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This game uses the D20 Modern system, and any of it's supplement, by Wizards of the Coast, set in a reality from my creation (from several inspirations).








In the aftermath of the second Great War, the world had rid itself of a great evil. With Hitler's Nazis gone, the dispute between the capitalist West and the Soviet Union began to grow. Distrust and suspicions became roots of these conflicts, backed by the powerful threats of the two superpowers' armed forces and nuclear weaponries.


How the war resulted in such carnage is, at best, mysterious and unpredictable. The beginning never involved much violence directly between the two nations, with only espionage attempts, and conflicts set in other involved nations (such as Vietnam, or Afghanistan). Whatever the cause that resulted in the two nations using nuclear bombs against each other is, ironically, the same reason mankind would start small fights or world wars: one side stepping on another side’s foot, followed by the fisticuff. Yet, the sudden and fatal US nuclear weapons failure had never truly been explained (nor had there been the chance to come up with an explanation), and how the Soviet Union could have gain such a foothold against the West is quite a debatable topic, if one had an opportunity to debate in such a dire time.


The world shifted in a heartbeat, cities devastated (if not obliterated) by the nuclear spark that wiped countless lives off of the face of the earth. Chicago, Miami, Hong Kong, Havana, and Leningrad were some of those cities that greatly suffered from these strikes, their names added to the list that already contained two major Japanese cities. Eventually, a treaty between NATO and the Warsaw states ended the nuclear war before mankind was pushed to the brink of nuclear fallout, but the signing of it was simultaneous to the mutual declaration of war from both sides.


Within months, Warsaw Pact forces marched across East Germany to Berlin, and breached the Wall...



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November 22, 1992. 0600 Hours.


The truck halted to a stop as the Soviets allowed their drivers a moment to relax and for the troopers to get a stretch after such a long ride. There were two trucks, one in the front, and the open-topped troop carrier behind it, which carried the eight Soviet riflemen. All of you are sitting in the back of the front truck, guarded by two more Soviet soldiers. Occasionaly, you heard the Commisar in the front passenger seat shout orders in Russian.


It has been a week since you were arrested for political crimes you might, or might not have commited. Now, the "people's union" has ordered you with a sentence, and it is only another hour until you reach the "courthouse". The chilling winter cold attacked your bones, as you sit in the truck.


The two guard in your truck disembarked immediatlu for a smoke break, their AKMS rifles slung across their backs. They wore the soviet winter theater uniform, and had the red star emblem on their helmets.


"Nice time to take a ride, eh Yevnig?" one of them said with a chuckle.


"Da, misha. Guarding these Amerikansies is not exactly my idea of fun. Well, at least we get fresh ai-..." Yevnig said, but stopped all of a sudden and tossed his cigarette hurriedly onto the snow-blanketed ground.


The two of them saluted stiffly as the commisar walked out and inspected the men and prisoner. He an wore a thick warm coat, which was the traditional Soviet officer's winter coat. The commisar carried many medals, and wore a visored cap.


"As you were, comrades. So? How is the trip, Americans?" the commisar said to all of you, as he stared into the truck with a grin. His speech was thick with a Russian accent, and was also filled with a malevolent joking tone.

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The tall lanky fellow with his short nappy sandy blond hair speaks up, he had introduced himself as Brad Simmons earlier in the week. He talked a lot so it was hard to remember everything he said, but he talked about working in a hospital, as a nurse or student or somesuch. He was arrested for contact with an illegal organization and possesion of an illegal substance and something else, but who can remember, the kid yammered.


Looking out to the officer, brad speaks, "As you can imagine, your generalniss, it was lacking in accommodations and the concierge refused to arrange tickets to the opera for us. It was most upsetting. But the cold winds blowing through the canvass of this truck and the poor suspension of the large 5 ton can really wear you down. It being flu season you should be more aware of the effects this can have on your guests. You are lucky I am not writing a review for Fodor."

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Sitting across from the loudmouth snob was a man in his late 20's. He was wearing a semi warm coat, just warm enough to keep him from freezing but not to be comfortable.

He just gazes at the loudmouth and laughs, "Wow you sure now how to make friends. You should take lessons from me. See my buddy over there who just wasted the cigarette. Me and him are good friends. I'm even loaning him my lighter and cigarettes for safe keeping."

The man laughs again to himself and looks at the general. He shouts, "Hey general type person. How about having your boy give me back my cigs and lighter. Oh and would you fancy a game of cards."

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The Commisar scoffed at your remarks, but a grin curled his pale lips as he heard Daniel.


"Did he, now?" he said, then turned to the soldier who was smoking.


He extended his hand, and the Soviet soldier nervously reached into his coat, and pulled out the cigs and the lighter, handing them over to the Commisar. How he scared his men could have been his cold stare, or his "habit" of keeping his right hand on the butt of his holstered, Russian PSM pistol.


The Russian officer looked at the lighter, smiled, spat on it, and wiped an inexistant smudge. For the sake of insult...


He grinned, and walked away towards the other truck.


"Enjoy your next, and last, hour, capitalists..." he called out, as he walked away to inspect the firing squad.


The smoking soldier (Yevnig, was it?), glared at Daniel.

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"Come now friend don't look at me like that. You stole what was mine and I set in motion the means to have it stolen from you. I've only got an hour to live so what are you going to do kill me? I don't think the general would like that very much." The man turns with a grin on his face and looks at his fellow prisoner. He pulls out a pack of playing cards and begins to clumsily shuffle it. "How about a couple of hands of poker before we die friend?"

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A very skinny gwaky looking kid maybe of 16 years of age wearing an plain t-shirt and a pair of hole riddled jeans and a pair of smallish wire rimmed glasses that, gauging from the size of his eyes through the oversized lenses, he needed badly.

