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Scott crawled through the sludge, ignoring the shrapnel and dirt that rained down around him. He muttered a combination of Spanish and English as he continued to move forward, cursing both the People's Republic of North America and whatever remained of the Federal Government of the United States for being unable to find some sort of agreement between the both of them. This was the reason why he hated politicians—no one was ever able to compromise, which left the grunts like him to physically deal with their verbal disagreements.
He had yet to figure out why neither the People's Republic nor the Feds could accept a simple recount of the ballots. Instead, someone went and assassinated both candidates. And now, no one could decide who was at fault. From what he could understand, the two main political groups blamed each other and quickly took on new names to better explain what each one believed. Now, there was talk of another group, one that was disenfranchised with the way that everything was progressing. The Community...they took care of their own from everything he had heard...
A whistle filled the air and Scott looked skyward.
He pushed himself up out of the muddy muck and started to sprint. He yelled at his troops to follow. A few did, but not enough. The whistling projectile drowned out his voice, so his warnings weren't enough. A blast knocked him off his feet, sending him flying face first into the mire. He stayed there, playing dead as footsteps slopped past him. He didn’t dare to move.
It was too dangerous. If he stirred, Scott knew he was as good as dead.
As the footsteps moved away, Scott found himself wondering if the Community members had the right idea to avoid all things political right now. The field grew quiet as the death groans slowly melted into the coming dusk and Scott knew he had to make a choice.
The decision was easy; Scott waited until dark and stood before pulling off his dog tags. He was tired of the senseless fighting. It was time give the Community a chance.
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