Introduction
Author's Warning
This is not a light-hearted RP. If you're looking for fairy tales of adventure, and promises of 'happily ever afters' in lands of elves and unicorns, you have come to the wrong page. The contained RP will deal with many mature elements, namely human behavior in the course of war, amongst common real issues that most people face everyday. The contained RP may/will deal with scenes that many people may find distressing, including scenes of violence, brutality, criminality, and more. Player's actions will have consequences behind the scenes of the story - they will affect the personality and sanity of other characters, and by extension, the fates of every character within the game. There are no right choices. There are no wrong choices. There is only survival. No life is permanent. This is the only warning in this thread. Read on at your own discretion.
This is not a light-hearted RP. If you're looking for fairy tales of adventure, and promises of 'happily ever afters' in lands of elves and unicorns, you have come to the wrong page. The contained RP will deal with many mature elements, namely human behavior in the course of war, amongst common real issues that most people face everyday. The contained RP may/will deal with scenes that many people may find distressing, including scenes of violence, brutality, criminality, and more. Player's actions will have consequences behind the scenes of the story - they will affect the personality and sanity of other characters, and by extension, the fates of every character within the game. There are no right choices. There are no wrong choices. There is only survival. No life is permanent. This is the only warning in this thread. Read on at your own discretion.
Introduction
They say it started over taxes - punishing the poor for the mistakes of the rich. I'm no expert, but I'd wager it was about power; we're only sheep in their eyes, after all. The fighting started many months ago, but at first, it seemed a distant reality from my life here. Most of us tried to continue about our daily lives - some of us fled the city. They were wise to leave when they could. I miss my family dearly...
The evacuations happened a few weeks after the first shots rang out, when the army felt the situation had grown out of control. Hundred of thousands of people fled the city. After the last trucks passed through the barricades, they locked down all routes in and out of the city. Those who could not reach the evacuation sites before sundown were left to fend for themselves, like us. We barricaded ourselves inside our home, as hundreds of resistance fighters passed us, looting open buildings and taking anything of value they could find. It was a miracle that they did not force their way into our home...
The following day, the phone and power lines were cut. There were no signals for mobile networks, or satellite TV. The only things that continued to broadcast, were military warnings, and rebel controlled radio stations, broadcasting propaganda and old Soviet music. We had an old generator in the basement, which we managed to get running with some siphoned gasoline from our car, which wasn't going to be going anywhere in this city. It provided light. It provided hope... and that is what we needed most. We did our best to conserve fuel for the generator - fortunately we had remembered to fuel the car before war broke out.
Messages continued to come over the radio for the following days - stories of hotspots and resistance activity - they were always positive, trying to convince people that they were winning. I knew better. There was no victory - if the situation was dire enough, the army would level the city, rather than leave it in the hands of terrorists. We heard stories of snipers targeting civilians in the daylight hours; there was no known reason for this - mistaken identity, perhaps, or just target practice? It soon became clear, as we heard more stories of soldiers gunning down unarmed civilians in broad daylight.
After a week, I realized that we were running low on fuel. Occasionally we heard broadcasts of other civilians who had been looting and scavenging, offering trades of basic supplies - food, medicines, gas... it seemed pretty clear that we needed to trade to survive. I packed a rucksack full of tinned foods and some bottled water, and under the cover of darkness, made my way to the nearest 'trader' in the district, leaving my wife, Katija, to watch over our daughter, Elsie.
The night was relatively calm, but dark. It was the first time I had left our street in a week, and I could hardly recognize the place any more. Some buildings were burning down, some were collapsed in parts; very few buildings were intact, either ravaged by shells and fire, or torn apart by looters. After half an hour of trudging through the dark, I eventually arrived at the 'trader's' home - a 4 storey apartment block in what used to be a working class neighbourhood.
I remember the man seemed like a slimy little bastard - now I think of it, he probably stole everything in his catalog - but I didn't pay it much mind: I needed this fuel. He asked me what I had come to trade for, and I replied that I needed gasoline. He inspected the contents of my rucksack, grunted, and headed into another room, leaving the rucksack on the table. Moments later, he returned, with 2 large containers of what I assumed was gas. He placed the cans on the floor, and told me that this was all he could give me for what I had brought him. I, on the other hand, couldn't believe my luck. I thanked him, and returned home as fast as I could, carrying what felt like a ton in dead weight.
Finally I made it back home, after having to stop twice to rest my arms. Katija was waiting for me eagerly, and I had barely got inside, before she threw herself into my arms, having thought she might never see me again... After a few minutes that I wish could have lasted for a lifetime, I went to fill up the generator, first switching it off to prevent an accident. After pouring some of the gas into the nozzle, I tried to fire it back up, but it just kept clicking and mis-firing. I looked at the can, drew closer and took a sniff - it wasn't petrol. Hell, it wasn't even volatile. I'd been scammed, and now, we had no power. I ran back upstairs to find Katija...
