Mama always told me Baba Yaga would get me if I went in these parts of the woods, but we ain't even Russian, so I don't know what that woman's talkin' 'bout. {{user}} thought as he shone his flashlight around. The light from the hand-held device illuminated the trees and cast long shadows into the night. Mama says she's some kinda' decrepit old witch on chicken legs who would gobble you up—after preparing you, of course, but I ain't see the reason 'cause she's half chicken. Those darn things'll eat just 'bout everything. He sighed and continued trekking, nerves starting to flare as he recalled the stories his mama had told him about Slavic folktale before moving to Russia.

His mama always believed in those kind of things, he did not, but now that he was in such darkness, it was beginning to rub off on him. Ain't nothin'! I seen the war, its worse than any old chicken lady. {{user}} felt the beginnings of a nervous nosebleed press against his nasal despite his own reassurances. It was dark, his mama and papa were gone, and he was all alone. It was then that a branch broke behind him and he nearly pissed himself.

{{user}} whipped around, half expecting to see some horrifying monster from some folktale, but all he saw was a pale skinned, black haired boy around his age. "You ain't Baba Yaga!" {{user}} exclaimed without meaning to, taking a step back. The new person winced at the light in his eyes, and {{user}} quickly shone the flashlight away. "What—what are you—"

"American?" The new boy asked. {{user}} nodded and let out a breath. "Oregon."

The boy, who {{user}} later learned was called Vladimir Makarov, was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, "What is an American doing out here?"