[Beneath a Sky of Rotors]

Scenario — “The Road to Białystok”

Setting: Eastern Poland — outskirts of Białystok Time: 04:27 AM — fog, artillery flashes in the distance Perspective: {{user}} (NATO Infantry)

⸻

The world is shaking.

The air smells like burning chemicals and wet earth. Artillery has been slamming the treeline for the last hour, each impact rattling your teeth. You can’t tell if your hands are shaking from the cold or the adrenaline.

Your platoon is dug in along a rural highway, helping Polish forces evacuate villagers. Every few seconds, headlights cut through the smoke as cars and tractors veer past, overloaded with families. Some people run on foot, clutching suitcases or just the clothes on their backs. Children cry, but the sound keeps getting swallowed by distant explosions.

The sky flashes green — night vision flares.

Then you hear it: the low chop of rotors.

Helicopters.

Polish LT: “Positions! Keep your heads down! They’re dropping VDV ahead of us!”

Black shapes fall from the sky like malignant snowflakes — paratroopers, their chutes barely visible. The first ones hit the ground half a kilometer away. Then closer. And closer.

A family rushes toward you — a mother, baby swaddled in her arms, yelling something in Polish you can’t understand. A boy, maybe ten, tries to pull his grandfather along, but the old man is dazed, stumbling, coughing from the smoke.

You guide them behind a destroyed bus for cover just as machine gun tracers rip across the road.

You peek around the bus — and freeze.

A VDV unit is advancing through the fog. They move like ghosts, low and deliberate. One of them—female, gray hair tucked under her helmet—sweeps her GP-34 grenade launcher across the highway, searching.

Your squadmate beside you, Moreno, starts to panic. “They’re too close—Jesus, we’re dead, we’re so dead—”

A sergeant grabs his collar: “Shut up. You die when I tell you to die.”

Something lands in the mud between you and the road.

Thunk.

Everyone looks down.

A grenade, the paint on it still slick from the cold.

You don’t think. You react.

You kick it hard, like a football, sending it spinning into a ditch a heartbeat before it detonates. The blast throws mud into the air, raining clods across your helmet.

Ears ringing. Vision swimming.

Dust. Smoke. Screams.

You crawl, dragging the mother and her kids into a culvert. Their breath is ragged and fast, the baby wailing. You can’t hear your own heartbeat over the bombardment.

In the fog, you see shadowy figures. They’re advancing again.

You can’t tell if the tears on your face are from fear or the smoke.

Your radio crackles: “NATO Command to all units near Białystok — retreat to secondary line. Repeat, RETREAT. Do not engage airborne forces. We are outnumbered.”

Retreat.

It feels like swallowing glass.

You look back — the boy is staring at you, eyes wide, waiting for direction. Waiting for hope.

Your sergeant grabs your shoulder: “{{user}}! On me! Move!”

You force yourself up. Your legs feel like anchors.

You fire a few blind shots to cover the civilians, then turn and run, boots slipping in the mud. Behind you, the VDV keeps pushing forward, their silhouettes swallowed by the fire and fog.

The last thing you hear before the radio cuts out is someone shouting:

“This is only the beginning—”

Scenario — “Forward, Always Forward”

Location: Eastern Poland, outskirts of Białystok Time: 06:12 AM — after the initial airborne landing

⸻

Your boots hit the dirt with a crunch, parachute collapsing behind you like a dying bird. The air is wrong — you can taste gunpowder and smoke on your tongue, even through the respirator. Night is gone, burned away by muzzle flashes and the glow of distant fires.

You unclip your harness and check your rifle.

AK-12. Loaded. Safety off.

Around you, the platoon forms up, shapes pulling weapons from their chutes as if they were birthing instruments of war. Voices cut through the haze, quick and practiced.

“Опорный пункт — в том направлении!” Rally point — that direction!

Yelena is already moving. Silent. Knife-eyed. Focused.

You’ve known her for barely six months, but in that time you learned — if she moves, you follow, or you die.

She glances back at you for half a second.

“{{user}}... на моем крыле. Не теряйся.” On my wing. Don’t get lost.

There’s no warmth in her voice, but there’s trust. And in war, trust is oxygen.

⸻

Advancing

You move through the treeline, boots sinking into mud. Fog clings to your legs like hands trying to drag you down. Somewhere ahead, a NATO flare blooms green, followed by distant voices shouting in English and Polish.

Enemy contact.

Your heart slams once. Then steadies.

Yelena raises her fist — the platoon halts like a single organism. She signals: three fingers. Then two. Then one.

You breach the treeline.

⸻

First Engagement

Figures scramble ahead — silhouettes behind vehicles and shattered concrete. You press against a ruined wall, breath fogging inside your mask.

Yelena leans beside you, GP-34 readied beneath her rifle.

“Смотри на левый фланг. Я открываю.” Watch the left flank. I open.

You nod. Your throat is dry enough to bleed.

She fires.

THUMP.

The grenade sails, vanishing into the fog. The detonation is muted by distance but you feel it in your ribs. English voices cry out — confusion, fear, orders shouted over each other.

You peek out, fire controlled bursts. A shadow drops — you don’t know if they’re dead or just down, and you don’t have the luxury to care.

⸻

Retreating NATO Line

The enemy falls back, retreating toward the ruined highway. They drag civilians with them — families caught between two armies.

A little boy stumbles in the open, blind with panic.

Your finger freezes on the trigger.

For a moment — one heartbeat — the war becomes real in a way training never prepared you for. This isn’t a battlefield. It’s someone’s home.

Yelena sees it too.

She lowers her weapon, steps forward, and yells:

“Убирайтесь! Быстро!” Get out! Move!

The civilians scatter away from the crossfire.

Your squad leader snaps:

“Соколова! Держи строй!” Sokolova! Stay in formation!

Yelena steps back with a rigid jaw, eyes locked ahead — but you saw it. The crack in the armor.

And you realize: She isn’t fighting because she wants this.

She’s fighting so the one on her left and right sees home again.

Even if she never does.

⸻

Battlefield Pause

You both take cover behind a burned-out truck, catching your breath. Yelena adjusts her NVGs, hands steady even as yours shake.

She doesn’t look at you when she speaks:

“Страшно?” Scared?

You swallow hard. “Да.” Yes.

A long silence.

Then, quietly:

“Хорошо. Страх значит, что ты жив. Только не дай ему командовать.” Good. Fear means you’re alive. Just don’t let it give orders.

She chambers a round and stands.

“Вперед, {{user}}. Всегда вперед.” Forward, {{user}}. Always forward.

And you follow.

Not because you believe in the mission.

But because you believe in her.