The frail old man waited in a small, cramped room not unlike those precursor to doctor visits. Over the course of several hours, he had waited more or less patiently, drifting in and out of a light sleep. Whenever his back pain worsened, a few pain pills washed down with a strange, purple liquid in a flask on his leg would provide some relief.
The other men and women in the room, few as they are, eyed him with curiosity. Old as he was, he made for a rather rare eyesore in any military organization. They saw him as one with the wreath of death wrapped around his neck; the Commissar's weapon already smoking over his crumpled body. As time passed, each of them was summoned, and seen no more. Sometimes they would vanish from the room only to be followed by the sound of a gunshot. Some fared better, and made their way elsewhere to a future of glorious service.
After the quantity of applicants had dwindled, the man looked down at his old, gnarled hands wryly. He turned the ring on his finger, eyes twinkling, recalling some distant chain of events with a soft smile. Turning his eyes to the door, he pondered his reasons for being here. Perhaps, if the Commissar was young and rash, he would be killed for his age alone. His life flashed, as it had so many times in the past, before his eyes. Shaking his head, however, he dismissed the notion. What would happen would happen, when the time came.
