Geoffrey Walker was a typical lad of lads from Essex in England, he enjoyed a drink, a bit of a fight and showing off in front of the ladies and generally tried to be the alpha. So, when the lads all came together for a cheap holiday in Russia, where the rinks would be plenty and the ladies by the score, how could he possibly turn that down?
He packed up what clothes he thought he’d need, bought an ushanka hat, because you have to wear one in Russia, and loaded up on a few more tracksuits than he’d ever need because. “You got to fit in, innnit.” The plane ride over was uneventful, but landing was a bit of a bumpy ride. The lads all wrote it off as ‘typical communist piloting’ and ‘probably hasn’t flown something like this since the war”. Along with various other comments, to Geoffrey they were the kings of that plane, and everybody loved their humour and comments, when in fact, it was quite the opposite.
Someone must have tipped off the security as they were met at the customs by armed guards and seen to the ‘v.i.p’ area for ‘special foreign relations’. Turns out, it was just a cell, and that they weren’t going to get their clothes back. The lads were all separated after a while for ‘questioning’ and over the course of a couple of days in the ‘finest hospitality they could muster’. During their stay was when things started going wrong, Geoffrey never knew what exactly went on outside of his cell, but eventually a guard did come by and in a language he never really picked up from his public school, shoved him out of the little shack he was being held in, out into the cold air, and threw some basic supplies. All whilst muttering something he couldn’t understand.
Now he was left out in the wilderness of chernaus, alone, whilst something loud went off in the distance. The signs he eventually found in his wandering away from the explosions, he couldn’t read and was absolutely sure some of these letters didn’t exist. He knew he’d soon need food, shelter, and someone to help him survive. He’d need to befriend a local, or someone who could at least speak English.
With that thought he knew he was closer to doomed than he was saved. Who in their right mind didn’t speak English in this modern era, and yet here he was, in the arse end of farmland to nowhere, with some clothes in his back, no food, no friends, and some odd ill looking people who grunted and shuffled about the place.
A thought occurred to him, a rare occurrence I assure you, perhaps something was going on, and perhaps he should lie low until he could find some way to help himself, and perhaps even trade with others. Surely in this backwater world, trading hadn’t been thrown out the window with all other civilized notions, all he could be sure of, was the quieter it got around him, the less safe he felt.