His face was almost blue from the cold darkening the blemishes caused by his nasty case of acne.

His nasally sounding voice spoke softly and in as low a tone as he could possibly could muster.

"Don't you know? Your stuffs belongs to these commy bastards now. It's property of the state."


The trembling of his body overtook him and quieted his voice again. He had said nearly nothing the entire week they had been together. But when he did it was always something sarcastic and nihilistic in nature.

"I would *teeth chatter hard for a minute* ...love to give him a light with a tow missle straight up his butt."


He began to rub his arms briskly and shake his head in attempts to fight of the hypothermia that was creeping in on him, for they raided his home and didn't even allow him the decency of a coat.

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"What a waste." Pipes up the man from the darkest part of the truck's breezy rear. "I'd settle for shoving a guage up his butt meself."


Out of the darkness, Gerald Murphy leans forward into what passes for light at present. In the gloom, the former NYPD officer's slim but well toned figure is distorted into a seemingly much larger form, a trick of the light and his height.


"Look on the bright side fellas, least they ain't making us walk there." The former cop's grin is wide and doesn't look quite as forced as it is. "This bone-jarring ride may be, well bone jarring, but least we's ridin'."

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"Did he just call us capitalists? I mean I am not sure whether I should say thank you or be insulted. I always heard these guys were cold and ruthless and the best he can come up with is capitalist, whatever. Anybody know what these courts are like? I am guessing it is not a jury trial with fair representation, but is it a militarty tribunal or just that wacko who walked away with the$.50 Bic lighter and thought he was king of the hill?"


Brad starts rambling into the same old story again. "I did not really do anything, I shouldn't be here. I was just getting medical supplies for an old couple. He had diabetes and could not get any insulin or test kits. The Reds woudln't give me any, so I had to get them from someone else. Tell me, how is that a crime against the state? My mom does not even know I have been taken. I have written her, but don't know if she has gotton my letters. She is West of the line." Brad always stops his talking after saying West of the line. He looks down at his feet and is just quiet for a few minutes.

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The large man with the cobalt eyes and dark hair sits in the darkness of the truck blowing into hands and wringing them, trying vainly to warm them. He's said practically nothing the last week but what little he did say was sprinkled with fairly colorful and obscene British epithets.


He shrugged inside his black, wool "commando" style sweater trying vainly to chase off the chill. Leaning forward he calls out, "Oy, Commissar! It seems only fair that I should get my lighter and cigarette case back too don't it?"

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"Hey kid, this "court" that we are heading to could be more accurately described as a firing squad, we've already been found guilty and they going to "try" us and then carry out the sentence."

The voice came from the person sitting next to the former cop. dressed in fatigues and looking like he was dragged by the truck instead of riding in it, Jake Mitchell continues to say in a low voice


" The only way for us to survive is to try and to escape from these bastards, anybody got any ideas?"

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Not hearing your quiet conversation, and with the Commisar walking away, Yevnig spat Russian insults at Daniel, but was hushed by his other Russian comrade.


"But Vasily, I-..."


"Enough, Vanya (friend)." Vasily said calmly. You all notice that his helmet and shoulder pad emblems were a bit more intricate then his fellow troopers, probably a seargant or corporal.


The Russian soldier looked at all of you with a weary smile. He produced his own pack of cigarettes, the coarse Russian ones, from his satchel, and gave one to Yevnig to calm him down. Then, he turned to you, and passed his cigarettes to all of you, along with his little cardboard box of match.


"Let them have their last hour in peace, yes?" he said with a smile, as he puffed on his own cig, watching for the politruk (Commissar). It might have seemed strange to some of you how an "Ivan" like him can be so nice (at least, compared to the others), but they were, after all, only soldiers and conscripts.




Gerald and Nicholas, your eyes spotted something when you look out of the truck's back entrance, somewhere on the left side of the truck. It was an old and ruined little garage, probably an abandoned lube shop, as you spotted a few trashed and rusty cars parked in front of it, the snow covering most of them.


For a mere second, you both though you spotted the shape of a man standing up really quick from behind one of the cars, then disappearing back under the shape of the ruined sedan.


It didn't seem like the Soviet troopers spotted it, as they continued smoking, and talking in Russian. It might, or might not have been, just your imagination...

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Daniel accepted the cigarette and the light. He puffed away without a care in the world. He began to shuffle the deck and perform card tricks. In a loud voice he said, "Hello there my Russian friend. I must thank you I was craving one real bad. How about we play a game of poker for those cigarrettes and the matches eh? You've already taken everything I own so why not let me win a few possessions for myself. Matter of fact let all the boys join it. It will be fun."

Daniel started flipping cards in the air and catching them in the deck without looking, suddenly one flew over at the british man. "Hey there gov'ner," Daniel said in a perfect British accent, "How about returning that ace of spades to me? Can't play cards without it."

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"American games..." the soldier named Yevnig muttered, as he puffed away on his bitter cigarette.


Vasily, on the other hand, shrugged.


"I would play your game, Americansie if only I knew how. Care to show me?" he asked, irony in his accented-voice.


He leaned against the side of the truck, and pulled out a metal flask from his satchel pouch. The Russian took a swig, grimaced a bit at the strong alcohol, then continued staring around at the snowy urban landscape.




With Daniel sitting nearer now to the back entrance of the truck, all three of you were able to spot something again. A man, wearing winter camo and clutching what seems to be a rifle, dashed from one ruined car to the next, ducking behind it.


The Russians did not seem to have spotted that one, but, whoever he was, he was awfully close...

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