[e11even]

The coarse threads in his hood bled light as he was led right into a shelter that shed night.
The hood was torn off, exposing the bright lamps to his red eyes and dead sight.
"Everyone say hi to Sergeant Patrick, the Army of one!" said the fat, slovenly one.
The robed and masked figures ***kled aloud, all carrying guns married with drums.
There were four other captives, all badly battered in slumps, their souls a massacred sum.
Blood spots littered about the trash with rats scattering. The claw clatter rattled the hut.
The six captors left, leaving the survivors to their devices, all but one nearly lifeless.
"Hang in there guys. Keep resisting... We might survive this!" but Patrick hadn't the slightest.
He was a sniper with academy nods and gun range badges much like them.
And though he was nice with his sights pitched, he didn't quite understand his plight. "Bitch!"
A captor entered, lifting a female, gripping her throat. He spat in her face, and as he listened, she choked.
The terror was palpable, and though the captor was laughing, this wasn't nearly a joke
"You're getting interrogated and poked!" Goaded the shrouded figure, as she dragged by a rope.
Minutes went by, the screaming intensified. He was slowly letting go of his hope
The pummeling sounds followed a muffled question in a revolving pattern.
"She won't answer!" his morale was lasting. But just how flattered would she be if he asked her?
"How was it? Nah, no. Shut up." even in peril he was attempting to bag her.
Just as he heard laughter, BANG. A sack fell. She never came back after.
Two days passed and all four captives got their brains blasted. It was insanely tragic.
He was the main attraction. They saved him for last to drain him of his information and passion.
"Well, look who it is! Damon Patrick to save the masses! You infidels are made to be trained as asses."
He played ball. He stared down the cloaked maniacs of the unknown faction. They just laughed at him.
"Your comrades are but souls floating in their ashes in this room. Why should you live?"
He froze. "Why should I live? I never helped anyone. Playing hero got me into this shit."
"Too late, Infidel! Now, it is talk or give your limbs for the cause you are in! What unit?!"
"What?!" The room spun and anxiety hit. Fight or flight, hero or wimp. "Suck my dick!"
The captors explode into uproarious laughter as they all pull out cigars and their clips.
"John Wayne has fortitude!" Four held him down face-first, ground under his chin.
With his arms bound behind him, "Here we go. Fingers, then his... TIP!"
The laughter suddenly stopped and the clip was around his thumb.
"No! Wait! Umm, ok, ok! My sergeant... these coordinates, these slums...
This address... these trucks, these snipers, these bunkers, these humps..."
The chatter began, but in a different accent. With different vocabulary from the inhabitants.
The hoods came off... it was all the captors and the captives! "That's it..."
"What do you mean? This was an exercise? A fucking pageant?!"
"No, trainee. This was an initiation into an alliance faction of the baddest.
This is NAVSEC. A secret firm of blackwater ops, and you were our last test.
Now we have to kill you. Treason's punishable by death in the field."
"But...?" He was so shocked and so thrilled. He wanted his whole life for this to be real.
"But what, Patrick?" Said the female, suddenly hotter than the first time she sat next to him...
"A wise man once said, 'If a man has not discovered something he will die for, he isn't fit to live."
She pulled out a magnum .44 and blew his brains out... at the last minute. The End.