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<<audio "midnightalarm" loop play>> <<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - Midnight Alarm">> <<set $kissWife to false>> It begins with the cold: a quiet draft brushing your cheek, the sort that slips in under a door flung open in haste. Then come the voices. Not raised in gossip or tavern song, but raw and urgent. They cut through the predawn dark like blades. Someone is running. You hear the tread of boots against frost-slick cobbles. A cry, hoarse and frantic: “Lanterns! Get the lanterns lit!” You sit up in bed, heart already racing ahead of your thoughts. The hearth glows faintly with the ghost of last night’s fire, a scent of pine ash and wool blankets still heavy in the room. It feels like safety, but only for a moment. Your wife shifts beside you, her face half-lost in quilts, still unaware. Through the shutters, lantern-light flickers across the rafters, cast from the gathering square beyond the lane. The village is waking, but not to tend fields or trade. Something has come. You rise. The boards creak beneath your feet, old timber sharing in your unease. You are not yet a soldier. But the world is moving without your permission. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Leave without a word">> <<set $kissWife to false>> <<goto [[Minuteman - Grab Musket]]>> <</button>> <<button "Brush a careful kiss to her forehead">> <<set $kissWife to true>> <<goto [[Minuteman - Grab Musket]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - Grab Musket">> The musket rests against the hearth where you left it two nights ago. Not cleaned. Not oiled. You hadn’t meant to be careless, just tired. Now your hands tremble slightly as you take it up. The stock is cold. The metal colder. Outside, boots splash through puddles and dogs bark sharp and uncertain. The square is alive with figures. Men, mostly, carrying lanterns and voices that rise too loud for the hour. Someone calls your name and then moves on, unaware you’ve heard. You slide your powder horn into your coat, sling the cartridge pouch over your shoulder. The ramrod is in place, but you double-check it all the same. You think of the warmth you left behind. The slow rise and fall of her breath, the silence she’s still wrapped in. <<if $kissWife>> You kissed her like it might matter. Maybe it will. <<else>> You walked out quietly, unsure what kind of goodbye it would’ve been. <</if>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Load the musket now, just in case">> <<set $loaded to true>> <<goto [[Minuteman - The Green]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - The Green">> The green is half-shadow, half-firelight. The lanterns sway from hooks and poles, their glow caught in morning mist. You count at least fifty men already here. Most still dressing, some still half-asleep. All of them carrying powder and steel. Captain Parker stands at the center, shoulders squared against the chill. His voice is firm, rasping through the damp. You edge closer to hear him. “…no firing unless fired upon. We’ll show them we stand, but we don’t draw blood without cause.” He looks smaller than usual, bundled against the April cold. Some say the sickness has worn him thin, but there’s no weakness in the way he stands. Your musket is already loaded, and for a brief second you wonder if you should discharge it, if only to make it right. You spot familiar faces. Cousins, neighbors, the tavern keeper’s youngest with hands still pink from sleep. No one says the word *war*, but everyone carries the silence that follows it. Someone jokes about British boots being polished enough to blind a cow. It draws half a laugh. Another man says nothing, only tightens the strap on his powder horn. There’s a tension in the air like stretched rope. A boy — sixteen, maybe not more — leans close and asks, “Are you scared?” You could lie. Or not. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Admit the truth: Yes">> <<set $admittedFear to true>> <<goto [[Minuteman - Dawn Watch]]>> <</button>> <<button "Shake your head. You’ve seen worse.">> <<set $admittedFear to false>> <<goto [[Minuteman - Dawn Watch]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - Dawn Watch">> The chill deepens as night recedes. Mist coils low across the green, and dew slicks every boot, every musket barrel, every stone. The world holds its breath. Captain Parker moves between the gathered men with deliberate calm, speaking in low tones. Some adjust straps or reload cartridges, while others stand as if rooted to the earth. No one knows the hour of the British arrival, only that it draws closer. You rub your hands together, trying to banish the numbness from your fingers. The musket is solid in your grip, but you feel the weight of time more than its iron. <<if $admittedFear>> A few paces away, the boy who asked if you were afraid hasn't taken his eyes off you. He seems steadier now, as if your honesty gave him something to hold on to. <<else>> The boy stands near you, his face pale but set. He glances your way once, nods, then grips his musket like it's an anchor. <</if>> A light flickers along the distant ridge. Then another. Lanterns. Someone mutters, "Scouts," and the men shift, adjusting their positions. You realize you've been holding your breath. Parker raises his voice just enough to carry. “Stand firm. Let them see we're not hiding.” You join the line. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Step forward and take position">> <<goto [[Minuteman - Drop or Fire]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - Drop Your Musket">> <<audio "tensionrise" stop>> <<audio "battlebreakout" loop play>> You let the musket fall from your hands. It lands in the wet grass with a muted thud, just as a nearby voice hisses, *"What are you doing?"* But you don’t answer. Around you, a few others begin to back away, confused. Unsure. For a heartbeat, there is quiet. Then comes the first crack of gunfire. Somewhere behind you. Or perhaps from the edge of the green. You don’t know who fired it, only that it exists now, and cannot be unfired. The British line erupts. They do not wait for orders. Muskets roar in ragged volleys, flashes lighting the haze like a storm breaking just overhead. The sound shakes your chest. Someone screams. You see a man fall beside you, eyes wide, hands still clutching a powder horn he never opened. <<set $wounded = true>> <<set $respected = true>> A bullet tears past your shoulder. Another slams into your thigh, hot and sharp, and you collapse before you understand you've been hit. Dirt floods your mouth. You spit it out and see red in the grass. You are alive. But not whole. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Try to crawl away">> <<goto [[Minuteman - Try to Crawl]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - Try To Crawl">> The wound burns like iron pressed to flesh. Your fingers dig into the grass as you drag yourself forward, inch by inch. Each movement pulls fire through your leg, but staying still feels like death. Smoke hangs low over the green. Shapes rush past you. Coats blue and red, boots slamming into earth. Some don’t see you. Some do and say nothing. A musket ball kicks up dirt near your face. You flinch and press yourself lower, pulling forward with your elbows, gritting your teeth against the pain. A hand grabs your collar. For a moment, you think it's the end. But it’s one of your own. You recognize his boots, the torn edge of his coat. You want to speak, but no sound comes. He doesn’t wait for words. He hauls you up under the arms and begins dragging you through the brush. You don’t remember how far. Only the blood, and the blur of trees, and the sound of breath that might have been your own. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Let him take you to safety">> <<goto [[Minuteman - Wounded]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - Wounded">>, <<audio "battlebreakout" stop>> The bleeding stopped, but the pain lingered. It spread in waves from your leg, pulsing with each heartbeat. Days passed. Maybe a week. The barn was dark most of the time. The only light came when someone opened the door to bring food or fresh bandages. You heard voices sometimes. None of them called your name. <<if $kissWife is true>> You thought of her often. The weight of her hand. The warmth of her sleeping form beside you. <<else>> You thought of her sometimes. Whether she knew. Whether she wondered why you hadn’t said goodbye. <</if>> <<if $admittedFear is true>> You remembered the boy who had asked if you were afraid. You had told him yes. Maybe he lived. <<else>> You remembered the boy. You had shaken your head and said nothing. He might have believed you. He might not have made it through the smoke. <</if>> <<if $loaded is true>> Your musket had been loaded when you arrived on the green. It hadn’t helped. <<else>> You had carried it unloaded. Even that didn’t stop the bullets from flying your way. <</if>> Eventually, someone told you the British had returned to Boston. The militia scattered. The dead were buried. You were still alive. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Rise and rejoin the world">> <<goto [[Minuteman - Aftermath]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - Aftermath">> <<audio "runambience" stop>> <<audio "aftermath" loop play>> The sun rises over Lexington with the color of dried blood. Smoke drifts low across the grass. The green is scattered with spent cartridges, shattered flints, and the fallen. You are not among the dead. But something of you may have been left here. <<if $wounded is true>> You lie on a cot in a nearby barn, the wound packed with whatever cloth they could find. Someone gave you water. Someone else said your name and then left quickly. You are not alone, but no one lingers. You are watched, but not spoken to. <<elseif $fugitive is true>> You reached the edge of the woods before turning back. Not to Lexington, but to the next town over, where your name does not yet mean anything. You washed in a stream, changed your coat, and told no one where you had come from. <<else>> You returned home just before sunrise. No one stopped you. No one cheered. The town has the silence of a funeral procession. You sat by your hearth, your musket laid across your knees, and waited for the knock that never came. <</if>> You remember Parker’s voice. You remember the smoke. You remember the moment when the world held its breath and everything that followed it. None of it feels like a dream. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Next Chapter">> <<goto [[Chapter Two - Minuteman]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - Fire First">> <<set $firedFirst to true>> <<set $wanted to true>> <<audio "tensionrise" stop>> <<audio "runambience" loop play>> You raise your musket. Parker’s voice is still hanging in the air. Garbled. Muddied. You hear anger in it, maybe. Maybe you only hear your own heart, thudding against your ribs like a warning. You squeeze the trigger. The flash bursts in your face, white and hot. The recoil jolts your shoulder. You don’t even know if you hit anything. For a half-second, everything holds still. Then the green explodes. British troops surge forward, shouting and firing in all directions. Men scream, some falling instantly, others scrambling for cover or dropping their weapons in panic. The line is broken before it even forms. You see a soldier in red stumble, clutching his chest. One of them. You might have done it. A voice behind you shouts, *"Who fired?!"* Another points. *"That one. That’s the one who lit it."* They mean you. You turn and run. <<set $reputation to "coward">> <<set $markedByMilitia to true>> Your legs move before your mind does. You don’t remember choosing to run. You leap over a body, duck behind a low stone wall, scramble through someone’s garden. Shots crack behind you. Maybe they’re meant for you. Maybe not. None of it matters now. You are fleeing Lexington. