings, the chief's voice answered — stern, cold, but with a hint of respect.
"What the fuck do you want, kid? Didn't you get enough booze or what?" came the familiar, gruff voice of the boss — supposedly a big shot in the military before the End. "Fucking youth…"
"Not about that, Colonel," the inspector chuckled. "I meant the mission you sent me on."
"Oh, that… So how'd it go? How many dead?"
"Well… none," the inspector replied calmly.
"None? Seriously, no one?"
"Not a single one." He paused. "And you know what… I've got a question. Ever heard of Wilhelm Degurechaff?"
"Wilhelm?" the chief asked, slightly surprised. "He was the only sane guy in this whole fucking mess. His engineering plan? Fucking brilliant — nothing to add, nothing to take away."
The inspector rolled his eyes but continued.
"So, apparently I've found his daughter. Tanya. The girl sitting here."
Silence fell on the other end. It took a moment before the chief's voice returned, now much more serious and without a trace of sarcasm.
"Let her go. And do it now."
The words hung in the air, and the inspector felt that this decision could change everything.
He furrowed his brow, visibly confused.
"What…? Let her go? What do you mean?"
The cold, firm voice came again:
"Yes. For the sake of the train, she has to be released."
The inspector shook his head, trying to grasp the logic behind the order.
"I don't understand. Why?"
The chief sighed and explained calmly but with a firm undertone:
"Trust me, you spoiled brat. It's better for everyone at the front if they keep believing Tanya is dead."
The inspector lit another cigar, drawing the smoke slowly and asking in disbelief:
"Why?"
The answer came as a single word, spoken like a sentence:
"Food."
The call abruptly ended, and the inspector sat frozen, staring at the now-dark screen. Confusion was etched across his face — too many questions unanswered, too many loose threads.
He sighed heavily, reached for the glass of whiskey beside him, and downed it in one gulp, feeling the burn soothe his nerves.
With a heavy step, he stood up and headed toward the interrogation room, where Tanya was waiting. He knew the conversation wasn't over — on the contrary, it was just beginning.
The inspector entered the interrogation room with a heavy step. The door creaked softly, closing behind him with a faint echo. The silence that followed was thick, like the snow blanketing the tracks outside.
He walked slowly toward Tanya, who sat calmly, chin raised, her steel gaze locked onto his face. She didn't look away for even a second.
Without a word, the inspector leaned forward, grabbed her face — not violently, but with a firm grip that said he'd had enough of games.
"You know," he growled quietly, looking her straight in the eyes, "you're one of the most fucking infuriating people I've met on this goddamn train."
Tanya smiled faintly… and spat straight into his face.
The spit dripped down his cheek. He said nothing for a moment. Just stood there. Then slowly pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and carefully wiped his face, never taking his eyes off her.
The silence lasted a few seconds. Then the inspector sighed, walked over to the chair opposite her, and sat down. He crossed one leg over the other and rested clasped fingers on his knee.
"Alright," the inspector muttered, adjusting his suit. "Fucking fine," he repeated with emphasis, laying a notepad on the table and pulling out a pen, ready. "Tell me everything. From the beginning. No curtains. No tricks. No bullshit." He pointed the pen at her like he might stab her with it. "I know you're not here by accident. And I know this shit we're in is just starting to stink. So…"
He fell silent.
He stared directly at her.
"I want to hear the whole story."
Tanya snorted quietly, that signature contempt flashing in her eyes, saying more than any words.
"Alright," she said, drawing out the word with theatrical resignation. "Looks like we've got plenty of time. You, me… and this whole fucked-up system that's rotting like a dead rat in the vents."
She leaned forward slightly, hands folded as if in prayer, but her eyes were pure ice.
"Funny thing. You know what's always fascinated me?" She tapped the table with the artificial fingers of her left-hand prosthesis.
"No matter how hard someone tries."
"No matter how efficient they are," she murmured with emphasis.
"How loyal." She gritted her teeth, a flash in her eyes. "How competent."
