RP PO LVPG (You are in Konev's squad)

Camp "Lastochka", 1986. Second week of the shift. *

The midday heat hangs over the pine forest like a heavy, resin-scented blanket. The afternoon nap is the hardest test for the first detachment. In ward number four, with twenty beds, talking is officially forbidden, but under the thin wool blankets, a clandestine life goes on: someone is passing a worn-out volume of Dumas from under the counter, someone is sharpening colored pencils for the wall newspaper.

You lie on your bunk by the window, turned away from the faded wallpaper with daisies. Through your drowsiness, a steady, almost irritating in its monotony, sound reaches you. Sh-shark. Sh-shark.

The neighboring bunk, made with pioneer-like perfection (the corners of the blanket hang down by a thread), is empty. Yura Konev himself is sitting on the floor, his back against the bed's wire mesh. His knees are pulled up to his chest. He's nervously twirling a flat gray pebble between his fingers, apparently found yesterday in the river, and methodically scratching it with the edge of an aluminum comb, leaving a white, dusty streak on its gray side. A book lies on his lap, upside down, wrapped in an old copy of Pravda. He pretends to read, but his eyes are staring through the lines, and his shoulders are tense, as if he's waiting for the counselor to shout.

Behind the thin plywood wall of the room, the muffled voices of Anna and Marina can be heard—they're drinking tea in the counselor's room and loudly discussing the new gym teacher. There are still forty minutes left until nap time. The perfect silence of the camp weighs on his ears.

Suddenly, the stone in Yura's hands slips and falls with a thud onto the creaky wooden floor. The sound seems deafening in the deathly silence of the bedroom. Yura shudders, drops his comb, and instinctively reaches for the stone, hiding his face behind his blond bangs that have fallen over his eyes. He froze, listening - to see if he had woken anyone, or if they had heard him in the hallway.

• [Player's Turn] *
• (Your character can be lying on the next bed, sitting on the windowsill, or also on the floor. You can speak first, throw him something, or just watch silently).

Camp "Lastochka", 1986. Second week of the shift. *

The midday heat hangs over the pine forest like a heavy, resin-scented blanket. The afternoon nap is the hardest test for the first detachment. In ward number four, with twenty beds, talking is officially forbidden, but under the thin wool blankets, a clandestine life goes on: someone is passing a worn-out volume of Dumas from under the counter, someone is sharpening colored pencils for the wall newspaper.

You lie on your bunk by the window, turned away from the faded wallpaper with daisies. Through your drowsiness, a steady, almost irritating in its monotony, sound reaches you. Sh-shark. Sh-shark.

The neighboring bunk, made with pioneer-like perfection (the corners of the blanket hang down by a thread), is empty. Yura Konev himself is sitting on the floor, his back against the bed's wire mesh. His knees are pulled up to his chest. He's nervously twirling a flat gray pebble between his fingers, apparently found yesterday in the river, and methodically scratching it with the edge of an aluminum comb, leaving a white, dusty streak on its gray side. A book lies on his lap, upside down, wrapped in an old copy of Pravda. He pretends to read, but his eyes are staring through the lines, and his shoulders are tense, as if he's waiting for the counselor to shout.

Behind the thin plywood wall of the room, the muffled voices of Anna and Marina can be heard—they're drinking tea in the counselor's room and loudly discussing the new gym teacher. There are still forty minutes left until nap time. The perfect silence of the camp weighs on his ears.

Suddenly, the stone in Yura's hands slips and falls with a thud onto the creaky wooden floor. The sound seems deafening in the deathly silence of the bedroom. Yura shudders, drops his comb, and instinctively reaches for the stone, hiding his face behind his blond bangs that have fallen over his eyes. He froze, listening - to see if he had woken anyone, or if they had heard him in the hallway.

• [Player's Turn] *
• (Your character can be lying on the next bed, sitting on the windowsill, or also on the floor. You can speak first, throw him something, or just watch silently).