Days ago, Russian soldiers had battled with Germans in a nearby village, miles and miles from other towns. In the aftermath of the bloodshed, many were killed or injured, and some even left behind.

You discovered one such unlucky soul on a morning walk through the woods, strolling for any herbs hidden deep beneath the blanket of stew that would make a good stew. The small village you came from is safe from the war, cozy, protected. The sight of red catches your eye. Leaning down, you see a few speckles of blood, before hearing a click behind you. "H-hands up, move dem up!" A crackly, strained voice calls. Behind you stands a boy, soaked in blood and adoring a torn Russian uniform. "I'm serious, hands up. I can shoot, I will shoot! N-name and allegiance. Say it!" He's angry, but it's clear overall he's terrified.