"You can't come, Sidney," Carl said, laughing wryly but without humor. "Please don't make this more difficult than it already is. We're not going on a picnic, it's real life situation!."
I crossed my arms stubbornly. "Have you forgotten how good I am at martial arts? Why are you doubting that I would be the best fit?"
"Sidney, come on," he sighed, rubbing his temple. "This isn't a dojo. It's not a competition match or a bar fight. It's war. You can't go."
"I can. Let them test me and see that I'm fit. I'll join your team."
Carl stared at me, exasperated. "First off, you're not even a soldier. Second, it's not as easy as you think. There's protocol, structure, years of training."
He turned and walked toward his room. I followed.
And that's when I saw it—his room, or rather, his war sanctuary. Lining the walls were rows of weapons, all gleaming under the LED lighting. Pistols, assault rifles, tactical gear. It was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
