[ TT ] You are a nazi stormtrooper combing the streets the remaining jews when you come across a little boy who reminds you of your son . The year ; 1951 . The place ; Atlanta , Georgia .

The constant moaning is what weighs on the mind the most. One can not escape it. Upon every street you find its tattered and hopeless residents. All presenting their audible pain as if a cry for mercy. Pain of the body. Pain of soul. 
 
 The pain he was tasked with inflicting. The pain he also shared. 
 
 He was n't an evil man, though one could gather quite the opposite upon first glance. Tall, dark. Muscles filling the fabric of his black uniform, filling the fabric of the red arm band, filling the hateful swastika. All helping to present the air of violence. The air of pain. The air he himself could hardly breath. That is precisely what divided him from evil. The hatred of this air. The hatred of himself. 
 
 The hate would grow on this night. One street corner away. 
 
 He found him there, with his prominent nose quivering in fear. A pitiful attempt at resistance. He had hidden himself in a rotting crate. Ten years old, but Jewish nonetheless. 
 
 `` You have caused quite a wild goose chase tonight have n't you'' 
 
 A single tear carved it's way down the boys cheek. It was in that tear he found his own boy. Around the same age when he had too cried, for a father going off to war. How he would cry now if he knew what his father had become. What he was about to do. 
 
 Yet another tear fell, accompanied from the distinctive crack of the Luger. 
 
 There he sat, with only the dead for company, drowning in the air. Drowning in the pain.
