Eternity RPC Board
01-21-2017, 04:35 AM
Amrun stood stark still in a line with several older men, his rifle shouldered in the usual pseudo-military fashion his trainers had drilled into him over the past weeks. Short and wiry with a baby-clean face, he contrasted greatly with nearly all of the other men, the stocky men, the bearded men, the men with leathery bronze skin from decades of toiling under the hot Galasian sun.
Throughout his childhood, Amrun listened silently to the hushed discontent of his fathers, his friends' fathers, his grandfathers; the humiliation of using foreign words to talk about your own home, the continued occupation from the western pocket of the "country," the second-class treatment and constant reminders of subjugation and who your "betters" were. The antagonism was constant, yet fighting against it was pointless, as you had no rights, you were just mules to put profits into the pockets of western imperialists. You were expendable, a worthless brown savage in a savage brown land.
Not that they would do anything about it, of course. At least, not until the coup.
Amrun didn't know anything about "artificial states" or "illegitimate governments" and all that other intellectual-speak to help lesser-willed people find a voice, a loud cacophony of hollow words barked from mouths with no teeth. Likewise, he didn't think much of the holy struggle, finding the entire idea of being so willing to die and be in heaven quite counterproductive to making a better life for oneself down here on the ground, but what he did know was that life in so-called "Eastmarch" under the western government was actually rather shit: being told what you could or could not be, could or could not do, as a brown man born in the "East." So, when armed Rojadavi forces took control of the area around his village and began asking for volunteers, preaching their message of freedom and self-determination for all Rojadavi peoples, the boy secretly left home, lied to a recruiter about his age - not that the man particularly seemed to care on that point - and spent the last few weeks learning how to not be a scrawny little boy.
"So you think you're ready to fight now, huh? You think you're ready to kill? Well, I'll see to that. By the time I'm done with you, you'll each be worth at least a thousand men." Some of the other men shifted a bit; Amrun hoisted his battered second-hand rifle and licked his chapped lips, his eyes following the man as he paced along the line. He introduced himself as their live-fire target instructor, Shapur Rostami, a "fellow volunteer" with a peculiar name and a funny way of pronouncing certain vowels that just felt a little...off.
The man had hawklike features and a carefully manicured beard that drew Amrun's attention as he talked, giving the group a thorough explanation of what they were about to do.
"...get all that?"
Somewhere in the motions, Shapur stopped in front of the boy and looked down at him expectantly. Amrun blinked, swallowed heavily and nodded, "Of course."
The man smirked slightly under his beard, a most uncomfortable expression for Amrun, who looked instead at the targets down range. "Good, then you can go first."
The boy nodded, his lips pursed against the dry air and eyes squinting against the sun as he slowly stepped up to his firing station. He knew the target was only about maybe 25 meters away, but in the heat it felt like 250 as he readied his rifle and brought it to bear, spearing his body as he'd been taught. It felt rather weird, just the thought of standing there with such a deadly weapon in his hands. Sure, it was just a target now, but eventually it would be a person down there against whom he'd be aiming these sights, a person who had friends, family, dreams of a better tomorrow, and he would be expected to put a bullet through all of that.
Amrun blinked away the hallucination, wondering if it was a trick of heat or conscience. The target was a target, nothing more, nothing less. As he steadied his breath and pulled the trigger - shoot, pause, aim; shoot, pause, aim - the thouhts ebbed away, his conscience growing lighter with each squeeze. After all, he was there to only see himself free of western oppression, so there was no possible way he'd have any reason to aim this rifle at anyone other than terrible enemies, right?
Throughout his childhood, Amrun listened silently to the hushed discontent of his fathers, his friends' fathers, his grandfathers; the humiliation of using foreign words to talk about your own home, the continued occupation from the western pocket of the "country," the second-class treatment and constant reminders of subjugation and who your "betters" were. The antagonism was constant, yet fighting against it was pointless, as you had no rights, you were just mules to put profits into the pockets of western imperialists. You were expendable, a worthless brown savage in a savage brown land.
Not that they would do anything about it, of course. At least, not until the coup.
Amrun didn't know anything about "artificial states" or "illegitimate governments" and all that other intellectual-speak to help lesser-willed people find a voice, a loud cacophony of hollow words barked from mouths with no teeth. Likewise, he didn't think much of the holy struggle, finding the entire idea of being so willing to die and be in heaven quite counterproductive to making a better life for oneself down here on the ground, but what he did know was that life in so-called "Eastmarch" under the western government was actually rather shit: being told what you could or could not be, could or could not do, as a brown man born in the "East." So, when armed Rojadavi forces took control of the area around his village and began asking for volunteers, preaching their message of freedom and self-determination for all Rojadavi peoples, the boy secretly left home, lied to a recruiter about his age - not that the man particularly seemed to care on that point - and spent the last few weeks learning how to not be a scrawny little boy.
"So you think you're ready to fight now, huh? You think you're ready to kill? Well, I'll see to that. By the time I'm done with you, you'll each be worth at least a thousand men." Some of the other men shifted a bit; Amrun hoisted his battered second-hand rifle and licked his chapped lips, his eyes following the man as he paced along the line. He introduced himself as their live-fire target instructor, Shapur Rostami, a "fellow volunteer" with a peculiar name and a funny way of pronouncing certain vowels that just felt a little...off.
The man had hawklike features and a carefully manicured beard that drew Amrun's attention as he talked, giving the group a thorough explanation of what they were about to do.
"...get all that?"
Somewhere in the motions, Shapur stopped in front of the boy and looked down at him expectantly. Amrun blinked, swallowed heavily and nodded, "Of course."
The man smirked slightly under his beard, a most uncomfortable expression for Amrun, who looked instead at the targets down range. "Good, then you can go first."
The boy nodded, his lips pursed against the dry air and eyes squinting against the sun as he slowly stepped up to his firing station. He knew the target was only about maybe 25 meters away, but in the heat it felt like 250 as he readied his rifle and brought it to bear, spearing his body as he'd been taught. It felt rather weird, just the thought of standing there with such a deadly weapon in his hands. Sure, it was just a target now, but eventually it would be a person down there against whom he'd be aiming these sights, a person who had friends, family, dreams of a better tomorrow, and he would be expected to put a bullet through all of that.
Amrun blinked away the hallucination, wondering if it was a trick of heat or conscience. The target was a target, nothing more, nothing less. As he steadied his breath and pulled the trigger - shoot, pause, aim; shoot, pause, aim - the thouhts ebbed away, his conscience growing lighter with each squeeze. After all, he was there to only see himself free of western oppression, so there was no possible way he'd have any reason to aim this rifle at anyone other than terrible enemies, right?