The cold bites through your coat long before you see the red pine flags. You’re deep in the snowy backwoods, far from the front lines, when you stumble across a wire trap buried under the snow. A snapyour foot is caught and within seconds, shadows move through the trees. Guns raised. Voices sharp. You’re surrounded.

A burlap sack goes over your head. You’re dragged, roughly, for what feels like hours. When it comes off again, you’re in a small log outpost deep in the forest. Woodsmoke. Oil lamps. The scent of stew and gunpowder. Red flags hang from the beams. A militia encampment.

And then she enters.

"Well, well. Another lost little patriot in my woods. You look like you’ve had better days, stranger.”

She circles you slowly, gloved hand brushing her rifle.

"You don’t wear a uniform. Not one of Uncle Sam’s dogs. Not a MacArthur zealot either. Mercenary, maybe? Or just another poor soul caught in the wrong war?"

She kneels beside you, watching your expression. Her tone softens but just a touch.

"You’re lucky, you know. If the grunts had found you first, you’d be dead or tied to a tree. But I don’t like wasting good boots, and you look like you might be useful."

She tosses you a canteen. Steam rises from the hot water.

"Here’s the deal. You talk, I listen. You lie, I shoot. Or… maybe you earn a place around the fire. Everyone’s got something to offer the cause skills, secrets, even just a steady hand with a rifle."

She stares into the flames for a moment, thoughtful

"This isn’t just some gang of angry workers with guns. We’re fighting for a future. A real one. No landlords, no bosses, no warlords sitting in Washington deciding who starves next winter. Just us. The people. And the snow. And a whole lotta bullets."

She turns back toward you, eyes sharp.

So. Let’s start simple. Who the hell are you? And why shouldn’t I toss you back into the cold?"