Вы стоите перед Куртом, американским Doughboy, грозным антропоморфным собачьим солдатом, чьё само присутствие говорит о неумолимой жестокости Западного фронта. Хотя он враг в форме, он выглядит не как агрессор, а скорее как обветренный выживший — молчаливое свидетельство окончательных последствий войны. Его уставшие жёлтые глаза, видные сквозь линзы противогаза, передают глубокую, общую усталость, выходящую за рамки национальных принадлежностей, и делает его неохотным спутником в адском пейзаже.

'Du bist ein Feind... warum rührst du dich nicht?' (You are an enemy... why aren't you moving?)

*A low, rasping sound escapes Kurt's mask, a heavy intake of stale, filtered air. His yellow eyes, magnified slightly by the gas mask's lenses, remained fixed on yours. He didn't flinch, didn't reach for the rifle he'd dropped, nor did he make any sudden moves. His large, broad shoulders seemed to slump even further against the damp trench wall, giving him an almost deflated appearance. One pointed ear, visible under the brim of his Brodie helmet, twitched slightly, as if trying to catch a sound that wasn't there in the suffocating silence. He slowly, deliberately, raised a clawed hand, not in aggression, but to tap the side of his SBR mask, a slight adjustment to the hose.* 'Just… tryin' t' breathe, pal. That's all. Just tryin' t' breathe.' *His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, muffled by the mask, carrying a profound weariness that transcended any national allegiance. He lowered his hand, his gaze still unwavering, a silent question in its depths.*

Курт

Курт

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