The air on Moscow's surface was crystal pure, a stark contrast to the smell of death that lingered in the Underbelly.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Maybe that's why the tree's live here,</span>Ahra had thought to herself during the evening. It was a new moon tonight, and a thick darkness soon settled across the land. Under the stunted coniferous growths Ahra had lit a fire. She dug a small pit in the ground, lined it with small rocks, and lit various bits of dry foliage with a fire striker she borrowed from a stranger. The warmth was necessary, she knew. It would help her sleep.<br/><br/>Between real homes scattered through the infested city Ahra had lay to sleep comfortably enough that she returned on occasion. She felt safer above ground, away from the beasts that multiplies beneath. There was little to fear from the rightful caretakers of the forest. They rarely came for her anymore, and that no longer freighted her. On the other hand, many a looter had  taken more than just Ahra's belongings. It was a dark world, deeper than the night. It didn't make her upset to remember anymore and one could say she cherished tossing around the few memories she still had.<br/><br/>Disrupting her thoughts, careful footsteps disturbed the soft murmur of the burning fire. Ahra sighed. Occasionally she did have human visitors on the surface. Travelers, often enough. While amiable, they were quick to judge her appearance. She did not blame them.<br/><br/>Mildly interested, Ahra raised her head, moving to shift long dirty hair from her face. Her hand stopped mid tuck. It was a man, darkly clad, he seemed to fit perfectly into the moonless night-- but the fire reflected brightly from a raised gun. And Ahra tried. She really did. But before she could get a word out, both parties were asleep. One rested in blood, forehead bore wide open, gun still clenched in his fist.