But you see, it's not me, it's not my family.
In your head, in your head, they are fighting.
With their tanks and their bombs,
And their bombs and their guns.
In your head, in your head, they are crying.
Were they really doing the right thing now?
Going out... Killing hundreds of men who were out there for the same purpose as them: to protect their rights. Perhaps they were all merely brainwashed. Mindless zombies who would do whatever they were told. Each day the death toll in the warring countries rose and rose, and the bodies of soldiers littered across battlefields and ruined cities. Friends. Brothers in arms. People who just wanted their citizen's freedom. Blood was on everyone's hands, but for what price? What were they getting from so much death and destruction?
The masked man stepped carefully through the trees while he pondered this. The Russian village behind him and his troop went up in flames. The citizens were all dead. Did he really just perform an act of pure terrorism? Before the attack he had noticed a flash of discomfort over his captain's face. Perhaps he felt the same about it. Squinting out onto the terrain blanketed by thick white snow from behind his darkened red sunglasses he let out a sigh.
After the attack it had been completely silent. It may have been a message to the Russians that their own act had not been well-received, but it would only fuel tension between countries. Ghost caught the eye of his best friend and sergeant, and went to the other's side as they creeped along. Roach looked up and shot a sniper from a far off tree, then glanced at the lieutenant and shared a knowing glance with him. All they did now was run from hiding spot to hiding spot, through a rain of bullets, shrapnel, and dust, killing innocents and other soldiers, with the sounds of gunshots and explosions, screams and shouts, filling their ears. A decrepit frown crawled over Roach's face and in unison both men asked:
"Why?"