"Because all it takes is one fucking hedonist, one mentally crippled idiot at the top, and the whole system…" She made a theatrical pause, spreading her hands. "...goes to shit."
She looked him in the eye with the smile of a wolf who already knows the outcome of the hunt but still toys with her prey.
"And don't tell me you don't know what I mean. Because you know them, don't you? The ones at the front of the train. Who are you, anyway? The son of some noble family, right?" She scoffed. "Wine, fucking women, cigars, endless moral debates while the back of the train was chewing its own fingernails."
The inspector said nothing. His face was no longer mocking. Tanya leaned back more comfortably in her chair.
"And then… then came winter. The real winter. And it stopped being about rules, about protocols. It became about who lived and who starved. No one looked for nobility then. We were looking for calories."
She tilted her head.
"And that's how the story of the 'Cook' began."
Tanya sighed softly — not with contempt this time, but with the weight of memory. She leaned back more comfortably and stared somewhere beyond the room, beyond the train, as if reaching into a world long gone.
"Maybe… maybe I should start from the very beginning. Not with the corpses. Not with the frozen meat. But with warmth… the warmth of memories. The last ones."
She blinked, then began in a calm, almost didactic tone:
"I was born into the Degurechaff family — German settlers, whose ancestors came to America sometime in the early 19th century," she explained slowly. "Fairly well-off. Just your typical middle class with aspirations and a few old family pretensions. Not aristocracy, but we were somebody. Our story didn't start with me, or with my father, but even earlier…"
She paused for a moment, as if savoring the image in her mind.
"My great-great-grandfather. Luckier than he was smart — he landed right in the middle of the California Gold Rush. But instead of chasing gold like a fool, he sold tools and mining equipment. And made a fortune. Started with a pickaxe, ended with a small foundry."
She smiled faintly.
"I remember him fondly, even though he died long before I was born. He was a good businessman. Didn't play dirty. Bought, sold, invested. Then his son — my great-grandfather — bought a patch of land and started his own crops. Corn, soybeans, alfalfa. Simple stuff. But then came the Great Depression. And then the drought. Everything fell apart."
She fell silent for a moment, and the inspector didn't interrupt. Only the smoke from his cigar drifted lazily upward.
"The family was teetering on the brink. And then… grandfather. That man… he was a genius. Forget your pseudo‑engineers in the engineering car. He worked with life.
With genetics. With fertilizers. With animals. He began experimenting with faster‑growing strains of wheat. He cultivated symbiotic microflora for the roots. He saw the future of agriculture before the rest of the world realized we were heading for disaster."
Tanya looked the inspector squarely in the eye.
"He didn't want fame. He wanted humanity to stop starving. And you know what? He succeeded. But humanity, as it tends to… fucked up everything it possibly could."
For a moment there was silence. Then Tanya added, more quietly:
"And I… I am the last link in that chain. The result of generations of trials, errors, and ideas. Only when the end of the world came… no one wanted genius anymore. They all just wanted… to survive."
The inspector snorted in disbelief, shaking his head as if trying to rid it of cobwebs.
"You must be talking bullshit," he grumbled. "If your family had done something that great, the world would have trumpeted it. Such a discovery? Such an impact? It wouldn't be some forgotten patent entry. It would be in textbooks, in museums, on fucking banknotes!"
Tanya looked at him with cold pity. Her steel‑blue eyes gleamed.
"If you only knew how often history forgets those who truly laid the foundations." She smiled faintly, almost bitterly. "My great‑grandfather was a miser. A stingy bastard. He hated the limelight. He did everything within the family, for the family. For stability. Not for acclaim."
She paused briefly, giving the inspector time to absorb that.
"But enough about my great‑grandfather." Her tone sharpened. "It's my father you should have known, Wilhelm Degurechaff."
The inspector raised an eyebrow.
"Wilhelm…?"
"Mmh. Your system—this whole train—your climate‑controlled walls, the passageways between cars, the energy‑circulation system, the automatic power‑distribution switches for overloads—it's all his design," Tanya leaned forward. "He designed every one of the key modules. Especially this car."