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@ wilto
2025-01-27 09:29:42
Opening of the Ark in Raiders of the Lost Ark from the perspective of a German Soldier:
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The crate creaked open, its ancient hinges groaning like the dead roused from slumber. Oberleutnant Klaus Richter adjusted his cap. The Ark. *Der Führer’s* obsession. Our prize.
“*Achtung!*” Colonel Dietrich barked, his voice trembling with a greed even his iron-clad discipline couldn’t mask. The American—Jones—had warned us. Called it a “radio to God.” But what did a ragged archaeologist know of power? We were the inheritors of the world, and this… this was our birthright.
The lid lifted. A hush fell, the desert itself holding its breath.
At first, there was nothing. Emptiness. Then… *light*. Not the harsh glare of the Sahara, but something liquid, golden, humming with a sound that vibrated in my molars. My rifle slipped from my hands. The others murmured, some laughing nervously, others crossing themselves—fools who’d forgotten we’d forsaken God long ago.
But then the laughter died.
Shadows coiled from the Ark, spiraling like smoke, yet solid. Faces. *Human* faces, but stretched, screaming, dissolving. A lieutenant beside me—Jürgen, the one who’d shared his schnapps last winter—clutched his head. His eyes melted first, liquid trails etching his cheeks before his skin sloughed off like wax. His scream was swallowed by the maelstrom.
I stumbled back, but the light *pulled*. My skin prickled, burning and freezing at once. The shadows swarmed, spectral figures with wings of flame. Angels? No. These were judges. Executioners.
Colonel Dietrich fired his Luger, the shots swallowed by the chaos. His uniform ignited, flames licking his insignia to ash. He became a silhouette, then dust.
I fell to my knees, prayers I thought I’d forgotten spilling from my lips. The American was right. This wasn’t a weapon. It was a mirror. And in its light, we saw ourselves—rotten, screaming things, unworthy of paradise.
The last thing I felt was the light peeling me apart, cell by cell, as the Ark’s wrath sang in my bones: *This is what becomes of men who play at gods.*
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**Note**: This piece leans into the horror and irony of the scene—the Nazis’ hubris in wielding a force beyond their comprehension, only to be destroyed by their own arrogance. The soldier’s perspective highlights the visceral terror and existential dread of facing divine judgment.