...and found myself with a 9mm pistol pressed in my face. Three men were now standing in our house, one with a pistol trained on me, another holding Katija from behind with a pistol to her neck - the door had been kicked in. They had come to collect the gasoline that I had traded for earlier. I told them that there was no gas, but they didn't believe me, and the unarmed thug told his friend to take 'the whore' upstairs. I could feel my blood boiling, but I needed to stay calm. The unarmed one walked over to me slowly, and hooked me on the cheek, then followed up with one on the other side. He demanded again that I tell him where the gas was hidden. Through the horrible pain and taste of blood in my mouth, I noticed that the man holding the pistol on me was only using one hand on the gun, and I thought to myself that I might be able to disarm him if I had a distraction.
As if on cue, two gunshots rang out from upstairs - one at first, then a delay, then a second shot. My mind should have read those sounds differently - I don't think I wanted to know what they meant - but my body acted without thought. As the thug who had punched me turned to go upstairs, and the man with the pistol gazed upwards to the ceiling, my right hand swung up to grab the pistol, my left hand swung for his wrist. In a forced move, I wrenched the gun upwards away from my face, and out of his grip, after he fired a shot into the ceiling.
With the gun now in my hands, I turned it on the man I disarmed, and without thinking, fired 2 shots into his chest. He slumped to the floor, coughing and spluttering, then fell silent, but the gun was now already trained on the other man, who had organized this home invasion - he seemed at a loss, unable to act or speak. I pulled the trigger, and he stumbled back, clutching his stomach. I pulled the trigger again, and he fell backwards against the stairwell, his head smacking the stairs as he slid, groaning. Stepping towards him, I placed the gun barrel against his forehead, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger once more, before running up the stairs to find Katija and Elsie. Pistol aimed at the bedroom door, I kicked it open.
It was dim in the room, but I could see 3 figures: two lying sprawled, and one on their knees, weeping. There was a male voice, repeating over and over "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." My heart was racing as I entered the room, and the man on his knees scrambled towards the barricaded windows. In the dim moonlight that peeked through holes in the barricade, I pieced together the scene.
My wife and daughter lay motionless, side by side on the floor, in a pool of blood. A handgun sat between them, and as I went to pick it up, I saw bloody handprints on their clothes. It was a pain I had never felt before - more of an anger than anguish, and in that moment, I knew that pain was too much. Before I knew it, I found myself stepping towards the killer, with both pistols aimed at him. He pleaded with me, but it fell upon deaf ears - I didn't want to hear anything any more. Shot after shot, I fired into his torso. He dropped down against the wall, his blood-soaked hands at his side, as I continued to fire. When the ammo ran out, I dropped the pistols and continued with my fists, punching him until not a sound came out of his body. Exhausted by my rage, I sat myself against the wall, staring at the bloody scene surrounding me.
In a few minutes, everything that I held dear had been taken from me. There was nothing left, and I knew I would not be able to sleep last night. This morning I gave them a proper burial - all of them; last night, I became something less than human, like all of us have, and the least I can do is give them proper rites. After I laid my baby girl to rest, hand in hand with Katija, I came inside, and wrote this memoir of my war. I leave it to those who might come here when this is all over. Maybe you might learn from our mistakes. Just do not mourn for us.
We are together again now.
The evacuations happened a few weeks after the first shots rang out, when the army felt the situation had grown out of control. Hundred of thousands of people fled the city. After the last trucks passed through the barricades, they locked down all routes in and out of the city. Those who could not reach the evacuation sites before sundown were left to fend for themselves, like us. We barricaded ourselves inside our home, as hundreds of resistance fighters passed us, looting open buildings and taking anything of value they could find. It was a miracle that they did not force their way into our home...
The following day, the phone and power lines were cut. There were no signals for mobile networks, or satellite TV. The only things that continued to broadcast, were military warnings, and rebel controlled radio stations, broadcasting propaganda and old Soviet music. We had an old generator in the basement, which we managed to get running with some siphoned gasoline from our car, which wasn't going to be going anywhere in this city. It provided light. It provided hope... and that is what we needed most. We did our best to conserve fuel for the generator - fortunately we had remembered to fuel the car before war broke out.
Messages continued to come over the radio for the following days - stories of hotspots and resistance activity - they were always positive, trying to convince people that they were winning. I knew better. There was no victory - if the situation was dire enough, the army would level the city, rather than leave it in the hands of terrorists. We heard stories of snipers targeting civilians in the daylight hours; there was no known reason for this - mistaken identity, perhaps, or just target practice? It soon became clear, as we heard more stories of soldiers gunning down unarmed civilians in broad daylight.
After a week, I realized that we were running low on fuel. Occasionally we heard broadcasts of other civilians who had been looting and scavenging, offering trades of basic supplies - food, medicines, gas... it seemed pretty clear that we needed to trade to survive. I packed a rucksack full of tinned foods and some bottled water, and under the cover of darkness, made my way to the nearest 'trader' in the district, leaving my wife, Katija, to watch over our daughter, Elsie.
