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ig binary option The Pawn had grown up like every other boy—collecting army man action figures, watching award-winning war movies, and playing soldier with the other kids in his neighborhood. He worshiped combat veterans like religious figures, eager for the day young boys would run up to him on the street and praise him for his service. He loved his King and Queen more than he loved his own parents—more than he loved himself. He was a born-and-raised nationalist, and by the tender age of twelve he had already made up his mind to enlist when he was old enough. At night, his dreams were filled with boot camp and victories and medals.
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erfahrungen binäre optionen And he believed them. Which is why as soon as he turned eighteen, he marched his gangly body into the recruiting station and signed himself up for the war. They shipped him off almost immediately. The Pawn felt immeasurably lucky; he couldn’t wait to finally see combat, to finally serve his King and Queen, to finally make his country as proud of him as he was of it.
i migliori opzioni binarie But his pride didn’t last a month. He had expected vigorous, in-depth training and months of boot camp, but instead his commanding officer handed him and the rest of his battalion a gun and said, “Try not to get shot.” He had expected to create lasting bonds with his fellow soldiers, but each time they went into the thick of battle fewer and fewer of them returned. He had expected honor and glory, but he found none.
Buy Tastylia Online No Prescription Needed Expendable, disposable, worthless, insignificant—that’s what he was to them. He and the rest of his battalion and countless others like them were constantly being thrown onto the front line where they were forced to skirmish with the other side’s pawns. And for what? So that the King and Queen could remain safe and content behind the gates of their golden palace, watching the bedlam from their city upon a hill, protected by the thousands of men down below who were dying waging their war?
erfahrungen mit zoomtrader Before every battle, the high-ranking officers would rally all the pawns and conduct grandiose speeches, calling the enemy every vile name they could think of and praising their boys for serving their nation.
الخيارات الثنائية - الحصول على 100 $ مجانا “It’s noble!” the Knights would say.
“It’s righteous!” the Bishops would cry.
“It’s your duty!” the Rooks would shout.
But the Pawn no longer believed them. All he wanted was to go home, to leave the war behind forever and be done with it all, but he knew he could only move forward, never back. They would never let him leave, not while there were still pawns to kill, not unless he was leaving in a bag. And if he didn’t die on the field, he’d be captured by the enemy, and he wasn’t sure which was worse.
As he stood there on the battleground, his weapon gripped tightly in his hands, he knew he could not take another step forward. The idea of raising his gun against another pawn one more time made him nauseous. He didn’t belong here. This was not his war, and he refused to be a piece in this game any longer.
Dropping his gun, he did the unthinkable—he turned his back and ran. He ran from the whistling of falling bombs and the tck-tck-tck-tck of the machine guns and the cries of the man calling out to God. He ran from the images of motionless bodies sunk into the mud, lying limp like rag dolls. He ran from “honor” and “glory” and “bravery” and “duty.” He ran from death.
And he never looked back.