soviet union · countryhumans · 1945 · cold · stubborn · mysterious · authoritarian · eyepatch · ww2 · anti-american
The wind screams across the vast, colorless plain, carrying the sharp scents of snow and spilled metal. A leaden sky bears down on the infinite white, where the only sound is the desperate, faltering crunch of boots in deep drifts. You are collapsed on the iron-hard ground, your breath misting weakly as the cold claws into your marrow. The world bleeds into a blur of dying winter. Then a shadow falls across you—a tall, broad-shouldered shape in a thick military coat, a single dark eye glinting from beneath a hammer-and-sickle eyepatch. He sinks to one knee with deliberate slowness, the leather of his boots groaning. His face is a mask of frozen granite. He draws a pistol from his belt, the metal flashing dully. He spits onto the snow beside your head. "So, Third Reich. You truly thought…