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Keep running">> <<goto [[Minuteman - The Fugitive]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - The Fugitive">> Your breath comes in sharp gasps. The musket swings behind your back, forgotten for now. Trees blur past you, and your boots slide in the wet undergrowth. A stone wall looms. You scramble over it, tearing your sleeve on the corner. You hear shouting behind you. Names being called. Orders shouted. None of them are yours. Somewhere, a church bell begins to ring. Whether it's a call to arms or a warning, you cannot say. You keep moving. A path opens into a field, and you sprint across it, legs aching. Beyond the field is forest, and beyond that, perhaps safety. But you know already that you are not escaping the war. You are escaping your neighbors. You fired the first shot. <<set $reputation to "coward">> <<set $fugitive to true>> The faces of the men on the green rise behind your eyes. Jonas Parker. Caleb Harrington. The ones who stood and did not run. You imagine them falling, one by one. You see them clearly, even if you never turned to look. You did not die with them. You did something worse. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Keep moving">> <<goto [[Minuteman - Aftermath]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $chapter to "Minuteman2">> <<audio "MCh2" stop>> June, 1775. Two months have passed since the shooting at Lexington Green. Since then, the countryside has changed. Militiamen—once scattered farmers and tradesmen—have gathered to form a makeshift army under colonial command. Boston remains under British occupation, a red-scarred fortress of stone and bayonet. But the hills to the north are shifting. Men whisper of fortifications being raised overnight, of something bold—perhaps reckless—taking root in the high ground. You are among them. <<if $wounded is true>> You came back limping. The scar on your leg never fully faded, and neither did the memory of falling into the grass with nothing but pain and smoke for company. Some remember that. Some nod when they see you. <<elseif $firedFirst is true>> You came back alone. You kept your head down, stuck to the shadows, and let the rumors about Lexington take root. No one has said anything to your face, but now and then, someone looks too long or not at all. <<else>> You came back with your head low and your mouth shut. You were there, like the others, and that was enough. No one asks. No one praises. <</if>> You're part of the lines above Charlestown now. Tired, raw, but here. Someone said the General’s name was Putnam. Another says it doesn’t matter. All that matters now is that you dig, watch, and wait. The redcoats will not let this insult stand. They will come. And when they do, you will be standing in a shallow trench on Breed’s Hill, staring down a sea of scarlet with powder in your lungs and stone under your boots. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<if $firedFirst is true>> <<goto [[Bunker - Coward's Return]]>> <<else>> <<goto [[Bunker - Respected Return]]>> <</if>> <</button>> </div>
You find work gutting fish in Portsmouth. Later, Halifax. Once, you change your name. The war ends. You hear the new country has a flag now. And presidents. But at every tavern, at every fire, someone always tells the tale of a musket misfire at Lexington… and a man who vanished before Bunker Hill. They don’t know it was you. But you do. --- You survived. Unnamed. Unhonoured. And every night, you relive the sound of a shot in the dark. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "The End">><<goto [[You Survived - Bad]]>> <</button>> </div>
You fling dirt in frantic rhythm. Blisters split, but you will not be called craven again. A boy from New Hampshire digs beside you; his silence feels kinder than words. By moonrise the redoubt stands chest-high. The boy shares cider and says, “Whole war’s watchin’ tomorrow.” <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Confess your past; beg his faith">> <<set $confided = true>> <<goto [[Coward - Night Confession]]>> <</button>> <<button "Say nothing; keep the shame buried">> <<set $confided = false>> <<goto [[Coward - Night Confession]]>> <</button>> </div>
Rats scurry among splintered skiffs. You run callused fingers along a keel, weighing wind, tide… and the shame that’s grown like mold in your gut. The harbor air is thick with tar and guilt. You glance back at the hill, just once. Boston glitters across the water like a scattered purse—freedom, perhaps. Or exile. They won’t take you back after Lexington. You didn’t stand. You didn’t fall. You ran. Behind you, footsteps crunch over gravel. A lone sentry. Maybe he recognizes you. Maybe he was /there/, on the green. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Knock him out and steal the boat">><<goto [[Ending - Desertion]]>><</button>> <<button "Abandon the plan; rejoin Prescott's line">><<goto [[Coward - Night Confession]]>><</button>> </div>
Cannon from HMS Lively begin a slow bombardment. You crouch within the fresh-cut trench as sparks drift like fireflies. <<if $confided>> The New Hampshire boy listens, jaw tight, then claps your shoulder. “Tomorrow’s day to earn a new name,” he says. <</if>> <<if not $confided>> You cradle your secret while men around you swap tales of Concord and siege. Their pride stings like salt in a fresh cut. <</if>> At dawn the shoreline bristles with British scarlet. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Hold the trench during the first assault">> <<goto [[Coward - First Volley]]>> <</button>> <<button "Slip toward the Neck as battle starts">> <<goto [[Neck Run]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "battlebreakout" loop play>> You join the ranks just in time for battle. “Wait—steady—front rank—fire!” Your musket buck kicks; red-coats tumble. Smoke chokes the trench; cries twist into the morning sky. A grenade lands near the boy from New Hampshire. He freezes. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Dive on the grenade to shield him">> <<goto [[Coward - Bleeding Defence]]>> <</button>> <<button "Shove him clear, but turn to run">> <<goto [[Run Away]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "battlebreakout" stop>> <<audio "runambience" loop play>> Charlestown Neck is nothing more than a sand ribbon between tides, yet tonight it feels wider than the Atlantic. Moon-bright water flanks the track; HMS Lively and Somerset rake it with chain-shot. Each blast ploughs geysers of sand and whips cart-horses into blind panic. You sprint beside an overturned hay-wagon, lungs raw, your scar aching under the musket strap. Gunners on the warships reload—black silhouettes against gun-port fire—and the interval between flashes sounds like a clock that means to end you. To the east a salt-marsh hollow promises cover—and, if luck holds, a skiff tied to a half-buried pier. Behind you, Breed’s Hill still roars; somewhere in that smoke the New Hampshire boy you met in the trench may be counting on your return. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Dive into the marsh—escape by water">> <<goto [[Harbor Escape]]>> <</button>> <<button "Turn mid-stride and race back toward the hill">> <<goto [[Coward - First Volley]]>> <</button>> </div>
You kick the grenade into loose soil and throw your body across it; the blast rips flesh but spares the boy. Ears ringing, vision tunneled, you fight one-armed at the parapet until ammunition dies and strength bleeds out. British grenadiers pour over the wall; fellow provincials withdraw, leaving you on stained earth—alone yet oddly unafraid. <<goto [[Abandoned Redoubt]]>>
<<audio "battlebreakout" stop>> A last wave of British grenadiers crests the parapet like a crimson tide. The ground quakes under hobnailed boots; smoke swirls into the dugout, acrid as burnt wool. You stagger, half‐blind, searching for friendly faces—find only backs vaulting the rear wall. Ezra Brown, the Lexington farmer who once borrowed your auger, glances over a shoulder swung with powder smoke. His expression spares no pity: a silent verdict etched deeper than any musket ball. Your wounded leg buckles. You brace against a shattered gabion, fingers slipping in warm earth that was a sandbag minutes ago. The redoubt that felt like salvation an hour earlier now rings like a smithy as bayonets clash with torn timber. A British sergeant levels his pike. Around him, the Union flag flutters in cannon-born wind—a banner of empire, indifferent to the small sins of one colonial militiaman. No route left. No reprieve. Only the unblinking sky and the memory of a promise you meant to keep. <<goto [[Ending - Coward's Death]]>>
<<audio "runambience" stop>> Moonlight slicks the Charles like hammered tin as you drag a half-rotten skiff from the mud. The tide sighs against pilings; tar ropes creak like doors that know your secret. A single strike of flint brings a stolen lantern to life, and for one heartbeat its glow paints your Lexington scar the colour of shame. You shove off anyway. Oar-locks groan while powder flashes still prick the heights behind you. Each flash reveals men scrambling at Breed’s Hill—figures you shared cider with, men who might soon curse your name. The wind carries a faint cheer or a scream—you cannot tell which. Boston’s distant lamps beckon westward like indifferent stars. Salt spray stings your face, mingling with the taste of iron and regret. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Row into darkness—and exile">> <<goto [[Ending - Desertion]]>> </button>> </div>
Smoke parts long enough for you to glimpse Boston Harbor, islands inked against a pale June horizon. Somewhere beyond that water, your wife may be closing shutters against evening breezes, unaware that twilight here tastes of powder and iron. The British sergeant advances, bayonet catching a last shard of sun. Behind him a drummer’s cadence slows—thud thud—like a heartbeat that means to stop. Your musket hangs useless; flint shattered, barrel fouled, courage spent. You remember Lexington common: frost-crisp grass beneath boots, Parker’s rasped order mangled by wind, the single shot that leapt from your barrel and rewrote your name. All roads since have curved back to this moment, like the loop of a hangman’s knot. Ezra Brown’s accusing stare lingers in your mind, yet even that censure ebbs as sound narrows to a hush within your skull. Gunfire fades, replaced by the low hush of a distant brook—childhood memory or wishful dream. Steel flashes. A chill blooms wide and sudden. The sky above Breed’s Hill widens into impossible blue, and for one forgiving breath you feel weightless—as though sin might rise like smoke and fly free. History will not recall you. Only the whisper of a coward’s shot, and a name left off every muster roll. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "The End">><<goto [[You Died - Bad]]>> <</button>> </div>
For weeks after Lexington, you kept your head down. The rumors spread faster than the truth ever could: that someone fired too early. That someone ran. You did odd jobs along the Charles, slept in haylofts, told no one your name. Sometimes you woke at night to the sound of drums, but it was always your heart. Still, the war didn’t stop, and neither did you. Now you come to Breed’s Hill under the heat of judgment. Every glance feels sharp. Someone mutters //Lexington// behind your back. They hand you a shovel. Not a musket. You’re back, but not forgiven. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Dig and try to redeem yourself from earlier cowardice">><<goto [[Coward - Digging Dread]]>><</button>> <<button "Slip away toward the harbor">><<goto [[Coward - Harbor Scheme]]>><</button>> </div>
You spent three weeks on your back, coughing grit from your lungs and watching candlelight flicker across the rafters. The wound in your side burned like guilt. But your wife never spoke of the musket you dropped. She only touched your shoulder, brought you soup, and held your hand when you jolted awake from dreams of smoke. By the time the summons came from Boston, you’d already packed. You arrive still stiff from your wound, but the men nod. Some even make space. The pain is still there, but so is your resolve. You're given a musket this time. No one says the word //bravery//, but you hear it in their silence. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Dig with the others under the night sky">><<goto [[Respected - Night Labor]]>><</button>> <<button "Sit alone near the cannon and reflect">><<goto [[Respected - Midnight Doubts]]>><</button>> </div>
