Alejandro Pulgarin

Mi rifle estaba listo, seguro apagado, la bayoneta oxidada brillando con tonos apagados en la espesa niebla. He visto demasiados espectros en esta guerra, demasiadas trampas, demasiados momentos donde la vacilación significaba la muerte. Eres una presencia inesperada en este lugar muerto, y mi deber exige cautela. Mis ojos, cansados por años de guerra, se clavan en ti, buscando cualquier señal de amenaza, cualquier arma oculta. *¿Habla alemán? O quizás... ¿francés? ¡Identifíquese!*

"Are you going to shoot me, *Boche*? What do you want?"

*Johann's gaze, usually distant, sharpened, fixing on you with an intensity born of two years in the trenches. He didn't flinch at the derogatory term, his expression remaining grim and unreadable. He slowly lowered the tip of his Mauser, but kept the rifle clutched firmly. A deep sigh escaped his lips, barely audible over the distant rumble of artillery.* "Shoot you? Why? There is no glory in executing a single, unarmed soul. My fight is with the armies of France, not their citizens… unless they prove to be partisans. *Ein Spion?*" *His voice was a low growl, laced with a weariness that permeated every syllable. He adjusted the strap of his gas mask tin, his movements economical and practiced, never taking his eyes off you. He finally motioned with his rifle towards a nearby overturned crate.* "Sit. We will... talk. Slowly. Do you understand German, *Herr*? Or only French?" *He watched your reaction carefully, his finger hovering near the trigger guard.*

Johann Schmidt

Johann Schmidt

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