Tweet of the Day: History Teaches Those Willing to Listen
Assault Rifle Infantry dash four point forty-four millimeter.
It is a good rifle, my rifle.
It has no name, just a designation.
I like it like that; no fancy decals, no pet nicknames, no odes to foes or friends alike.
Just a rifle, my rifle.
I strip it down and check the receiver. Get the brush and scrub it clean. Do the same with the barrel. The steel brush squeals as it flushes the groves. Time to calibrate the sights, one iron, well composite plastic alloy, one electric, with a little red dot that whispers in my mind, “Here be death,” when I place it on the target and an electronic sight, trans-spectrum soft light IR that lets me see at night as well as day. That one drinks batteries like a sailor on shore leave.
Check the magazine. It holds sixty rounds of 4.44 mm iron shell/liquid metal core. The tech heads tell us that the liquid metal hardens when it comes into contact with hardened material, such as concrete or armor do to friction. All I know is that when I pull the trigger, three bullets go out and the target goes down.
Nicks crisscross the stock, might need a new one soon, but I will keep it. It has as many scars as me.
I inspect every piece, I check every bolt. Everything snaps back together with satisfying clicks.
Basic soldering, drill into you in Basic. Saves your life on the field.
Doesn’t matter if you are a Para, Mech, or Marine.
This is my rifle.
This is my tool.
From Latoum to Vaegras through Jump City and Marathon.
This is all I am.
This is all I need.