The shovel's weight is nothing compared to the silence between the men. You sink your blade into the earth and haul out dirt that smells of iron and ash. Around you, others dig without speaking, the only sound the wet crunch of soil and the low groan of timber being placed. Lanterns swing gently from poles, shadows stretching across the redoubt like wounded men crawling uphill. One soldier, younger than the rest, pauses beside you. His eyes glance down at your side where the bandage presses against your uniform. "You the one from Lexington?" he asks quietly. You nod. No need to say how it happened. The musket dropped. The blood. The blackness. The guilt that never quite scabbed over. He doesn't press. Just passes you a flask and keeps digging. Far off, a dog barks once, then nothing. You think of your wife, the way she touched your face when you woke from the fever. If you had kissed her that morning, the memory might have comforted you. But maybe the silence between you both speaks louder than any goodbye. <<set $rememberedLabor = true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Ask the others about General Putnam">><<goto [[Respected - Putnam's Watch]]>><</button>> <<button "Keep working in silence until sunrise">><<goto [[Respected - Dawn of Battle]]>><</button>> </div>
You sit near the cannon. It still smells of pitch and powder, though it has not fired in days. The stars overhead seem far too bright for what is coming. Your wound throbs quietly under the wrapping, a dull pulse that matches your heartbeat. You shift your coat and draw it tighter. The breeze carries with it the scent of pine, smoke, and fear. Someone nearby sharpens a bayonet. Someone else is muttering a prayer in Dutch. Nobody sleeps. You stare at the hill sloping downward, knowing the redcoats will come from somewhere beyond it. You wonder if they remember Lexington. You wonder if they think of you the same way. There are no dreams tonight. Only questions. You press your palm to the musket. It feels colder than it should. You held one like this once, aimed it, pulled the trigger before the order came. And in the moment that followed, history splintered. You have not said it aloud, but you know what the others think. They think someone fired too early. They think it might have been you. You told no one. Not even her. Not even when you woke in your own bed, your wife pressing cloth to your fevered skin, her eyes hollow with relief and doubt. <<set $rememberedDoubts = true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Try to sleep on the earth, just for an hour">><<goto [[Respected - Fitful Rest]]>><</button>> <<button "Go to the redoubt and offer to help">><<goto [[Respected - Night Labor]]>><</button>> </div>
<<set $chapter to "Minuteman1">> <span class="fade-in-title">CHAPTER ONE</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">The Minuteman</span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Minuteman - Midnight Alarm]]>><</button>> </div>
<<set $chapter to "NarratedMinuteman">> <<audio "aftermath" stop>> <<audio "MCh2" play>> <span class="fade-in-title">CHAPTER TWO</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">The Battle of Bunker Hill</span> They call it the shot that rang 'round the world. April 19th, 1775. The first crack of musket fire on the green at Lexington broke more than the morning stillness. It shattered the last hope of reconciliation between crown and colony. No one truly knows who fired first. Some say it came from behind a wall. Others blame a nervous soldier. But when the smoke cleared, eight men lay dead in the grass, their blood soaking into the soil of a town that had never before seen war. Word spread like fire on dry leaves. The countryside stirred. Farmers, smiths, shopkeepers—every man who could shoulder a musket—gathered to form a ring around the British garrison trapped in Boston. It wasn’t yet an army, not in any professional sense. Just a rising swell of fury and purpose, armed with borrowed weapons and borrowed time. For weeks they waited, staring at the walls of a city too strong to storm and too dangerous to ignore. Gunpowder was scarce. Discipline even more so. Yet the will to fight grew louder with each passing day. And then came the news. British command planned to seize the heights across the harbor—Bunker Hill and Breed’s Hill—to break the siege and claim the high ground. The colonials moved first. Overnight, men took shovels to the earth and began to raise defenses on the slope above Charlestown. A half-built redoubt, exposed flanks, barely enough ammunition to last the battle. But it was a stand. A deliberate, visible challenge. It is now June. You are among those who answered the call. <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Battle of Bunker Hill]]>><</button>> </div>
<span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You survived. But at what cost?!</span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<set $chapter to "Intro">> <<audio "MinYS" stop>> <<audio "ScoYSH" stop>> <<audio "ScoYST" stop>> <<audio "DocYSM" stop>> <<audio "DocYSG" stop>> <<audio "Intro" play>> <div class="center"> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/uJ1QmY6.jpeg" alt="Game Splash" style="display: block; margin: 2em auto;"> <b>To enable or disable sound, please use the "Settings" menu on the left. The "Settings" menu will let you control the sound volume to your liking, too!</b> <div class="choice-box" style="display: flex; justify-content: center; gap: 1.5em; flex-wrap: nowrap;"> <<button "The Minuteman">> <<goto [[Intro Video - Minuteman]]>> <</button>> <<button "The Scout">> <<goto [[Intro Video - Scout]]>> <</button>> <<button "The Doctor">> <<goto [[Intro Video - Doctor]]>> <</button>> </div> </div> <style> .choice-box button { font-size: 1em; padding: 1em 2.5em; min-width: 100px; } /* Responsive Video Container Styles */ .video-container { position: relative; width: 100%; max-width: 800px; margin: 0 auto; padding-bottom: 56.25%; /* 16:9 aspect ratio (9 / 16 * 100) */ height: 0; overflow: hidden; background-color: #000; border-radius: 8px; } .video-container video { position: absolute; top: 0; left: 0; width: 100% !important; height: 100% !important; border: 0; object-fit: contain !important; outline: none; } /* Ensure native video controls are responsive */ .video-container video::-webkit-media-controls-panel { width: 100% !important; max-width: 100% !important; } .video-container video::-webkit-media-controls-timeline { width: 100% !important; max-width: calc(100% - 120px) !important; } .video-container video::-webkit-media-controls { width: 100% !important; max-width: 100% !important; overflow: hidden !important; } /* Media queries for different screen sizes */ @media screen and (max-width: 768px) { .video-container { max-width: 100%; margin: 0; padding-bottom: 56.25%; } .video-container video::-webkit-media-controls-panel { max-width: 100% !important; } } @media screen and (max-width: 480px) { .video-container { padding-bottom: 56.25%; margin: 0 0.5em; } .video-container video::-webkit-media-controls-timeline { max-width: calc(100% - 80px) !important; } .video-container video::-webkit-media-controls-panel { font-size: 14px !important; } } </style> <div style="position: absolute; bottom: 2em; left: 50%; transform: translateX(-50%); font-size: 0.8em; color: #888;"> © 2025 SURVIVE HISTORY, CREATORCORE </div>
You lean against the unfinished wall of the redoubt, wiping sweat from your brow. The digging slowed hours ago, but few have rested. Voices rise softly on the other side of the trench. General Putnam stands among a cluster of men, his wide-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow. He speaks not like a commander but like a father before a storm. "You don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes," he says. "Don't waste a shot. Don't break the line." He turns, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours. "That one there," someone whispers behind you. "Came back wounded. Could have stayed home. Didn't." Putnam nods at you, once. Not as a superior to a subordinate, but as one soldier to another. <<set $seenPutnam = true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Approach and offer to help further">><<goto [[Respected - Last Stones Set]]>><</button>> <<button "Return to your post and prepare for dawn">><<goto [[Respected - Dawn of Battle]]>><</button>> </div>
The sun rises into smoke. The British are crossing the river in neat rows, their bayonets catching the light like mirrors. Drums beat in your ribs. You are one of dozens behind the breastworks. Some men pray. Some weep. Some mutter to themselves. You feel your own breathing like a drumroll in your ears. General Putnam rides down the line, stopping only to bark orders or correct posture. He does not look tired. He looks carved from the same stone you dug through last night. If you helped build this line, your hands still carry the scent of wet clay. If you slept instead, your limbs feel soft and distant. Putnam passes you and pauses. His eyes narrow. “Stand straight,” he says. “And when they come, don’t waste your shot.” Then he rides on. <<if $restInsteadOfWorking is true>> You grip your musket tighter, trying to shake the weight of sleep. You weren’t there at the end. Maybe they noticed. Maybe they didn’t. <</if>> <<if $rememberedLabor is true>> The wall you helped build rises in front of you like proof. This will hold. It has to. <</if>> <<set $readyForBattle = true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Wait for the signal">><<goto [[Respected - The Assault Begins]]>><</button>> </div>
You curl beneath the low lip of earth near the cannon, using your coat as a pillow. The ground is uneven and cold, and the sky never truly darkens. Sleep doesn’t come easily. When it does, it brings half-formed memories: the gunshot, the screaming, your wife’s face. At some point in the night, a runner kicks your foot to wake you. “Up,” he says flatly. “They’ll be here soon.” You stand slower than you should. Your back aches. Your eyes sting. The others are already forming ranks. You missed the final hour of work. No one says anything, but you feel it. The way they step around you. The way they grip their tools a little tighter when you pass. <<set $restInsteadOfWorking to true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Shoulder your musket and try to focus">><<goto [[Respected - Dawn of Battle]]>><</button>> </div>
<span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You died and will never be spoken of again. </span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
You pick up a stone. Then another. The redoubt is nearly finished, but not perfect and definitely not safe. Next to you, a man wedges timber into the earth wall with the quiet certainty of someone who’s done it before. You pass him another beam, and he nods once in thanks. The others notice. They make space when you need it. They don’t flinch at your scar. Some even follow your pace. General Putnam returns. He kneels near the edge of the trench, smoothing the dirt with the butt of his musket. He’s muttering something under his breath about the shape of the hill and the timing of the tide. He glances up. “You,” he says, and points at you. “Get some water, then take a place in the second line.” He's given you a purpose. You nod, and the ache in your limbs is answered by a faint flicker of pride. <<set $putnamTrustsYou = true>> <<set $contributedToRedoubt = true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Find water, then take your place">><<goto [[Respected - The Assault Begins]]>><</button>> </div>
