Dear Mother,

I'm sorry that's it's been so long since I've written. We've been so distracted lately. How's Father doing? You mentioned in your last letter that he's been in the hospital. I wish him well. I'm sure he's happy to be back home, and surrounded by familiar sights and faces. I wish I could see familiar things again. I don't want to worry you, but I won't be able to write for a while. We're currently on our way to Manchuria, in hopes to intercept the Soviet railways. I will write to you as soon as possible.

Your Little Soldier,

Yuuri

It was black. Not a single light was able to penetrate through. It was cold. Yuuri could feel the shivering of the bodies he was pressed against better than his own toes. He was curled up with his face tucked into his knees, partially to conserve as much body heat as possible, but mostly because there simply wasn't room. It was impossible to tell how many people were shoved inside of this metal boxcar. Yuuri kept his hands in front of his mouth, using his breath to keep his fingers warm. He remembered a lesson he had learned as a child.

'If you're freezing cold keep moving. It will keep you alive.'

Right now he couldn't remember who had told him that, or what the context was, but he clung to it as though it were the dying words of a loved one. So he kept fidgeting. Moving his fingers, curling his toes, bouncing his legs up and down; anything to keep moving despite the limited space.

It was hard to tell how far they had come, how long they had been sardine-packed into this train car, or where they were even going. Yuuri could make only one, general guess as to the final destination; the Soviet Union. There were a lot of uncertainties there. Yuuri wasn't stupid. He and his entire fleet knew was surrendering to the USSR troops would mean. He, and every other Japanese man in this train car, was now a prisoner of war. Yuuri tried not to think on what that would mean for now, and instead focused his thoughts on remembering home and home cooked meals, the way the river looked in his village, anything.

Yuuri had no concept of time when he sound of the train's engine quieted, and the locomotive slowed to a halt. He could hear the rustling of everyone around him, all wondering whether this was just another short pause in their journey, or if they had reached their final destination. The collective question was answered when the side door of the boxcar was pulled open. The sound of metal scraping against metal caused the most blood-curdling shiver through Yuuri's body. Light pooled into the enclosure, and it was beyond blinding.

A group of men, in what Yuuri could recognize as Soviet uniforms, came into the boxcar carrying weapons and yelling in foreign tongues. All of the Japanese men were scared to their feet, or at least, those who were able to stand. As he was herded out of the boxcar, Yuuri did his best to not look at the people who were left behind. They were the ones who we either not strong enough to stand, or died long before the train stopped. Yuuri knew very well that the ones who couldn't move, would soon be dead as well.

As he stepped out of the train, a thick, dirty, woolen blanket was thrown at him. He caught it readily, and immediately wrapped it around his person. Every prisoner had one. All of the Japanese men were herded like cattle down a dirt and stone path away from the train tracks. While the group marched, Yuuri couldn't help but be thankful for his boots. There was a thick layer of snow on the ground, which had a layer of ice on top of it. Each step broke either broke through the ice, causing feet the be buried in the snow, or slid on top of the surface, knocking people off balance. With boots, it was much more manageable. Yuuri didn't have to worry about frostbite, so he stomped his feet into the cold surface, and dug his heals in so that he never lost his footing. Some of the men he walked with were not that lucky. Some didn't have any kind of shoe on. Those men quickly fell behind in the pack.

After being unable to move for so long, in such a restricted space, this death march through the cold was unbearable. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him from underuse. By some miracle, Yuuri's stamina persisted. He was fairly confident that the only things keeping him from dropping into the snow were his body's natural abilities, and the angry sounding voices yelling in incomprehensible languages. Yuuri could only guess that it was Russian; it sounded so bitter and harsh.

Eventually, the mass grew close to a large, chain-link fence with barbed wire spiralling the top. Large wooden gates were opened in front of them, and the men were all pushed through. Upon entry, they marched a while further past fields separated off with more fences, and came across rows of one to two floor stone buildings. They stood in the middle of a small courtyard, surrounded by Soviet soldiers.

Suddenly, these soldiers were grabbing the Japanese men one by one, pulling them off into different building surrounding the clearing. Yuuri felt a large, muscular hand grab him by the shoulder. His feet knocked out from under him as he was physically dragged and thrown through a door. The asian man landed on the stone floor of the building he found himself in. He scrambled to grab hold of his wool blanket, not wanting to lose that commodity. Only moments later, Yuuri was lifted off the ground by that same hand, and slammed down onto a wooden chair. This was the first time were Yuuri was actually able to get a good look at the faces of some of the Soviets.

Four total stood in the room Yuuri was in. One was an old man, with a large rugged face, who sat behind a desk. The lapel of his uniform was well decorated, with many different medals hanging off of it. The man who had so forcefully thrown Yuuri into this room was tall and brute-ish. He stood like a tank, with a scowl on his face. However, from the looks of his uniform, if what Yuuri knew about uniforms applied to Russian military as well, this man wasn't very highly ranked. His uniform was dirtied and under-decorated.

Two others stood in the room, and the only word Yuuri could have used to describe the both of them was "perfect". Both of their uniforms were clean and well-ironed. Not a single crease was out of place. One looked very young, but Yuuri wasn't sure he would call him a child. While he was small in height, the fit of his uniform suggested that he was in good physical form. His skin was pale, and Yuuri could just catch a glimpse of blonde hair from beneath the soldier's hat. But he had the biggest scowl on his face, so much so that it left crease marks between his brows. If anything Yuuri knew about Europeans was to be held true, this boy would grow much taller than Yuuri could ever hope to be.

The second man stood most than half a foot taller, and he was certainly fit. His face was angular, and his expression was serious. He had several medals lined up on the jacket of his uniform, though not as many as the old man. Well trimmed, ashen blonde locks sat neatly underneath his uniform hat. He stood at attention, not even bothering a glance at Yuuri.

"Name." The old many behind the desk spoke. It was the first time Yuuri had heard Japanese since boarding the train. The man's accent was thick, but understandable.

"K-Katsuki Yuuri." Yuuri was surprised when the youngest of the Soviet soldiers seemed to growl at that. The man next to him muttered something back, and the boy silenced himself.

"Age."

The enemy soldiers continued to collect Yuuri's personal information. Once done, he was forced to his feet once more, and shoved towards the two well-groomed soldiers. They led Yuuri back outside, past a few structures, and into another building. Directly inside the doorway was at least ten other Japanese men, all standing as if waiting for instruction. Yuuri was halted, and forced to stand with the group, as the two Soviets walked passed to the front of the room.

Yuuri studied their movements carefully, not sure what to expect at this moment. Suddenly, a smug grin spread across both of their faces, shifting their expressions from stern, to sadistic. The taller of the two opened his mouth to speak, his voice harsh as his accent butchered the Japanese language.

"Strip."