Nazism, Oppression, Dictatorship
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Nazism, Oppression, Dictatorship
The new recruit walked slowly towards the weapons rack, pensive and uneasy. Two days it had been since the terrorist organization named "Nazism, Oppression, Dictatorship" (NOD) had recruited him, and he felt distinctly out of place. Around him the camp was busy, men in combat fatigues were cleaning rifles, loading magazines and tuning engines on jeeps. A raid was coming up, somewhere in Italy, the camp rumor had it. The recruit did not care about that. He was new, green and everywhere he looked he saw men who looked like they belonged there. His uneasy walk and clear nervousness betrayed his inner feelings.
"So, what\'ll it be?". A simple question, but one which cut deep into the heart of the young man. He wanted to fight, to feel the intense rush and heat of battle, but he didn\'t know how to do it. Racks upon racks of weapons greeted him, overwhelming his senses, and for a few moments he questioned why he was there.
Then the flashbacks hit him, crashing into his consciousness like waves against a rocky shore. His house, burning, government troops laughing as they held his 8 year old sister down, raping her repeatedly before they threw her into the flames. It had been 5 years, but the ash, the charred flesh, and the acrid stink of cordite and gunpowder still smelt as if it had been yesterday.
His mind came back, and his eyes traveled over the weapons before him. How best to seek revenge? How best to place the bullet that contained his hatred through the hearts of his enemies? A pistol suddenly materialized in his hand. He looked up to see the gruff drill instructor, normally a somber man, smiling.
"Don\'t worry kid, I was once the same. Couldn\'t choose, everyone here had the problem. You just gotta find whats good for you".
With that, he walked off, and the recruit examined the pistol he had been given. Silver, long, and heavy, he raised it and tried looking down the sights. He pulled the trigger, feeling the pressure. No bullets, but he felt as if he could use this weapon.
But something felt wrong. He lined up a trainee on the other side of the camp. He could see the body, a head, legs, all targets, but no face. The faces of those who had wrecked his life were burned into his memory forever. Hiding in the bushes, he had seen them, laughing, gloating, killing.... Before the images could rush back though, he turned. "I want to see the face of my enemy. I want to see his pain".
The weapon sergeant sized up the recruit. Short, a bit stocky, but the eyes... the eyes were flaming, two windows into a soul tortured, bent only on revenge. This man would kill. But he would have to see them.
"Here kid. Try this on."
The gun thudded into the recruits hands. He tensed, the weapon was heavy. He looked down, and looked into his destiny. The eye stared into the scope, and the hands gripped the stock. The long barrel swung towards a target 100 feet away. The scope\'s crosshairs centered firmly on the target, and the trigger snapped back.
If any bullets had been in the weapon it would have felled the blond terrorist in an instant. As it was the gun simply clicked. But for that magical moment, the man in the crosshairs had been his. The man would have died. And the recruit knew he would have seen the pain, the shock, that announced that his target had died.
Stepping back, he flexed his arms and glanced back to the weapons sergeant. "Thank you. This will do fine". With that he turned and walked across the parade ground to begin his training.
The old sergeant watched him leave with quick, deliberate steps. His voice, cracked with age and the dust of a dozen deserts, was barely audible. Nonetheless, the young recruit though he heard what the old man had muttered.
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