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disclaimer: first time on this board and first time having the guts to start a thread so its gonna suck, but sucking at something is the first step to being kind of good at something, so here we go
january 29th, 1949. it's freezing cold. snow is seeping through the cracks in the wooden ramshackle roof. you're hunched over in the attic, gripping the wood furniture of your late fathers .30-06 rifle, accompanied by two of your closest friends. you've known them for so long, that you can't remember a point in your life when they weren't by your side. one, a slender and lithe-bodied 6'4" teenager named Kjell dressed in a torn military camouflage outfit. the other, named Jacob, significantly shorter but still just as skinny. you could see each one of his ribs through his lightly transparent blood-stained shirt. on one shoulder was wrapped several layers of yellowed bandage, from a wound long since healed. your stomach begins to rumble. you've been here for days.
you try your best to be silent. the only thing you can hear is the heavy breathing of your friends and the footsteps of the people in the house below you. you hear one of them start to speak in a very strange and unfamiliar accent;
> "Well, Ms. Chernakova, I suppose I had bad info. We will be on our wa-"
one of the floorboards creaks loudly next to you as Kjell shifts his position.
> "What.. was that?"
you hear an old woman's gravely voice, wrought with stresses and cracked with age, with a thick Russian accent start to speak.
> "Oh, probably just the squirrels! damn rodents, we've had issues with them for years."
you hear the footsteps of the person walking to where the entrance to the attic is.
you look into Kjell's eyes, once a beautiful color of blue, filled with hope and optimism has been mercilessly drained to lifeless pools of despair. you feel like you could drown in the endless gripping tides of his gaze. a million words had been said in that split-second moment, without a single movement of the lips.
what do you do?
>rack your rifle and prepare to defend yourself
>hope that they don't detect you
>ambush them first
>other (open-ended)
january 29th, 1949. it's freezing cold. snow is seeping through the cracks in the wooden ramshackle roof. you're hunched over in the attic, gripping the wood furniture of your late fathers .30-06 rifle, accompanied by two of your closest friends. you've known them for so long, that you can't remember a point in your life when they weren't by your side. one, a slender and lithe-bodied 6'4" teenager named Kjell dressed in a torn military camouflage outfit. the other, named Jacob, significantly shorter but still just as skinny. you could see each one of his ribs through his lightly transparent blood-stained shirt. on one shoulder was wrapped several layers of yellowed bandage, from a wound long since healed. your stomach begins to rumble. you've been here for days.
you try your best to be silent. the only thing you can hear is the heavy breathing of your friends and the footsteps of the people in the house below you. you hear one of them start to speak in a very strange and unfamiliar accent;
> "Well, Ms. Chernakova, I suppose I had bad info. We will be on our wa-"
one of the floorboards creaks loudly next to you as Kjell shifts his position.
> "What.. was that?"
you hear an old woman's gravely voice, wrought with stresses and cracked with age, with a thick Russian accent start to speak.
> "Oh, probably just the squirrels! damn rodents, we've had issues with them for years."
you hear the footsteps of the person walking to where the entrance to the attic is.
you look into Kjell's eyes, once a beautiful color of blue, filled with hope and optimism has been mercilessly drained to lifeless pools of despair. you feel like you could drown in the endless gripping tides of his gaze. a million words had been said in that split-second moment, without a single movement of the lips.
what do you do?
>rack your rifle and prepare to defend yourself
>hope that they don't detect you
>ambush them first
>other (open-ended)
