His heart raced, the balaclava was moist around his mouth, and the sweat at his brow was running down his nose. The exhilaration of being a part of his cause gave him such a pride, that he'd happily die. He inched around the rooms of the house, eye trained behind the iron-sights.
His heart and his world froze as he understood exactly what just happened. He stood still for what felt like a day, as his eyes crept to his right, and found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun, wielded by a haggard looking man on the floor. The man's eyes drooped - weary, a warrior who had seen monstrosities for too long. He stared back with his eyes alight, calculating what to do. Checkmate was not in his vocabulary.
The man spoke, "Don't sweat it kid, you'll be alright. I remember what it was like, standing up." His words slurred, only slightly - his choice of words was precise.
"You're in more control than you think, kid. Be who you are, for you."
The youth's mouth opened, and closed, gawking. His hands were clammy, still gripping his rifle.
"We #ed up, kid. We all did. We let it get like this. We never really could see, and we only further blinded ourselves.
"There are no winners in this game. I pray for you."
The youth watched motionless, without flinching, as the haggard old man's eyes rolled, shifting his handgun. He slumped further against the wall, as he opened his mouth, swallowed his gun, and pulled the trigger.
He was free now.
The youth stood, as old man’s message ran down the plasterboard behind his skull, lifeless eyes staring at the sunset. With a sigh, the boy pivoted, left the room, and vacated the house. It was not his job, nor was it necessary to think anymore; he couldn't. He checked his weapon, and walked on with the rest of his group, looking for the solution to everything.
edit on 29-5-2012 by derpest because: (no reason given)