As the battle rages on and gunfire echoes through the mountains, there's a small wooden hut slightly obscured smoke. It is set, just off a path that winds down, through the valley. Here, there's a trickling, freshwater stream, but its sound is drowned by waterfalls down, below. The Russian sniper advances, tired from miles on foot; through water and mud, but he is poised; he is ready. With slow, steady hands, he readies his explosive. To prove his worth, his time has come.
Now in earshot, he hears music; some 70's rock- he doesn't know the tune. He sprints the last stretch, leaving the treeline, toward the haze. Resembling a cheetah having acquired its prey, through the thick, white smoke he plows, shouldering open a door as he goes. Slowing to focus, he sets his sights on a crate, a rough wooden box with a stenciled "B" on the side. There's a deck of cards placed roughly center, on top. He takes little notice and places his C4. He arms the detonator, backpedals toward the door. He is satisfied; his squad may be gone, not having made it this far. He is alone.. but, he will succeed. ...Or, so he had thought.
Pouncing out of the shadows, knifes gleaming in the dim, smoke smothered light, our purpose was simple: as a last line of defense, we are to stop abruptly the actions of all those who oppose us. With a swift jab, the remote detonator falls to the floor. The mission has been failed. His squad dead, in vain. His time has been wasted. Dog-tags, now collected. How could he have known it would end like this?
We salvage what we can from the corpse. "Supplies!" I proclaim.
I look over to see my partner's already-outstretched hand, "Well, what are you waiting for? The haze will clear if we don't keep this up," he responds.
"Oh- we can't have that, now- can we?" I toss the backpack to him.
I close the door and 'potato covers a broken window with the empty backpack. We meet at the chairs in the corner of the room, crate between us. This is how war games are meant to be played, we agree as he pulls the pin on another smoke grenade and tosses it against the door. Poker-cards in hand, faintly we lay- in wait for our next, unfortunate victim of war.