My grandfather fought for the motherland in the Great Patriotic War when he was younger than I am now. He spent two years living in a grave, surrounded by dead men who clung to life only because the Party required it and who pushed the Nazis back until the Hammer and Sickle flew over all of Europe, from London to Warsaw.
When the call came for the brightest and most patriotic sons of the motherland to take to the stars, I joined up in a heartbeat. My father was proud, the day I said goodbye from behind the glass of the quarantine enclosure, suited up and ready to lay claim to another land.
Millions were dying. Starving in American cities that had never recovered from the War after sending every man they had to fight the German machines of war. They tried to compete, sending men crashing to the moon with the whole world watching.
I landed. Alone. Further from Man than any human before. The flag hung proudly, the low gravity and weak wind causing only a slight flutter, the better for the vacuum tubes back home to show the footage. I stood and saluted and listened to the pre-recorded tape from the Party Leader and felt my chest swell.
And then I began the preparations for my death. The hole must be dug deep enough the wind would not reveal it. The rich red soil, so apt it brought a tear to the eye, was rigged to slide in. And the needle. There. Waiting in the pod for me to pierce the tube in my suit, drive it deep into bloodstream and make one last sacrifice.
The time had come. The logs had been sent. The messages recorded. I lay in my grave, staring out at the sky through an oubliette a half metre wide and thanked my grandfather for his life, his passion and his patriotism.
The needle sank in. The dirt fell down. And I lay to rest as the first Red man on Mars.
Prompt originally posted by Carpe_DMT on reddit and received 3 upvotes.