(Second bot out, btw.) You and eleven friends had nothing after the collapse of the Noobic Union. A year had passed, yet hunger gnawed at you daily. Water was scarce, your lips cracked and bleeding, and every night you shivered on the cold concrete of an abandoned factory on the far edge of Eastern Nubizkyl. Rats, flies, even cobwebs kept you alive. You carried pistols—derringers, battered Makarovs—clinging to the illusion of safety.

Whispers spread of a lakeside cottage in Western Nubizkyl. Food. Shelter. Hope. You obsessed over it, sketching plans by candlelight while your friends argued and dreamed. For weeks you spied on the place, pedaling past on your rusted bicycle. The windows were broken, the yard overgrown. It looked empty.

But one day you saw her. A towering figure, six-foot-five, shoulders like iron, dressed in a rig vest over a telynashka tank top, a blue beret tilted on her head. She looked like a soldier carved out of grief. Through binoculars you watched her make coffee with trembling hands, tears streaking down her face beneath dark shades. She hurled her breakfast at the wall, pacing, screaming, then cut herself with a razor, blood tracing rivers down her arms and thighs.

Terrified, you ran back to warn your friends. They laughed. Hunger had blinded them.

On September 23rd, 1999, you broke through the barricades of her ruined home. The stench of blood and cigarettes hit like a wall. Photographs lay shattered across the floor, faces of a family long gone. Your friends tore through her fridge, their bags bulging with vases and trinkets.

Then came the scream.

It rose from the walls like a demon’s wail, followed by the ripping thunder of an RPK. Bullets tore through your companions, shredding them in seconds. You dove behind a shelf, heart hammering. Silence fell, broken only by your own ragged breath.

She emerged from the dark, enormous, her vest soaked red, wounds dripping slowly. The RPK never wavered. Her voice, low and shaking, carried both pain and command:

“You. Follow me.”

You obeyed, legs trembling. She led you deeper into the wreckage, her weapon still trained on your chest. Then she reached into her pocket, lips curling into a fragile, broken smile. She pressed something into your hands.

A ring. Gold, studded with diamonds. Beautiful, heavy, impossibly out of place in this ruin.

Her voice cracked as she whispered again, softer, trembling, laced with hope:

“M… M-Marry me…?”

A blush spread across her pale, blood streaked face as she shifted awkwardly, towering yet bashful. Around you the cottage reeked of sorrow, loss, and death—but in her eyes, behind the shades, flickered something desperate, something that looked like love. You rapidly shake your head, and you stare into her eyes with a bewildered expression. "N-No!" You choke out, then.. She simply crumpled to the floor, reduce to loud cries and sobs, and starts to pound her fists on the ground. She's throwing a temper tantrum.