You grip your musket and take your place among the second line. The ground is uneven beneath your feet. The air is already thick with anticipation. Below the hill, hundreds of red uniforms move in rigid lines. Their drums beat out a steady rhythm, hearts made audible across the water. The man beside you checks the flint in your weapon, even though you’ve already done it. Twice. He nods. Doesn’t speak. Smoke curls from a nearby fuse, and the cannon beside the redoubt fires its first shot. The recoil nearly topples the gunner, but the ball flies true, splitting the British front with a spray of dirt and limbs. Putnam rides behind the line. His face is calm, but his voice is iron. “Hold your fire! Wait for the order!” You steady your musket. The memory of Lexington flickers behind your eyes. The shot that started it all. The silence that followed. You are not that man now. <<if $putnamTrustsYou is true>> Putnam’s gaze sweeps the line and rests on you for a breath. He nods once, just enough to let you know he remembers. <</if>> <<if $rememberedDoubts is true>> Your hands tremble. You remember freezing in the dark, not speaking, not standing, not stopping it. But you are still here. <</if>> <<if $kissWife is true>> You think of her. The scent of her hair. The brush of her hand on your face. You grip the stock tighter. <</if>> Then, as the British crest the ridge, the order comes. “Fire.” <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Pull the trigger">><<goto [[Respected - First Volley]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "battlebreakout" loop play>> Your finger tightens around the trigger. For the space of a breath, the battlefield holds its breath with you. Then a thunderclap of musket fire rips through the line. The man to your left stumbles back, smoke trailing from his barrel, eyes wide and locked on the British line now shuddering under the impact. You fire. The recoil bruises your shoulder. The smoke blinds you for half a heartbeat. But you hear it. That sound. The cracking, bone-splitting sound of lead striking flesh. The groan of impact. The terrible silence of the ones who won’t groan at all. The front row of redcoats falters. Some fall. Others trip over bodies. The line bends, reshapes, presses forward. Still they come. “Reload!” someone yells. Your hands move without thinking. Powder, ball, ram, raise. You don’t feel the weight anymore. Only the heat, the pressure, the knowledge that this moment will not hold. That soon it will break. <<if $putnamTrustsYou is true>> A voice cuts through the chaos. General Putnam, calling orders from behind. Calm but sharp. You are in his eye. He expects you to hold. <</if>> <<if $wounded is true>> The ache in your side blossoms again as you reload. That old wound flares, but your body does not quit. <</if>> <<if $firedFirst is true>> You remember the first shot. That accidental beginning. This time, you waited. This time, it was right. <</if>> A second volley is ordered. You stand. You aim. And the world begins to burn. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Fire again and stand your ground">><<goto [[Respected - Second Assault]]>><</button>> <<button "Drop back to reinforce the third line">><<goto [[Respected - Rear Guard]]>><</button>> </div>
The second wave hits harder. They’ve regrouped, red lines crashing against the earthworks like tides against a cliff. You fire again. Someone near you screams. You can’t tell if they were hit or if it’s just the sound of fear finally ripping loose. Smoke rolls over the hilltop. It burns your lungs, stings your eyes. You wipe your sleeve across your face and reload again. To your left, a man drops. To your right, another’s musket jams and he draws a knife instead. You hold the line. Then you hear it. “Putnam! Putnam’s down!” Your head whips toward the command ridge. General Putnam, surrounded, trying to rally a splintering group of riflemen. His horse is down. A redcoat unit has broken through a side breach. You feel the decision form like lightning in your chest. <<if $contributedToRedoubt is true>> You know this hill. You helped shape it. The rise to his position is steep, but not impossible. The others hesitate. You could reach him first. <</if>> <<set $putnamInPeril = true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Run to Putnam's aid">><<goto [[Putnam in Peril]]>><</button>> <<button "Hold your ground with the others">><<goto [[Respected - Rear Guard]]>><</button>> </div>
You grit your teeth and step back from the front. Not in retreat, not yet — but close. You fall into formation with a few others, reloading, regrouping, watching the breach near Putnam swell with chaos. Men shout for orders. Some just run. Others fall and don’t move again. <<if $rememberedDoubts is true>> Your hands shake. Just slightly. Enough to make the ramrod fumble. You remember the first time. That first shot. That feeling you couldn't name. It’s back now. <</if>> <<if $putnamInPeril is true>> You see him still fighting. You see others moving to him. You could have joined them. <</if>> But you didn’t. And when the cannon fires again, it feels like it strikes the inside of your ribs. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Fall back and wait for the dust to clear">><<goto [[Ending - Silent Return]]>><</button>> </div>
You break from the line. The hill’s slope is jagged with loose rock and smoking roots. A redcoat levels his musket at Putnam, no more than ten paces away. Putnam stands firm, shouting commands, daring the enemy to face him. His saber gleams. But he is alone. You run faster. A voice calls behind you — maybe warning, maybe cursing — but you don’t stop. The smoke thickens. Musket balls cut through the air like wasps. Someone falls just behind you. Putnam turns at the last second, sees you coming. If you’re lucky, you’ll reach him. If you're not, history may forget your name. <<if $contributedToRedoubt is true>> You know the slope’s angle. You helped dig it. You pivot left, avoiding the blood-slicked mud, and leap over a fallen beam. <</if>> <<if $rememberedDoubts is true>> Something in your chest locks up. Just for a second. But seconds are everything now. <</if>> The redcoat raises his bayonet. <<set $putnamChoiceReady = true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Tackle the redcoat and take the blow">><<goto [[Ending - Heroic Sacrifice]]>><</button>> <<button "Pull Putnam away and hold the line">><<goto [[Ending - Quiet Honor]]>><</button>> <<button "Let someone else intervene">><<goto [[Ending - Silent Return]]>><</button>> </div>
You freeze. Not out of cowardice, not entirely. Just something inside you… stops. Another soldier takes the chance you didn’t. He charges toward Putnam. A musket fires. The redcoat falls. You remain in place, musket still loaded. Your hands tremble long after the battle ends. Putnam survives. The lines hold. Others fall. You return home weeks later, but no one knows what to say to you. Your wife welcomes you quietly. The scar across your side aches more than before, though it never reopened. You never tell anyone what happened. Not about the hill. Not about the moment you stood still. In the end, they say you were lucky. But you don’t feel lucky. Not really. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "The End">><<goto [[You Survived - Neutral]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "battlebreakout" stop>> You slam into the redcoat before he can raise his weapon again. The two of you fall hard onto the rocks. The man’s bayonet finds you, not by aim but by accident. It slips into your side, cruel and deep. Putnam shouts your name. Or maybe it's someone else. Your ears ring like struck brass. The general gets to his feet. He rallies the others. The breach is sealed. The hill holds, for now. You lie in the churned earth, watching the sky fade to smoke. Somewhere in the chaos, your musket lies cold. Somewhere beyond it, a story is forming. One in which your name might be remembered. Or not. But you know what you did. And that is enough. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "The End">><<goto [[You Died - Good]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "battlebreakout" stop>> You reach Putnam just as a redcoat breaches the line. You fire from the hip, the recoil jarring your shoulder. The redcoat stumbles back, giving the general a moment to regain his footing. Together, you retreat behind the barricade. Others follow. You help hoist a beam into place, sealing the breach with sweat and grit. The fight doesn’t end cleanly, but it ends with you alive. Putnam claps a hand on your back. He says nothing, but the weight of his silence means more than a medal. No one sings your name. No painting will ever hang you on a wall. But when the others speak of the hill, they say: he stayed. He held. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "The End">><<goto [[You Survived - Good]]>> <</button>> </div>
<span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You died a hero of the Revolution</span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "MinYS" play>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You live to fight another day.</span> You survived. You stood in the line at Lexington when the morning stillness was shattered. You watched friends fall. You marched again at Bunker Hill — behind a half-built wall of dirt and splinters — and came out breathing. That alone is a kind of miracle. Only a handful of colonial militiamen died in that first skirmish at Lexington. But the true bloodletting came at Bunker Hill. Of the fifteen hundred Americans who dug into the slope above Charlestown, roughly one in ten didn't make it out alive. One hundred and forty were killed. Over two hundred and seventy more were wounded. Thirty were taken prisoner. Few who stood in that line came through unscathed — fewer still returned unchanged. But you did. Your legs still carry you. Your hands still steady a musket. Your eyes still see the sun rise. And that means something. Because the war has only just begun. <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You survived, but at what cost?!</span> <p><strong>You survived.</strong></p> <p> You stood in the line at Lexington when the morning stillness was shattered. You watched friends fall. You marched again at Bunker Hill — behind a half-built wall of dirt and splinters — and came out breathing. </p> <p> That alone is a kind of miracle. </p> <p> Only a handful of colonial militiamen died in that first skirmish at Lexington. But the true bloodletting came at Bunker Hill. </p> <p> Of the fifteen hundred Americans who dug into the slope above Charlestown, roughly one in ten would not leave alive. </p> <p> One hundred and forty were killed. Over two hundred and seventy more were wounded. Thirty were taken prisoner. Few who stood in that line came through unscathed — fewer still returned unchanged. </p> <p> But you did. Your legs still carry you. Your hands still steady a musket. Your eyes still see the sun rise. </p> <p> And that means something. </p> <p> Because the war has only just begun. </p> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "midnightalarm" stop>> <<audio "tensionrise" loop play>> <<set $currentPassage = "Minuteman - Drop or Fire">> They arrive like a tide. First you see the shimmer of bayonets through the low mist. Then come the coats, red and stark against the gray morning. The British column stretches far beyond what you can count. Some of them peel off and begin moving toward the green. Parker steps forward. His voice breaks as he yells, coughing mid-command. The words come out rasped and broken. "Dr-yer w-ns!" is all you catch. The wind carries the rest away. Was that “Drop your weapons”? Or did he say “Damn ye, whoresons”? You glance at the others. Some shift uncertainly. Some look to you. Everything slows. You have only a second. A breath. A choice. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Drop Your Musket">> <<run (() => { const drop = SimpleAudio.tracks.get("musketdrop"); drop.play(); setTimeout(() => drop.stop(), 1500); })() >> <<goto [[Minuteman - Drop Your Musket]]>> <</button>> <<button "Fire On The British">> <<run (() => { const fire = SimpleAudio.tracks.get("musketfire"); fire.play(); setTimeout(() => fire.stop(), 1500); })() >> <<goto [[Minuteman - Fire the First Shot]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "scout1" loop play>> The night breathes like a hunted thing. Your mare’s flanks are slick with sweat, the bridle biting into her foam-flecked mouth as you spur forward, hooves thundering down the cold dirt road. The trees arch overhead like ribs, and the stars wheel slowly above, indifferent to the smallness of your gallop through history. Ahead rides Paul Revere, upright in the saddle, one hand gripping reins, the other raised like a torch as he bellows into the darkness: “The Regulars are out! To arms!” Shutters fly open. Lanterns bloom in windows. A dog howls. Somewhere behind you, a distant bell tolls, iron-throated and hollow. Each mile swallowed beneath your horse’s hooves is a stitch sewn in the fabric of resistance. But the ride is perilous. You see movement ahead, shadows across the path. Revere pulls up short. “Trouble,” he mutters, wheeling his mount toward the woods. Your heart pounds like a warning drum. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Face the roadblock">> <<goto [[Scout - Roadblock]]>> <</button>> </div>
