/lit/ - Literature

We rushed forward, bullets whizzing around us. I lifted up my Russian issued AK pattern gun and fired off into the hohols. I could see the zogbots writhing as they hit, and I swore their blood was rainbow colored. My political office was a tall, broad chested Russian from the Eastern oblasts. He had goofy, brown slanted eyes that made him look like a steppe nomad from legend.

We called him Khan. Commissar Khan.

He urged us on through the darkness and another muzzle flash sounded. "For Trump and Texas!" I yelled, firing from the hip. Two hohols bought it, they were draped in a Nazi flag as I took them down.

"Fascista!" Yelled my comrade, a Russian volunteer in the Texas Separatist Militia as he plunged into the enemy trench line.

The few hohols left rushed the trench, firing in all directions. A few of our guys got hit, and I remember taking a shit through the knee. That one hurt.

"God, Texas!" "Putin!" "Death to globohomo!" Our battlecries were lifted as the hohols were sent reeling back.

Wounded, I managed to prime a grenade and tossed it over the lip as a hohol ran back. He wasn't quick enough. The shrapnel disembowled him and fell face forward.

The Khan saw me and gave me a small pat and a wink. I'd done my my duty, for God, Trump, Putin, and Texas. For Mother Russia. I knew I was home.

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(we are currently designing a propaganda short novella to try and recruit, rough excerpt from the first chapter)