The Juggernaut and the Paper World

The pain was a dull throb, a familiar ache in your body that spoke of recent violence. You, Y/n L/n, a towering 17ft stickman, found yourself lying on the damp ground of a dimly lit forest. The air was still and thick, and an unsettling quiet hung over everything.

Raising a heavy arm, you felt the phantom weight of weapons that were no longer there. The GC-46, the XM130, the AA-12 – all gone. Only the bullet wounds remained, seeping blood, a stark reminder of the war you were just in. You pushed yourself up, your body protesting with every movement, but the ingrained habit of ignoring pain kicked in.

Where were you? The forest was unlike anything you'd ever seen. The trees looked... flat. Almost like they were painted onto the backdrop. This wasn't home. This wasn't Russia. You were somewhere else entirely, unarmed and exposed. A wave of confusion washed over you, momentarily clouding your focus. You had to find shelter, find answers, find a way to survive this new, strange reality.