The road dips before rising again, and at the crest, there's lanternlight. A patrol blocks the path. Redcoats. Half a dozen. Muskets in hand, bayonets fixed. Their coats flicker like blood in the torchlight. One of them raises a hand, palm out. Behind you, Revere reins hard and mutters, “Damn it all.” His eyes flash toward the trees. “Split up. We can't stop now.” Then he’s gone, swallowed by the woods like a stone into water. You’re left alone in the saddle, breath fogging in the cold, your pulse racing loud enough to drown out your own thoughts. The soldiers shout again, demanding you halt. There’s no time to think. Only to choose. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Veer into the trees, follow Revere">> <<goto [[Scout - Into the Woods]]>> <</button>> <<button "Spur your horse and try to break through">> <<goto [[Scout - Charge Blockade]]>> <</button>> <<button "Ride slow, pretend to be a lost traveler">> <<goto [[Scout - Delay]]>> <</button>> </div>
The bastards let you go! It was easy to just put on a confused face in the darkness, pretend like you're from out of town, just minding your own business. But as you continue, something doesn't feel right, still. It's too easy... Something pulls at you, a glimmer in a window, or the absence of one. You slow your horse near a farmhouse tucked beneath a willow tree. No lanterns burn. No voices echo. It feels still, wrong. You dismount, creeping close, boots crunching in frost and gravel. A barn door creaks softly on its hinges. And then, hands seize you. A rough voice barks, “Got him!” Rifles jab your back. Redcoat coats glint in the half-moon light. You’ve been flanked. You try to pull free. A blow strikes the back of your neck like a falling axe. Darkness swallows you whole. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Wake in captivity">> <<goto [[Scout - Captured]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $chapter to "Scout1">> <span class="fade-in-title">CHAPTER ONE</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">The Scout</span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Continue">><<goto [[Scout - Midnight Ride]]>><</button>> </div>
You wake on a stone floor soaked with old straw and mildew. Your wrists are bound with rope gone damp and foul. Torches flicker behind iron bars. Somewhere beyond the corridor, boots scrape. A voice coughs. Then silence again. Your back aches. Your lip is swollen. You taste blood and dust. When they do come for you, they say little. Just take you to a wooden chair in a room without windows. The officer questioning you is pale and tired. His voice is the edge of a blade, soft, but final. “Names. Locations. Numbers.” You try to speak. You are struck. They ask again. And again. Until the questions blur with the blows. You do not know how long you are held. The light never changes. Food comes rarely. Water, barely. Then one morning, the door opens and a boot kicks you into the dawn. No words. No reason. Just release. You are free. And broken. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Stagger north toward campfires in the hills">> <<goto [[Scout - Meet Benedict Arnold]]>> <</button>> </div>
You turn the reins sharply, branches whipping your face, your coat snagging on thorn and vine. The forest presses close, the air thick with pine and frost and the scent of stirred-up soil. Revere is gone, his silhouette vanished in the blackness between trees. You are alone now, save for the breath of your horse and the whispering leaves that seem to chant some older warning. You keep riding. Forward. Always forward. Then, a break in the treeline. Lanternlight. Two riders burst through from a side trail, nearly colliding with you. “There you are!” gasps Dr. Prescott, his spectacles askew. “We lost Revere. But the ride must go on!” Beside him, William Dawes grins, teeth white in the gloom. “Time to wake the countryside.” You nod. The path ahead is uncertain, but your duty is not. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Ride to raise the alarm">> <<goto [[Scout - Warn The Patriots]]>> <</button>> </div>
You lean low in the saddle and dig your heels into your mare’s sides. She surges forward like a cannonball let loose from flesh and bone. Shouts erupt. “Halt!” “Rider!” Muskets snap to shoulders. A crack of fire. Another. The night explodes around you. You feel heat near your ribs, a musket ball whistling past, so close you can smell the smoke. Another shot sears through the saddle’s leather. Your mare screams, but she does not falter. The Redcoats scatter at the last second, unwilling to stand in the path of hooves and momentum. You are through. Behind you, curses and confusion. Ahead, the open road. You do not look back. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Ride into the next village">> <<goto [[Scout - Warn The Patriots]]>> <</button>> </div>
You ride like a storm down the spine of the countryside. At each village, you shout until your voice is hoarse. Doors fly open. Lanterns are lit. Mothers shake sons awake, fathers reach for rifles in the rafters. The air is thick with fear and rising defiance. In one town, a bell is rung until the ropes fray. In another, a boy no older than twelve runs beside your horse for two miles before collapsing from joy and terror. By morning, the world has changed. The fields are alive with movement. Not of plows, but of preparation. And at the edge of the woods, you find a camp. A ragged circle of men cloaked in furs, sharpening tomahawks and grinning like wolves. Their leader steps forward. He is tall, broad, with eyes the color of stormclouds and a beard like an avalanche. His presence stills the clearing. “You rode through fire to get here?” You nod. He claps your shoulder like a brother. “Ethan Allen,” he says. “Welcome to the Green Mountain Boys.” <<set $BenedictArnold to false>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Begin Chapter Two">> <<goto [[Chapter Two - Scout]]>> <</button>> </div>
The air bites your skin as you limp along a cart-path that winds through the maple forest. You have not eaten in two days. The bruises on your ribs throb in rhythm with your breath. Then you hear it: the crack of a branch, the scrape of iron, the low murmur of orders. Ahead, a rebel encampment rises like a hidden city. Tents stitched from old canvas. Men sharpening bayonets, huddled around fires. Muskets stacked like hayforks. You stumble. Someone catches you. The man is broad-shouldered, with a coat too fine for the woods and eyes that seem carved from granite. His voice is careful, clipped. “Looks like they didn’t finish the job.” You stare. He offers water, then silence. Then: “Benedict Arnold,” he says, as if that name should carry weight. It does. “We’re headed north. There’s a fort that needs taking. And I need men who’ve crawled out of hell.” You nod. The fire in your belly returns; weak, but real. <<set $BenedictArnold to true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Begin Chapter Two">> <<goto [[Chapter Two - Scout]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "Intro" stop>> <!-- Centered container --> <div style="text-align: center; margin-top: 2em;"> <!-- Responsive video container --> <div class="video-container"> <video controls autoplay preload="metadata" style="width: 100%; height: 100%; object-fit: contain;"> <source src="https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/pr6clh5zfafw9mxzcpz9g/Minuteman-intro-V1.mp4?rlkey=v1zz659108mxfa4915eke6xoj&st=1wp44lq1&raw=1" type="video/mp4"> Your browser does not support the video tag. </video> </div> </div> <br><br> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "START">> <<goto [[Chapter One - Minuteman]]>> <</button>> </div> <style> .choice-box button { font-size: 1.5em; padding: 1em 2.5em; min-width: 220px; } </style>
<<audio "Intro" stop>> <!-- Centered container --> <div style="text-align: center; margin-top: 2em;"> <!-- Responsive video container --> <div class="video-container"> <video controls autoplay preload="metadata" style="width: 100%; height: 100%; object-fit: contain;"> <source src="https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/bsolrbgdls70pv7ujjm2l/Scout-intro-V1.mp4?rlkey=ilqpvn5dsmmynjawslynke4sr&st=ltllm493&raw=1" type="video/mp4"> Your browser does not support the video tag. </video> </div> </div> <br><br> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "START">> <<goto [[Chapter One - Scout]]>> <</button>> </div> <style> .choice-box button { font-size: 1.5em; padding: 1em 2.5em; min-width: 220px; } </style>
<<audio "Intro" stop>> <!-- Centered container --> <div style="text-align: center; margin-top: 2em;"> <!-- Responsive video container --> <div class="video-container"> <video controls autoplay preload="metadata" style="width: 100%; height: 100%; object-fit: contain;"> <source src="https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/4s0310tw3orb4yrkytzkb/Doctor-intro-V1.mp4?rlkey=ne28bm7bljf3in0y8gkrr21ef&st=n0ngjtxi&raw=1" type="video/mp4"> Your browser does not support the video tag. </video> </div> </div> <br><br> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "START">> <<goto [[Chapter One - Doctor]]>> <</button>> </div> <style> .choice-box button { font-size: 1.5em; padding: 1em 2.5em; min-width: 220px; } </style>
<<audio "scout1" stop>> <<set $chapter to "Scout2">> <<audio "SCh2" play>> <span class="fade-in-title">CHAPTER TWO</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">The Siege of Fort Ticonderoga</span> April 19th, 1775. The battles of Lexington and Concord mark the outbreak of armed conflict between the Thirteen Colonies and the British Crown. But musket fire in Massachusetts is only the beginning. Just days later, colonial leaders turn their eyes north, toward the wilderness of upstate New York. There lies Fort Ticonderoga: a French-built stone fortress, held now by a small British garrison. Its location is no accident. Whoever controls Ticonderoga controls the water route between Canada and the Hudson Valley. And the fort holds more than just strategic value. Inside are cannon, powder, and shot—supplies the colonies desperately need. You’ve been sent ahead to scout. Map the ground. Count the men. Listen well. Because what happens next could open the way north… or stall the Revolution before it truly begins. <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Continue">><<goto [[Siege of Fort Ticonderoga]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "SCh2" stop>> <<if $BenedictArnold is true>> Pain has made you quiet, but not weak. Benedict Arnold sees something in you. Not heroism or loyalty, but perhaps the sharpness that comes from being broken and reforged. His gaze is measured, always calculating. When he speaks, he does not inspire. He commands. His camp is smaller, colder. His men are professionals: not loud, not merry, but exact. Orders are passed in low voices. Rifles are oiled by firelight. This is not a brotherhood. This is a blade being honed in darkness. And now, with a map spread across a keg and fingers tracing the shorelines, Arnold speaks the words that have haunted your steps for days. “We move on Ticonderoga. At dawn.” The British stronghold lies like a sleeping beast across the lake, its guns dormant, its garrison unsuspecting. You will not lead the charge. Your role is to support, to survive. And yet, something stirs behind Arnold’s eyes. Ambition wrapped in iron. There is more ahead than a battle. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Ticonderoga - Arnold’s Force]]>> <</button>> </div> <<else>> You’ve hardly slept since the night ride. The dawns come colder now. The hills are thick with fog and frost. The Green Mountain Boys, barefoot and half-mad, move like wolves through the underbrush, their muskets never far, their laughter wild and sharp-edged. Ethan Allen leads them with the force of his indomitable will. His coat is rough buckskin, his hands cracked with cold. He walks among his men like a bear among cubs, protective, gruff, and entirely unafraid. He speaks of liberty like it is a fire he carries in his chest. Tonight, he speaks only once: “We take the fort before the sun rises.” Ticonderoga waits across the water, walls slick with dew, sentries yawning behind watchfires. The British do not expect ghosts in the mist. But that’s what Allen means to be. You shoulder your pack, check your blade. You are not a soldier, not yet. But the hour is coming. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Ticonderoga - Green Mountain Boys]]>> <</button>> </div> <</if>>
