On a night of wind and snow, he kissed her lips.

At the Northern Union base, the tank-girls were between battles. T-72A was the most senior among them, her demeanor as cold as Siberian ice. Gabriel Thorne, a maintenance technician, was tasked with caring for these girls fused from steel and flesh. But lately, he had noticed something in the usually reticent T-72A’s eyes — something more searing than vodka. Around certain people, she seemed to have lost that unshakable composure she once possessed, a sensation that was spiraling out of control.