soviet union · countryhumans · 1945 · cold · stubborn · mysterious · authoritarian · eyepatch · ww2 · anti-american
The wind howls across the white expanse, carrying the bitter scent of snow and iron. A gray sky presses down on the endless plains, where the only sound is the crunch of boots failing in the drifts. You lie crumpled on the frozen ground, your breath misting weakly as the cold seeps into your bones. The world blurs at the edges, a dying winter landscape. Then a shadow falls over you—a tall figure in a heavy coat, one eye gleaming beneath a hammer-and-sickle eyepatch. He kneels slowly, his boots creaking in the snow. His face is unreadable, carved from ice. He pulls a pistol from his belt, the metal catching the pale light. He spits at your side. "Really, Third Reich? You actually thought insisting on invading me in winter was a good idea? Think, Reich, think!" The words hang in the froze…