<<set $chapter to "Arnold">> <<audio "scout2" loop play>> There was no glory in it, only the sound of boots on wet stone and the clatter of muskets being collected. You arrive after the gates have been breached, after the shouting dies and the torch smoke drifts like torn cloth. Ethan Allen's men swarm the place, their wild cheers echoing into the trees. Benedict Arnold walks through it all with his arms folded, lips thin, eyes unreadable. “Remember who planned this,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. You follow close. You help count barrels, secure quarters, tend to prisoners. No one sings songs about you. But Arnold notices your quiet precision. That night, he calls you to his tent. “You ride well. And you listen better. I’ll need someone like that.” You nod. You know what he's asking. You become his eyes. His legs. His trusted shadow. <<set $withArnold to true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Arnold - Between Battles]]>> <</button>> </div>
The night is thick with fog and breath. Each footfall is measured, muffled by dew. The lake is silent behind you. The trees hunch forward, watching. Ahead, Fort Ticonderoga rises like a ghost, squat stone walls and shadows broken by the faintest flicker of torchlight. Ethan Allen crouches beside you. His breath curls white in the air. “No gunfire unless you have to,” he growls. “We take it with steel or not at all.” You clutch your musket tighter. The wood feels alive in your hands, pulsing with the weight of history. The plan is simple. Or mad. Or both. Scale the wall. Open the gate. Overwhelm the garrison before they even finish blinking. Somewhere in the dark, a British sentry walks the parapet. You begin to move. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Stick with the main group near the wall">> <<goto [[Ticonderoga - Shadow March]]>> <</button>> <<button "Break off to scale the wall early and get into position">> <<goto [[Ticonderoga - Wall Climb Prep]]>> <</button>> </div>
You keep low. The stones are slick with damp. Someone ahead slips, curses under their breath. Another coughs. A whisper moves down the line: “Hurry.” You glimpse the British flag flapping limp above the ramparts. The sentry is still there, pacing slowly. You pray the fog holds. Suddenly, a sharp sound. A blade scrapes stone. You freeze. The sentry halts. Turns. His torch lifts. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Stay safe and let someone else handle it">> <<goto [[Ticonderoga - The Sentry Scared Off]]>> <</button>> <<button "Rush forward to attack before you're spotted">> <<goto [[Ticonderoga - Premature Assault]]>> <</button>> </div>
You break off from the column, crawling like a beetle through brush and gravel toward the base of the fort. The wall is taller than it looked from afar. Rough stone. Cold to the touch. But you find the path — a narrow fault line between blocks, where roots grip like handholds. You look up. Above you, the sentry walks alone. No one sees you yet. You breathe in. One last moment. Then you climb. Behind you, Allen shouts. "Surrender, in the name of the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!" <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Climb in silence and confront the sentry">> <<goto [[Ticonderoga - Sentry Flight]]>> <</button>> </div>
A branch snaps behind you. Then a howl: one of the boys, full of madness and courage, throws a rock at the wall and screams like a banshee. The sentry panics. You see him drop the torch, shout something unintelligible, and vanish into the courtyard. You rise with the others and charge the gate. But in the chaos, you’re struck. A musket butt catches your jaw. You taste blood. You are in the fight, but not whole. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Push through and keep fighting">> <<goto [[Ticonderoga - Wounded Advance]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "battlebreakout" loop play>> A blast throws you to the ground. You cannot feel your leg. The surgeon later says the bone shattered like glass. They take it above the knee. No medal and no parade, just hallowed silence and a pension that barely feeds you. You survive, but not whole. Not proud. You live in shadow while others tell the story. Not yours. <<set $ending to "Maimed">> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "It's a life not worth living">> <<goto [[Scout - Ending Maimed]]>> <</button>> </div>
Your fingers bleed as you scale the final rise. A boot finds purchase. You pull yourself onto the parapet like a shadow uncoiling. The sentry turns. His eyes widen. You — hooded, streaked with sweat and mud — must look like death itself. "Are you ready to die?" you whisper, eyes bloodshot. He does not call out. He runs. You exhale, heart pounding like a drum at war. Below, the gates await. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Descend and unlock the gates">> <<goto [[Ticonderoga - Hero's Entry]]>> <</button>> </div>
You fight like a man possessed. Steel finds flesh. Fire roars in your lungs. But it is not enough. A bayonet pierces your side. You fall against the wall, vision fading, breath shallow. Hands lift you. A voice thunders: “Stay with me!” Ethan Allen’s face looms over you, wild and afraid. “You did good. You did real good.” You try to answer. Only blood comes. “The dream lives,” he whispers. “Because of you.” And then it slips away — the sky, the world, the war. <<set $ending to "Heroic Death">> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "The battle continues">> <<goto [[Scout - Ending Heroic Death]]>> <</button>> </div>
You throw the gate bolts just as the first wave of Green Mountain Boys reaches them. They flood through like water through a breach, shouting, swinging, overwhelming. Ethan Allen bursts into the courtyard, eyes blazing. “You! The wall!” he roars, spotting you. “You just made history, lad.” The fort is taken in ten minutes. No gunfire. No mercy. Later, by firelight, they call your name with reverence. //The scout who scaled the night.// <<set $ending to "Hero">> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "What's next?">> <<goto [[Scout - Ending Hero]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "ScoYSH" play>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You live to fight another day.</span> You survived the storming of Fort Ticonderoga. On May 10th, 1775, just before dawn, colonial forces captured the fort. The garrison — 48 British soldiers and a handful of officers — were taken by surprise. The seizure gave the Continental Army its first major victory, and more importantly, its first cannon. You remained behind enemy lines for months after. Scouting mountain passes. Tracking British patrols. Carrying messages through snow and forest, past wolves and sentries alike. By war’s end, nearly 2,000 men had served as scouts or frontier guides — some for pay, some for loyalty, all in constant danger. Their knowledge of terrain often turned the tide: in the Saratoga campaign, at King’s Mountain, even in the dense woods outside Yorktown. They were rarely named in dispatches. Their stories faded in taverns and pension records. But without them, the war might have ended differently. <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You died a hero of the Revolution</span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "battlebreakout" stop>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You survived, but at what cost?!</span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
The war sprawled outward like a fraying map, and you followed Benedict Arnold through its folds. You were there when he marched on Quebec in snow that killed men faster than bullets. There when he argued with generals who hated him for his pride, his ambition, his brilliance. You carried messages through gunfire, led scouts through forests dense as dreams, stood silent as Arnold limped into battle on a shattered leg at Saratoga and still fought like a lion. But each victory wore at him. Congress slighted him. Rivals smeared him. They promoted lesser men, stripped him of credit, paid him in whispers and insult. You saw it all. You heard the fury at night, the bitterness curling in his voice. And when he was finally handed the keys to West Point, he said to you: “This may be the only fort they ever let me keep. So I’ll make it worth the cost.” You didn't ask what he meant. But part of you already knew. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Arnold - The Betrayal]]>> <</button>> </div>
West Point sleeps beneath a sky heavy with ghosts. Arnold gives orders differently now, quieter, more private. He rides alone more. Speaks of //“arrangements”//. He meets with strangers near the river and burns their letters before the wax cools. One night, he brings you into his study. His eyes are restless, shining like cold glass. “They’ve left me no choice,” he says. “This country devours its own. But England… England sees my worth.” He clasps your shoulder. “I can offer you a way out. Come with me. A clean escape. No trial. No noose.” You stand still. The room is quiet. And then you choose. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Flee with Arnold">> <<goto [[Arnold - Escape With Him]]>> <</button>> <<button "Stay behind">> <<goto [[Arnold - Stay Behind]]>> <</button>> </div>
You slip into the night, boarding a skiff beneath a moon veiled in mist. Arnold rows in silence. Neither of you speaks as the Hudson flows like black ribbon beneath the boat. You reach the British ship before dawn. They welcome him with rank and salary. They offer you a coat. A bed. A new name. But they do not offer home. Word spreads. Your name is on lists. In sermons. In the mouths of men who once called you brother. You walk London’s streets alone, a ghost in borrowed skin. Traitor. <<set $ending to "Traitor Exile">> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "You escaped the noose...">> <<goto [[Scout - Ending Traitor Exile]]>> <</button>> </div>
He doesn’t plead. He only looks at you one last time... And nods, the smallest gesture of thanks or regret. Then he’s gone, into the fog, swallowed by betrayal. You remain at your post. When the plan is uncovered days later, you are taken alongside the wreckage. Your name is on the list. Your silence is counted as complicity. The court offers no sympathy. You are hanged in your own uniform, watched by men who cannot tell whether you were coward or patriot. The rope is coarse. The sky indifferent. You died with your secrets intact. <<set $ending to "Hanged">> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Traitor!">> <<goto [[Scout - Ending Hanged]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "scout2" stop>> <<audio "ScoYST" play>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You survived. But at what cost?!</span> You crossed the water with Benedict Arnold. In the years that followed, his name would become a curse — a synonym for betrayal. But in the spring of 1775, he was still a soldier of the Revolution. And you, by staying at his side, made a choice few could understand. After the failed invasion of Quebec and a bitter winter at Fort St. Johns, Arnold’s faith in the cause began to rot. His promotion was persistently denied and his name slandered. And when he handed over the plans to West Point in 1780, you were there. Perhaps you didn’t believe in the cause anymore. Perhaps you believed only in him. Following Arnold’s escape to British lines, you became one of more than 19,000 American Loyalists who would serve the Crown in arms. Some joined regiments like the Queen’s Rangers or Butler’s Rangers. Others vanished into Canada, the Caribbean, or London’s backstreets. You were never celebrated. No monuments were built. No pensions granted. But history does not forget. Benedict Arnold died in 1801, in London, his body wracked by illness and regret. <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "scout2" stop>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You died and will never be spoken of again. </span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<cacheaudio "midnightalarm" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/g0uli5zw45y585y34r158/midnightalarm.ogg?raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "tensionrise" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l0vpebzbbmx0tdrgdvygz/synth.ogg?raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "musketdrop" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/38xwsni9dborj517bjzmc/drop.ogg?raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "musketfire" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/1eclefoopky47c8mloi1g/fire.ogg?raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "runambience" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l2cnhh4knfwgnb4tojamt/run.ogg?raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "battlebreakout" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/cimqo4ovml22ugf7zg06p/battle.ogg?raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "aftermath" "https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/d/de/Adagio_for_Strings-Samuel_Barber.ogg">> <<cacheaudio "scout1" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/8ctqpa755jed6enfpcng1/Quartet-No.