Night 2 Has Begun!
Votecount:| Jim Groovester | - 0 - | |
| Tiruin | - 0 - | |
| Toaster | - 1 - | Tiruin |
| Dariush | - 2 - | Urist Imiknorris, TolyK |
| IronyOwl | - 0 - | |
| TolyK | - 5 - | Toaster, Toaster, Hapah, Jim Groovester, Deathsword |
| Urist Imiknorris | - 1 - | IronyOwl |
| Hapah | - 0 - | |
| Shakerag | - 0 - | |
| Deathsword | - 0 - | |
| - |
| Not Voting | - 1 - | Shakerag
|
| No Lynch | - 0 - | |
| - |
| Extend | - 0 - | |
| Shorten | - 0 - | |
There was to be no escape.
The soldiers, which had been corralled into the central pit, had realised this. Their Kommandant was serious, and they would all die by his hand if they tried to escape. He paid no heed to the value of this Division - only that the spies needed to be eliminated, and eliminated quickly. The soldiers began serious discussion of who the spy could be, bolstered by the success they were met with the day before.
Now, however, dusk approaches. As the sun begins to die in the horizon, bleeding out across the sky in its crimson colours, diluted, turned grey by drizzling rain, so too does their hope begin to wane. The Kommandant, sheltered under a canvas sheet from the merciless torrents, crushes his last cigarette between his thumb and forefinger against the sodden wood of a storage crate.
He stands, thrusting his heavy boots into the mud.
The air becomes breathless in an instant. The world seems to freeze, time stopped in its tracks. Slowly, infinitely slowly, their heads turn to gaze upon him - and the Kommandant, fearless, fearsome, crashes ahead through curtains of suspended raindrops. Their words, half-spoken, lie still in their mouths - and their tongues, though they may move, make no sound. The Kommandant carries on with massive steps, muffled in the void.
He speaks; shrill tones that break the silence and the trance. “Who,” he begins, “have you chosen?”
The soldiers glance at each other. A few whispers, but they seem certain. One speaks up.
“Vester.” The cry rings true. The others nod in unison.
The Kommandant nods, as well. Moving into the crowd, he takes hold of the man by his collar with an enormous hand, lifting him up level to glare at him. With a few steps, he moves out of the dispersing crowd.
He throws him down to the ground, and almost playful, he kicks at him, with his mud-splattered boots to roll him about like a pig on the ground in the rain. He draws his pistol out of his jacket with a sure, familiar stroke - the silenced revolver of blackened steel. He places a boot firmly on the man’s chest - the sticky mud beneath the treads soaks into his jacket, and the iron, ominous weight of the black boot presses against his chest.
“I will give you one chance to reveal yourself. If you do, I may let you live.” The pistol dangles, almost casually, above his face.
“I am not a spy!” The man’s response is met immediately with a stomp on his chest, the boot bearing down on him like a hammer. Dissatisfied, he lifts his foot, and once more, leaning into it for strength, he pushes it down - this time, with a muffled crack. The man’s mouth, pursed hard, would still say nothing. The man’s eyes glared weakly at him from below.
The Kommandant slips his foot of the man’s chest. Raising it behind him, high, he throws the heavy weight into his side with a dull echo - a single heavy stroke from a massive drum, punctuated by a grunt, low and quiet, from the body lying on the ground. His voice, breathless, screaming a single word, pierces the thundering rain about them. “Well?”
“Fuck you!” The voice comes back with surprising strength. “Fuck you,” he shouts again, “I won’t betray them!”
The Kommandant kicks again, indiscriminately - when he hears a yelp of pain break through, he smiles, momentarily, through the scowl - roaring, “Is this what you want, then?” And again he kicks, as if to punctuate, “Do you want to die?” A kick, a crunch.
The process takes hours. When he finishes, placing his final kick, feverish, panting, frantic, the body had already been beaten beyond recognition and lay still, already cold. His gun he still clutched in his hand, unused. The sun had already set; the rain, stopped; the air had grown freezing, and it was dark. He exhaled, spent, gazing into the starless sky. Returning his revolver to his jacket, he rips open what remains of the body’s black uniform - now mostly brown and red from caked mud and blood - and searches it. Finding nothing, he digs through the trousers before prying off the boots from the pale corpse and shaking them - a small booklet drops onto the ground.
He picks it up and leafs through it - on it, emblazoned on the front, are the coat of arms of the United Kingdom. He raises it high into the air for all to see - the other soldiers, who were mostly sitting, eyes averted, now stand, gathering close.
“This man was a spy. Arthur Owens, his passport says. Good work.”
He pockets it and leaves the others with the body.
Vester Meine "TolyK" Schneider was lynched! He was a
Spy.
The Night will end Friday, 8PM GMT.
Author
Topic: M E I N K A M P F : A Tale of Vainglourious Basterds - [GAME OVER: 5/11] (Read 69637 times)