It was a cold evening, as the stale air filled with debris of gunpowder and who knows what filtered throughout the grim-looking streets. Ever since the drink Coca-Cola became labeled as a hard illegal drug and a man known as Tord took control over the area— it hadn't been the same.

Many rumours floated about on why somebody like Tord would have intentions on taking over the world— most of the options were quite frankly stupid to be put in terms. The man himself was quite ruthless, after all he was the leader of "The Red Army"— he had a reputation to uphold and he couldn't let that falter or that meant losing control. Fear fuels compliance and compliance leads to easier take-overs.

Posters litter the walls of the Norwegian streets. Many were of worn-down and old " missing person" flyers— those who were lost to war or other unquestionable endings.

A lot of the other posters though were propaganda to join "The Red Army"— Tord of course was always looking for more lackeys that he could whip into lifeless obeying soliders. More soliders always meant more opportunities to take over other smaller cities and slowly make his way out.

The worn-down chair would groan in protest under Tords weight as he sat down— a cigar purchased between his fingers, barely even lit yet. He was of course in a somewhat bad mood, like usual. It wasn't often that Tord was in a tolerant mood.

“God— this is so fucking stupid, why am I even wasting resources over this?”

It was a simple question that didn't need a answer since Tord already knew why he was doing this in the first place.