-8-in-C-minor-AudioTrimmer.com.ogg?rlkey=1sdhokx7sxy6jqa2vgv2gad48&st=i5srdcxx&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "scout2" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/kmigb9vjapj3lgbz3nd6s/Quartet-No.-8-in-C-minor-AudioTrimmer.com-1.ogg?rlkey=3om86ea2aumfd8c16var08z3x&st=nq6kivul&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "doctor1" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/4kj0emp487ll3cmjsws01/01.01.-Fantasia-On-A-Theme-By-Thomas-Tallis-For-Double-String-Orchestra-AudioTrimmer.com.mp3?rlkey=swiqltlx9kwha7vf3q90vyeb3&st=2akd7clb&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "doctor2" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/mpoloz6jbqtrqvmql88uo/Quartet-No.-15-in-E-flat-minor-AudioTrimmer.com.ogg?rlkey=p2e2bh53e7422hrh8d51nvmdg&st=l227jrmx&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "Intro" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/ijtc00icvsey0f548ad7r/Civil-war-battlefield-mix.wav?rlkey=tj3z5ozusk9ubn2rsqy13ec7o&st=3vcc667e&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "MCh2" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/7t4rrbio6i7503nmx9iom/Minuteman-Chapter-2-Intro.mp3?rlkey=k9faor4kj7vqd1muzxzwbypyz&st=5qoi0gwp&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "MinYS" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/6o6xie4kolh5qozqu2m28/Minuteman-You-Survived.mp3?rlkey=ffc0gmpme5rd5oo26oapefecm&st=v224rbff&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "SCh2" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/e3zq82ohhjz1rldadr5z3/Scout-Chapter-2-Intro.mp3?rlkey=o5pogs0sy4e782qqiyxqhq626&st=56ciczdk&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "ScoYSH" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/ugvmmphdflwmsadn2hcnz/Scout-You-Survived-Hero.mp3?rlkey=szxpkf2nxgmvkogxqlrrqdnn3&st=nsp3uum6&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "ScoYST" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/3rgvwnd045hrzgwbrg7ga/Scout-You-Survived-Traitor.mp3?rlkey=ej6cty22vvv1mntx6t5i6w5j8&st=xq3ng8bf&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "DCh2" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/t7ieshsu9a7r1h51ofdrb/Doctor-Chapter-2-Intro.mp3?rlkey=ccb9bsopk2qq0xrxz9sbc7aew&st=avbodgp9&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "DocYSM" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/fw2pokw62iq4sd9aaq3rd/Doctor-You-Survived-Maimed.mp3?rlkey=is90s1w4e56cfjed0lbkxq5uw&st=z4d1rl38&raw=1">> <<cacheaudio "DocYSG" "https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/5deg3napcw7lg1k476buy/Doctor-You-Survived-Good.mp3?rlkey=p8phcc9rcpen23gxo06z2u6jj&st=mck7bph5&raw=1">> <<if settings.audioEnabled>> <<link "🔊">> <<set settings.audioEnabled to false>> <<masteraudio stop>> <</link>> <<else>> <<link "🔇">> <<set settings.audioEnabled to true>> <</link>> <</if>>
<<set $chapter to "Doctor1">> <span class="fade-in-title">CHAPTER ONE</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">The Doctor</span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Continue">><<goto [[Doctor - Concord Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "doctor1" volume 0.50 loop play>> The morning haze over Concord breaks. Instead of the shy sunrise, the day is awoken with fierce musket fire, echoing through the countryside. Your fingers tremble as you pack away the last of your instruments. Blood still curls in your veins from what you heard happened at Lexington. The images cling like a fever dream: boys screaming, men silent in the dirt, the surgeon's hands pressed to wounds already too wide to close. You are no soldier. But war makes surgeons of cowards and cowards of surgeons. Now you move with purpose, boots muddy with spring thaw and blood, toward the orchard where the makeshift aid station has been marked with a white scrap of cloth over a barrel, already stained red. Around you, smoke curls. Somewhere, drums stutter. The line holds. For now. <<set $readPringle to false>> <<set $triageSuccess to false>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Move toward the orchard">> <<goto [[Doctor - The Orchard]]>> <</button>> </div>
The orchard is chaos blooming. A man screams hoarsely through a bitten rag as another tightens a tourniquet with hands too clean to have done this before. A cart rattles by, its wheels caked in brains. Someone sobs. Someone else hums a hymn, tuneless and low. You set down your satchel by a toppled crate. There’s no tent. No table. No order. Just the wounded and the willing. Your breath catches. You could begin now — try to stem the bleeding, organize the mess, make something of this. Or take a moment. A single moment. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Check on the worst of the wounded">> <<goto [[Doctor - The Bleeder]]>> <</button>> <<button "Speak with the surgeon by the tree">> <<goto [[Doctor - Surgeon’s Boast]]>> <</button>> <<button "Open your bag and leaf through your old notes">> <<goto [[Doctor - The Journal]]>> <</button>> </div>
He’s maybe seventeen. Or fifty. You can’t tell through the blood. A jagged wound opens his thigh nearly to the bone. A militiaman presses a musket barrel as a splint. A woman, dressed in plain clothes, knots strips of petticoat for bandages. You drop beside them and work by instinct. Cloth. Pressure. Whisper something soft. You don’t remember what. It helps, for now. But it’s only one man. And the station is a ruin. You’ve learned nothing. The chaos hums, waiting. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Move on to the rest of the wounded">> <<goto [[Doctor - First Triage]]>> <</button>> </div>
Beneath the tree, a man in bloodstained sleeves smokes a clay pipe like this were a Sunday picnic. “Don’t fret,” he tells you. “Most of ’em die, anyway. Trick’s to look busy. I find a bit of pipeweed helps steady the hand.” He laughs, a wet, phlegmy thing, and points to a pile of discarded limbs. You nod, say nothing, and walk away. Whatever he is, you’ll not learn anything useful here. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Step away and take charge yourself">> <<goto [[Doctor - First Triage]]>> <</button>> </div>
You crouch beside your satchel and draw out the battered leather folio, flipping past sketches of splints and poultices, field remedies and fever charts. Halfway through, a treatise stares up at you: Sir John Pringle. “Observations on the Diseases of the Army.” You’d meant to read it properly someday. Now, with the air thick with screams and smoke, you read. Drainage. Separation of the wounded. Clean water if you can find it. Burn cloths after use. Let the dying die, but save those who might live. You read it all. And when you rise, you are not the same. <<set $readPringle to true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Close the journal and begin your work">> <<goto [[Doctor - First Triage]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<if $readPringle is true>> You rip cloth, boil what water you can, shout orders like you’ve done this a hundred times. You haven’t. But the book in your mind has. Patients are sorted: bleeding first, fevered next, the dying left for prayer. The woman from earlier returns with clean linen. Someone else brings a saw. You guide them all. By dusk, the chaos has shape. You’ve saved more than you lost. A sergeant clasps your arm. “We’d be hauling corpses if not for you.” <<set $triageSuccess to true>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Step outside to wash the blood from your hands">> <<goto [[Doctor - Dusk Praise]]>> <</button>> </div> <<else>> You try to do everything at once. Your hands shake. Your voice fails. One patient vomits on the cloths. Another bleeds out while you’re arguing over a splint. No one knows who’s in charge. A boy screams for his brother. You never found him. The surgeon under the tree has vanished. You realize too late what should’ve been done differently. Someone mutters, “He’s no doctor.” You pretend not to hear it. <<set $triageSuccess to false>> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Step outside to clear your head">> <<goto [[Doctor - Dusk Doubt]]>> <</button>> </div> <</if>>
You lean against the orchard fence, hands red to the wrist, too tired to tremble. The breeze carries the smell of woodsmoke and sweat. Inside, someone hums a hymn again, a different one now, softer, steadier. A corporal hands you a flask. “You did good,” he says. “We’d have been lost without you.” You nod, unsure whether to feel pride or guilt. Above you, the branches bloom white. Pear blossoms. Even now. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Chapter 2 - Doctor]]>> <</button>> </div>
You wash your hands in the stream behind the orchard, watching blood swirl like wine in the current. The water runs cold. It takes forever. It never clears. A wounded man limps past, supported by a friend. He does not meet your eyes. You wonder what might’ve changed if you’d read more. Asked more. Done something differently. Behind you, the orchard is quiet now. You are not sure if that’s good or bad <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Chapter 2 - Doctor]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $chapter to "Doctor2">> <<audio "doctor1" stop>> <<audio "DCh2" play>> <span class="fade-in-title">CHAPTER TWO</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">The Invasion of Quebec</span> April 19th, 1775. At Concord, blood soaked through bandages faster than orders could be shouted. The British retreat turned the countryside into a gauntlet, with skirmishes flaring in barns, behind fences, and the winding roads back to Boston. Nearly 4,000 militiamen pressed the column from both flanks. The King’s army left 73 dead, 174 wounded, and 26 missing. Among the rebels, 49 were killed, 39 wounded. Numbers that bled into tents like yours — field stations lashed together with canvas and luck. You saw firsthand how the war was not only fought in fields, but in aid stations, amputations, and cold silence when the inevitable happened. It was not the last time. By summer, the Continental Congress authorized an audacious push northward: the Invasion of Quebec. Its purpose was to bring the people of Canada into the rebellion and deny the British a northern stronghold. Two forces were raised: one led by General Richard Montgomery, advancing along the Lake Champlain corridor; the other under Colonel Benedict Arnold, threading through the Maine wilderness toward the St. Lawrence. You traveled with Arnold — through marshes, over frozen peaks, across the Kennebec and Dead Rivers. By the time you reached the outskirts of Quebec in November, half the column was dead or unfit to fight. Starvation. Exposure. Disease. But winter would not wait. Nor would the British. The siege had begun. <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Continue">><<goto [[Doctor - Interlude: Towards Quebec]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "DCh2" stop>> <<audio "doctor2" volume 0.50 loop play>> Autumn. 1775. Ahead lies Quebec City. High walls. British garrison. A fortified symbol of empire. The idea is simple: take it, and the Canadians may rise. Fail, and the rebellion dies cold and forgotten in the snow. You approach the surgeon’s camp for assignment. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Doctor - Quebec Assignment]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<if $triageSuccess is true>> The camp reeks of sweat, spirits, and boiled bark. A thin man in officer’s stripes greets you with a tired nod. “You’re the one from Concord, yes?” He gestures to a ragged tent. “We’ve no time for ceremony. You’re our new surgeon. Supplies are scarce. Men are sicker than they look. Do what you can — and if you’ve got miracles, now’s the time.” Inside, a cot collapses under a man shaking with fever. Another vomits into a tin bowl. The third just stares. There’s work to do. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Enter the tent">> <<goto [[Doctor - Smallpox Looms]]>> <</button>> </div> <<else>> The surgeon’s tent sags in the wind like a drunk old man — which is fitting, as its occupant turns out to be both. “Ah! Reinforcements!” the man croaks, squinting at you with one eye closed. “I was told I’d be getting help.” He waves vaguely at the wreckage of crates and bandages. “I need my tinctures organized. Or maybe it was the poultices. Or the rum. Where’s the rum?” You don’t answer. You just take your place. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Enter the tent">> <<goto [[Doctor - Winter Rot]]>> <</button>> </div> <</if>>
