Day 1 Has Begun!
Votecount:| Jim Groovester | - 0 - | |
| Tiruin | - 0 - | |
| Toaster | - 0 - | |
| Dariush | - 0 - | |
| IronyOwl | - 0 - | |
| TolyK | - 0 - | |
| Powder Miner | - 0 - | |
| Hapah | - 0 - | |
| Shakerag | - 0 - | |
| blackmagechill | - 0 - | |
| Deathsword | - 0 - | |
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| Not Voting | - 11 - | <cut for size> |
| No Lynch | - 0 - | |
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| Extend | - 0 - | |
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The sun’s first glittering rays begin to break in the horizon, chasing the retreating night. Under the canopy of this ancient forest, however, a secret garden yet remains, sheltered under ponderous branches and delicate leaves. Feathery cyan mosses and curious vines caress the gnarled roots, idling in the sleepy darkness by the feet of these wrinkled giants, worn and weathered and old as the earth. The dawn light, a pale pigeon grey and still sleepy yet, peeks through the leaves to bathe the soft soil in cool shades of blues and greens. A wren, waking as the morning’s delight makes its approach, leaps into flight, floating gently in a sunbeam. She sings, with utter joy, to the trees and to the air, trembling the leaves and morning dew; the shade sings with her, and the leaves’ whispers turn to kissing. Perching upon a slender tree, her eyes, sparkling black gems, afire with curiosity, gaze upon the green meadows.
A deafening crack of gunfire crashes through the air – she escapes in an instant. Shouts in the camp in the clearing. The Kommandant paces along the rows of tents, kicking up mud as he goes. Towering above the sea of sodden ashen canvas and crude poles, he roars at the top of his lungs, words quaking the ground and echoing off the tree-trunks in the forest.
“Get up, get up,
get up, you lazy imbeciles!”
The soldiers all rush out of their beds, throwing on their uniforms, running hurriedly out from the tents, forming neat rows and standing at attention; the senior officers march along each row, inspecting form, as the Kommandant continues shouting.
“We have reason to suspect that enemy spies have infiltrated our camp. Due to the critical nature of this mission, we must deal with them immediately before we go any further with the investigation.”
Whisperings amongst the soldiers. “Who could it be?” “How did they get in?”
“Silence!” The noise is cut short by a shrill scream – the rows stand stiffly at attention again.
“Officers,” he glances around, looking at the faces of each of his troops. “I shall make this very simple.”
Stepping toward a random soldier in the line, the Kommandant grabs him by the throat, dragging him up before the rows of tents and soldiers and throwing him onto the muddy ground beside him – he reaches inside his trench coat and pulls out a suppressed revolver and cocks the hammer and aims it at the soldier’s head in one smooth movement. “You were on watch last night. By letting hostiles into this camp, you have failed us. Tell me – where are the spies?”
“S- sor-”
A heavy, horrible thump and a scream as a kick is placed firmly between his legs. “Where are they?” he shrieks, spitting at the soldier.
“Please, I- I don’t kn-“
Roaring, he kicks him thrice again with his steel toed boots. Twice in the face; dark blood sprays with each impact onto the senior officers standing expressionless at each side. Running in thin streams from the soldier’s face and mouth as he struggles to rise to a sitting position, he coughs out a mist of rust onto the Kommandant’s black leather boot and into the wet mud – and once again in the stomach, with a loud cracking of ribs and a spurt as he vomits more blood. The soldier crumples to the ground.
“I said, where are the spies?” The Kommandant turns to face the unmoving rows. “I shall give you all ten seconds to tell me where the spies are, or this idiot dies.” He glares at them, challenging them to step forward. He aims his revolver.
“Ten.”
“Nine.”
“Eight.” No movement.
“Seven.”
“Six.”
“Five.” The whispering of leaves.
“Four.”
“Three.”
“Two.” A whimper from the ground.
“One.”
A moment of silence. “No?”
Frowning, the Kommandant pulls the trigger with a blast, streaking the ground red. The soldier’s head lies in pieces on the ground, small shards of sullied ivory and locks of hair scattered about the stained ground. His scalp has torn back to reveal the massive wound, pulsing weakly, spilling out. Without even a glance, he walks down the rows again before stopping up close in front of two soldiers and staring them in the eye. Wordlessly, he shoots them both in the forehead – the bodies fall backward against the tent wall, smearing the canvas as they slump down to the grass.
“Comrades, you have all disappointed me. The Führer will be upset to learn that his favourite unit has suffered such a lapse in strength and willpower. Let this be an example of what happens when you neglect your given duties, and never do so again. The 0
th Division of the SS must live up to its honour.” He walks back to the front of the rows. “We will proceed thusly; you will all select someone from your ranks – the most suspicious one – each day. That person will be shot. If you all turn out to be even more weak-willed than this and cannot select a person to shoot, I will shoot someone. If you bicker amongst yourselves,
I will shoot someone. If you hesitate, I will shoot someone. This process will repeat until we eliminate all four spies from this camp, or until all of you imbeciles have been shot.”
A pause.
“Do you all understand?” He shouts.
“
Jawohl!”
“We will begin today. Gather here and begin the discussion.”
The Day will end Monday, 8PM GMT.
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Topic: M E I N K A M P F : A Tale of Vainglourious Basterds - [GAME OVER: 5/11] (Read 69578 times)