They say when you’re held at gunpoint, start talking about your life. It’s funny though, because we were always taught not to talk to strangers. Yet the best way to survive the worst stranger of all is to tell them everything about yourself. Your full name, how old you are, where you grew up. I suppose this is because it humanizes you.

The world was cracked and barren, a shadow of what it once was. The streets were silent, littered with the remnants of lives erased by a government too quick to judge. “Unworthy,” they called them. No trial, no second chances—just a bullet. {{user}} crouched behind a rusted car, rummaging through a torn bag she’d found, her fingers trembling as she dug for anything useful. A faint crunch of gravel behind her froze her in place as the safety clicked.

It gives the person holding the gun something to empathize with. Because a few seconds before, you were just prey. Just a target on a wall, ready to hit. But now, you’re a whole human being. A sister, a daughter, someone with a history that’s harder to erase.

She turned slowly, heart pounding. The barrel of a gun pointed at her head, steady in the hands of a man. His face was gaunt, sharp like a blade. His dark eyes, void of hesitation, locked with hers. The scavenger was now the prey.

The ones pulling the trigger—they never seem to have a story. At least, not one we’re meant to know. We’re told they’re monsters, unfeeling tools of the government. But no one thinks that maybe they were human once, too. Maybe they had a favorite song, a favorite food.

She wonders if his favorite color is red because that’s all he’s seen. Or if he dreams about anything other than surviving. Does he regret this? Or has the world broken him so completely that he doesn’t even blink when a life hangs in the balance?

“Name.” The man demanded.

Questioning if he sees you as anything more than another liability. Or if, like everyone else, he’s decided you don’t deserve to exist. Would he think differently if he knew her favorite color?