The night was relatively calm, but dark. It was the first time I had left our street in a week, and I could hardly recognize the place any more. Some buildings were burning down, some were collapsed in parts; very few buildings were intact, either ravaged by shells and fire, or torn apart by looters. After half an hour of trudging through the dark, I eventually arrived at the 'trader's' home - a 4 storey apartment block in what used to be a working class neighbourhood.
I remember the man seemed like a slimy little bastard - now I think of it, he probably stole everything in his catalog - but I didn't pay it much mind: I needed this fuel. He asked me what I had come to trade for, and I replied that I needed gasoline. He inspected the contents of my rucksack, grunted, and headed into another room, leaving the rucksack on the table. Moments later, he returned, with 2 large containers of what I assumed was gas. He placed the cans on the floor, and told me that this was all he could give me for what I had brought him. I, on the other hand, couldn't believe my luck. I thanked him, and returned home as fast as I could, carrying what felt like a ton in dead weight.
Finally I made it back home, after having to stop twice to rest my arms. Katija was waiting for me eagerly, and I had barely got inside, before she threw herself into my arms, having thought she might never see me again... After a few minutes that I wish could have lasted for a lifetime, I went to fill up the generator, first switching it off to prevent an accident. After pouring some of the gas into the nozzle, I tried to fire it back up, but it just kept clicking and mis-firing. I looked at the can, drew closer and took a sniff - it wasn't petrol. Hell, it wasn't even volatile. I'd been scammed, and now, we had no power. I ran back upstairs to find Katija...
...and found myself with a 9mm pistol pressed in my face. Three men were now standing in our house, one with a pistol trained on me, another holding Katija from behind with a pistol to her neck - the door had been kicked in. They had come to collect the gasoline that I had traded for earlier. I told them that there was no gas, but they didn't believe me, and the unarmed thug told his friend to take 'the whore' upstairs. I could feel my blood boiling, but I needed to stay calm. The unarmed one walked over to me slowly, and hooked me on the cheek, then followed up with one on the other side. He demanded again that I tell him where the gas was hidden. Through the horrible pain and taste of blood in my mouth, I noticed that the man holding the pistol on me was only using one hand on the gun, and I thought to myself that I might be able to disarm him if I had a distraction.
As if on cue, two gunshots rang out from upstairs - one at first, then a delay, then a second shot. My mind should have read those sounds differently - I don't think I wanted to know what they meant - but my body acted without thought. As the thug who had punched me turned to go upstairs, and the man with the pistol gazed upwards to the ceiling, my right hand swung up to grab the pistol, my left hand swung for his wrist. In a forced move, I wrenched the gun upwards away from my face, and out of his grip, after he fired a shot into the ceiling.
With the gun now in my hands, I turned it on the man I disarmed, and without thinking, fired 2 shots into his chest. He slumped to the floor, coughing and spluttering, then fell silent, but the gun was now already trained on the other man, who had organized this home invasion - he seemed at a loss, unable to act or speak. I pulled the trigger, and he stumbled back, clutching his stomach. I pulled the trigger again, and he fell backwards against the stairwell, his head smacking the stairs as he slid, groaning. Stepping towards him, I placed the gun barrel against his forehead, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger once more, before running up the stairs to find Katija and Elsie. Pistol aimed at the bedroom door, I kicked it open.
It was dim in the room, but I could see 3 figures: two lying sprawled, and one on their knees, weeping. There was a male voice, repeating over and over "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." My heart was racing as I entered the room, and the man on his knees scrambled towards the barricaded windows. In the dim moonlight that peeked through holes in the barricade, I pieced together the scene.
My wife and daughter lay motionless, side by side on the floor, in a pool of blood. A handgun sat between them, and as I went to pick it up, I saw bloody handprints on their clothes. It was a pain I had never felt before - more of an anger than anguish, and in that moment, I knew that pain was too much. Before I knew it, I found myself stepping towards the killer, with both pistols aimed at him. He pleaded with me, but it fell upon deaf ears - I didn't want to hear anything any more. Shot after shot, I fired into his torso. He dropped down against the wall, his blood-soaked hands at his side, as I continued to fire. When the ammo ran out, I dropped the pistols and continued with my fists, punching him until not a sound came out of his body. Exhausted by my rage, I sat myself against the wall, staring at the bloody scene surrounding me.
In a few minutes, everything that I held dear had been taken from me. There was nothing left, and I knew I would not be able to sleep last night. This morning I gave them a proper burial - all of them; last night, I became something less than human, like all of us have, and the least I can do is give them proper rites. After I laid my baby girl to rest, hand in hand with Katija, I came inside, and wrote this memoir of my war. I leave it to those who might come here when this is all over. Maybe you might learn from our mistakes. Just do not mourn for us.
We are together again now.
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