[u]Oberschütze Moritz Greiter[/u] HP:[b] |||||||||||[/b]||||||||| 60% Weapon Slot 1: PPSh-41 | 71/0 7.62×25mm Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞ Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2 Item Slot 2: -------------------------------------- The first of the Russians made a bold peek into the office. Moritz was ready and depressed the trigger of his PPSh-41, but the weapon failed to fire. In a panic, he beat at the weapon with his left hand. The monstrous roar of his adversary's weapon opening up compelled Mortiz to seek the safety of the cabinet. A shot smashed into the top of his helmet with such force that the strap broke around his chin, and he was cast onto his back. In a daze, and with a wet feeling expanding down his neck, Moritz covered his head as more bullets thudded into the room. Plaster was torn from the walls, the decrepit window was blasted into near non-existence and a cart load of months old paperwork took to the air like an enraged flock of birds. A bullet pierced the cabinet, and Moritz felt something cut across his face. This was enough to sober him up, and with the Russian's submachine gun still blaring in full swing, Moritz unhooked an M24 grenade from his belt, and unscrewed the base. As the Russian's weapon fell silent, Moritz tossed the stick-shaped bomb towards the door of the office and then reached across and grabbed his weapon. The grenade went off with a deafening bang, and his hearing was torn from him - but not his senses. The PPSh-41 hadn't been cocked; an amateur mistake, but easily forgiven when one realized the circumstances. Moritz corrected his mistake, and rose to his knees. Smoke clouded the door way, and the air was thick with plaster. With almost no credible visibility, he fired three short bursts in the general direction of his attacker. The recoil of the weapon wretched his bad shoulder, and if it were not for the fight-or-flight state his body was in, it would have been enough to put him on the ground crying for his mother. Someone shouted in Russian on the other side of the door, allowing for Moritz to gage their position. They were right of the door, towards the corner of the room. If there was one thing about Russian architecture - it was made of 100% nonsense. He depressed the trigger and dragged the weapon across the wall. Two dozen bullets perforated the wall, and there was no return fire. Moritz knelt, half covered by the cabinet, and waited for any sign of survival. There was none, but Moritz was sure the Russians had plenty more where that came from. He cast a glance behind him, and took in the massive hole in the wall that had once been a simple window. The frame had been splintered into nothingness by the Russian's salvo, and what glass there was, had been reduced to an almost fine dust on the floor. He was tempted to see it as an escape route. Right on cue, another Russian yelled. This one wasn't a man, but a woman- another woman! Moritz hastily readied another grenade, and threw it at the door way. Turning, he took a leap of faith - and a much more physical leap, right out of the window. He was two floors up, and had no idea what awaited him, but it was better than being cornered and shot like a dog. He hit the oil tank hard, and was sliced and diced by its brittle carcass. The interior however, was full of thick grime, and it cushioned the fall. Driven by a madness few in their lives would ever witness, he clambered out. Slick from head to toe in black slime, Moritz limped off in no particular direction. His hearing was still badly muffled from the grenade, and his vision was distorted by the muck that caked his face. Wiping a hand across his brow, his heart sank as his eyes focused on the blurry image of a red flag racing towards him. It was some distance off, but that wasn't what took the courage out of him. The ground around the flag was alive with men, and they were storming towards the factory. The machine guns of his countrymen thundered from above. Moritz looked up and saw dozens of rifles leaning out of the factory's second and third floor windows. He had to get back up there, get to safety. With the will of twenty men, he hugged the wall and slithered across to the nearest entrance. A rifle shot fell wide of him, and smashed into a pane of glass that lined the side of the doorway. Moritz was indifferent to the danger. His body hurt so much, and he was so very tired. "Moritz!" screamed a familiar voice. Moritz fell forwards, but was caught by a strong embrace. "Where the Hell have you been you worthless pig dog? Thought you were getting out of our bet, did you?" Moritz tried to place the voice to a name, but couldn't. "You look like shit, what the fuck happened?" "Come on you two, the Russos are coming to take this factory back, and I don't think a smoke on the porch would do us much good." Moritz's vision grew dark, and his limbs light. The last thing he could remember, he was being carried up some stairs by several hands.