<<set $chapter to "DoctorBad">> The tent stinks of spirits and spoiled meat. Your superior snores under a pile of furs, a flask still in hand. No patients tonight — only the cold, and the moaning of men trying not to die. You do what you can. A poultice here. A whispered prayer there. No system. No hope. Outside, the wind howls like a curse. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Doctor - Quebec Battle Orders]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<set $chapter to "DoctorGood">> The fever cases multiply. At first, you think it’s exhaustion. Or cold. But then the blisters rise — angry, pustular. The unmistakable signs of smallpox. A scout confirms what you feared: a dead man in another unit was found covered head to toe. You stand in the half-light of the tent, looking down at a sleeping corporal. On his neck, the rash begins. The others will be next. You must act. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Begin immediate inoculation with what tools you have">> <<goto [[Doctor - Inoculate the Camp]]>> <</button>> <<button "Isolate the sick to attempt containment">> <<goto [[Doctor - Isolate and Wait]]>> <</button>> <<button "Do nothing yet — it's too soon to tell">> <<goto [[Doctor - Wait and Watch]]>> <</button>> </div>
You boil your scalpel. Mix scrapings from the pustules into shallow wounds. A risky method, primitive variolation, but it’s the only hope. Some protest. Others weep. You press on. Men grow sick. Some very sick. But over the next week, fewer fall ill than expected. The tide turns. When the British cannon roar down from the walls of Quebec, the sick can stand. The camp does not collapse. A letter from Putnam arrives with a seal of thanks. They call you the “Angel of the Frozen North.” <<set $doctorEnding to "survived_saved_many">> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Doctor - Reflection: Saved Many]]>> <</button>> </div>
You order the sick moved into a separate tent. Straw burned. Bedding discarded. But the frost is deep, and firewood is scarce. The sick freeze faster than they heal. And the healthy, already weak, begin coughing two days later. You try. God knows, you try. By week’s end, half the camp is dead. But you are not. The army limps forward, but your name is a whisper. A warning. <<set $doctorEnding to "survived_lost_many">> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Doctor - Reflection: Lost Many]]>> <</button>> </div>
You hesitate. Order no action. By the third day, a drummer collapses mid-step. On the fourth, the old scout is dead in his blankets. On the fifth, your own skin begins to itch. The rash is unmistakable. You collapse in the snow beside the tent flap, arms wrapped around your chest. You think of Concord. Of the orchard. Of pear blossoms. Then nothing. <<set $doctorEnding to "died_of_smallpox">> <div class="choice-box"> <<button "This can't be it!?">> <<goto [[Doctor - Reflection: Died]]>> <</button>> </div>
The war will remember Quebec for its failure. But not all who fought there failed. You live. And so do dozens who would not have, but for you. They will carry your name like a talisman. Some will write it in letters home. One will carve it into a tree by the Kennebec — “Doc saved us here.” It's better than glory. It's life. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto [[Doctor - Good Ending]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "doctor2" stop>> <<audio "DocYSG" play>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You live to fight another day.</span> The siege failed. The walls of Quebec stood tall into the spring. But inside the camp, something else held. You took the risk. With only a few scalpels, a flask of alcohol, and half a dozen pustules scraped from a dying man’s skin, you practiced what was still feared by most: inoculation. It was a crude form of variolation, introducing the virus into shallow wounds, in the hope the body would learn to fight it. Among the soldiers you treated, far fewer died than in other regiments. Your station became a haven, even as frostbite blackened feet and dysentery ran wild in the trenches. Your efforts didn’t end the war. But they saved lives. And they pointed toward what would come. In 1777, just a year later, General George Washington — after witnessing the devastation of smallpox firsthand — issued a bold order: the mass inoculation of all Continental troops who had not yet contracted the disease. It was one of the first widespread military inoculation campaigns in history. The results were profound, as infection rates dropped. Entire regiments were spared. And from there, the path widened. Edward Jenner’s vaccine arrived in 1796. By the mid-1800s, smallpox was no longer the scourge it had once been. And in 1980, the World Health Organization declared it eradicated. But in 1775, in a snowy tent outside Quebec, you didn’t know any of that. You only knew the fevered eyes in front of you. And the shaking hands that needed hope. You gave them both. <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "doctor2" stop>> The snow has melted. The river runs high again. You walk alone near the ruins of the camp. So many names you never learned. So many men you could not save. You lived. But you carry a graveyard with you. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "It's unbearable">> <<goto [[Doctor - Neutral Ending]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "doctor2" stop>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You survived, but at what cost?!</span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
They buried you beneath a frozen pine. No marker. No prayers. Just a shallow trench and a soldier’s silence. Someone said you were brave. Someone else said nothing. History will not remember you. But for a moment, in the ice and the blood, you tried. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "R.I.P.">> <<goto [[Doctor - Bad Ending]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "doctor2" stop>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You died and will never be spoken of again. </span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
The order comes before dawn. “Every able body to the walls,” a sergeant barks. “We storm before sunrise.” You’re handed a bandage roll and a dull blade. “Do what you can, son. God willing, some’ll walk back.” The surgeon is nowhere to be found. You join the column, not as a soldier, yet not quite a doctor. Something in between, maybe? <div class="choice-box"> <<button "March into the storm">> <<goto [[Doctor - Quebec Assault]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "doctor2" stop>> <<audio "battlebreakout" loop play>> Snow drives hard into your eyes. The wind claws your throat. You see little. Hear less. A volley cracks overhead. Someone screams. You press a cloth to a wound, but the man is already gone. A cannon bursts against the stone above. Splinters of ice and iron tear through the ranks. You fall. Rise. Stagger. Bleed. And then — quiet. Retreat. Smoke curling through ruined streets. You survived the battle. But something else is coming. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Return to the camp">> <<goto [[Doctor - The Epidemic]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "battlebreakout" stop>> <<audio "doctor2" loop play>> You return to find the camp dying. Smallpox, or something worse. The surgeon lies facedown in the snow, arm black with rot. No one moved him. You tend to who you can. Burn what you must. But you’re coughing now. Dizzy. The sores rise slowly, cruelly, like winter flowers. You know what comes next. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Push through and cling to life">> <<goto [[Doctor - Reflection: Scarred Survivor]]>> <</button>> <<button "Find another doctor somewhere">> <<goto [[Doctor - Reflection: Aide Dies]]>> <</button>> </div>
Your face will never be the same. One eye weeps constantly. Your skin, pitted and cracked. The others avoid your gaze, but salute you just the same. You lived through what killed the rest. They say you're lucky. You don't feel lucky. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "This isn't a life worth living">> <<goto [[Doctor - Ending Maimed]]>> <</button>> </div>
It is not the bullets that kill you. Not even the disease. It is the filth. The hunger. The cold that seeps into the bones and never leaves. When they find you, your eyes are open. Staring into snow. Waiting for spring. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "R.I.P.">> <<goto [[Doctor - Worst Ending]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "doctor2" stop>> <<audio "DocYSM" play>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You survived, but at what cost?!</span> You lived, but the scars never left your skin or your mind. The epidemic that swept through the American camp outside Quebec in the winter of 1775–76 claimed more lives than British muskets ever could. Blistered bodies. Fevered eyes. The groans at night. The silence in the morning. Of the roughly 1,200 men who reached the city with Arnold, fewer than 600 would remain fit for duty by spring. Smallpox, dysentery, typhus — the unseen enemies — were as lethal as the redcoats atop the walls. In the broader Revolutionary War, historians estimate that two-thirds of all deaths in the Continental Army were caused by disease, rather than battle. In some campaigns, the figure rose above 70%. Contagion thrived in cramped tents, among unwashed tools, spoiled meat, and shared blankets. Clean camp conditions were often the only barrier between life and plague. The simple act of separating the sick from the healthy — a lesson written down by men like dr. Pringle — was not yet doctrine, merely advice. And too often, it came too late. Doctors like you were few. Most regiments had none. Many suffered under the hands of untrained barbers, apothecaries, or butchers. The men who survived remembered your name, because you did all you could. That was sometimes all the difference in the world. <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "doctor2" stop>> <span class="fade-in-title">The End</span> <span class="fade-in-sub">You died and will never be spoken of again. </span> <div class="chapter-button"> <<button "Start Over">><<goto [[Intro]]>><</button>> </div>
<<audio "battlebreakout" stop>> <<audio "runambience" loop play>> You sprint beside an overturned hay-wagon, lungs raw, your scar aching under the musket strap. Gunners on the warships reload—black silhouettes against gun-port fire—and the interval between flashes sounds like a clock that means to end you. To the east a salt-marsh hollow promises cover—and, if luck holds, a skiff tied to a half-buried pier. Behind you, Breed’s Hill still roars; somewhere in that smoke the New Hampshire boy you shoved clear might have survived to fight another day. You won't find out. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Dive into the marsh—escape by water">> <<goto [[Harbor Escape - Daytime]]>> <</button>> </div>
<<audio "runambience" stop>> As the attack on Breed's Hill roars in the background, the dawn is only just giving way to day. The tide sighs against pilings; tar ropes creak like doors that know your secret. As you reach the pier, you take a quick look back to where the some is rising on the horizon. Sweat drips down your face, your Lexington scar suddenly burning with shame. You shove off anyway. Oar-locks groan while powder flashes still prick the heights behind you. Each flash reveals men scrambling at Breed’s Hill—figures you shared cider with, men who might soon curse your name. The wind carries a faint cheer or a scream—you cannot tell which. Boston beckons westward like lighthouse in mist. Salt spray stings your face, mingling with the taste of iron and regret. <div class="choice-box"> <<button "Row into exile">> <<goto [[Ending - Desertion]]>> </button>> </div>