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[logical2u]

Hey all. I'm getting back a bit into my writing mood, so here's a little bit of fanfic for you to amuse you during your summers. NOTE:LOGICAL2U is NOT legally responsable for typoes, yet.

=====Chapter 0=====
===Harsh Beginnings==

I was born in a silent suburb, in 1985, of Moscow before the fall. My father, a firey souled member of the Melnikoff family, a red army soldier, trained to fight American bought and bred rebels in Afghanistan until 1988, and he told me bedtime stories of a perfect country underneath our leader, with equality for all.

Then came the fall of the wall of Berlin in the 90s, the fall of our society. Suddenly the talks were of money, and McDonalds. My father, tired and battered though he was, he had connections. He ended up selling arms, through a minor branch of a mafia, to Chechen officers during the 1st Chechen War (1994-1996), providing me and my mother with just enough money to continue sending me to school, feeding and clothing me. He told me stories of the utopia the Chechens wanted, needed, could offer. Another beautiful bedtime story.

Our family, though, was always on the edge of disaster. The war was not popular in Russia, and the 2nd Chechen War drained us of hope. We were on the wrong side then, sided with geurrillas and no longer with the popular movement as terrorist attacks struck our home country. This was no longer a job you heard about on the news: Real people, friends and family, were dying. But I trusted my father, I knew he was a good person, he would do the right thing.

A rival mafia ended up killing my father in 2001 over his delivery of an RPG System to the geurilla forces. The left a pack of semtex, a bittersweet reminded of what exactly he was doing.

I never gave up hope in what my father was doing. I never forgot his teachings of doing the right thing for the underdog. Of course, everything changed later that year.

As America's own lapdog from Afghanistan struck back at the arms dealers of oppression, I was inspired. I left my university in 2005, before I could see what sort of destruction my father's arms deals really did cause, but thankfully after I learned English and Arabic. The new languages of war.

I was bitter, but given a bit of hope when I saw posters in Arabic in Kazakhstan, talking of a new people's army. An army of liberation. I enlisted as fast as I could, and they accepted me as fast as they could when they saw the Russian made arms I had liberated from my father's last shipment.

The shipped me, and my shipment, to a desert. I remember talk of Libya, but no more beyond that.

All the fighters that I trained with were scruffy as dogs, and just a mangy. I assumed I was too. Most of them were barely boys, scarcely out of school. The drills were rigorous, and we studied the texts of old for inspiration and guidance. I scarcely took anything out of it, but they wanted me.

They took me aside later, and offered me cash for my services. Suddenly I was a mercenary. No longer a visionary, but just a cashgrubbing fighter. I accepted, but I was dismayed.

I lost track of time in the training, the studying of combat tapes, the watching of CNN as Israel and Hezbollah, one of our closest allies, danced a slow dance of combat in the valleys of the middle east.

One night I was shipped onto a captured airplane, flown who (or as my allies yell, Allah) knows where in another forsaken desert. Apparently, to an angry suburb of Iraq. Smoking cigarettes snuck into a recent UN Aid shipment by some Canadian sympathizers, I cradled the bones of this broken country, my AK47 (Trust nothing but the russians), as my young and scruffy compatriots loaded their own rifles. We were stockaded against attack by anyone, anything, but the air itself.

No one told us, though, that we'd be fighting each other. While we knew were going to be training against our enemies, our enemies turned out to be the same allies we had trained with.

We shot them all in the darkened alleyways of this abandoned town, fresh with the craters of yesterday's airstrike. Three members of my team, my allies, gone because of a cruel twist of some tactician's pen.

A doorway creeked open and a fat old man lumered into our streets in Chinese regalia. He murmured some method of a approval in what I assumed was Cantonese. Someone translated slowly.

"My name is not important, but suffice it to say I will soon be your leader. Welcome to the GLA."

===END CHAPTER===

[Hobbesy]

Awesome....................................