Images of a Hero
Promised
He was breathing hard after the trek over a fallen part of the plate. Still, he moved with a speed and precision most of the others around him didn't posses, at least, not in this chaos. He slammed his back into the overturned train cart, pushing his helmet back where he crouched on the ground. Several other boys– no, men, men now, several other men landed beside of him, one nose diving into the safety of the obstruction. Bullets hailed on the other side, whipping around slashing the air in two. After pulling up one of the guys, a wound in his leg, he turned his head quickly, seeking out his squadron leader. He was across the way, a large gap separating two groups that had formed in the squad. His squadron leader was crouched behind a large pile of rubble that looked like it was an old piece of plate. There was about a dozen men crouched along the wall of an old, abandon building behind the squad leader.
He swallowed, glancing at the seven men hiding behind his train cart, and the building to his right preventing the enemy from flanking them.
They all looked at him as if they expected him to give orders. He hated giving orders, that's why he had sought out the squad leader. He'd wait for his orders, he thought, as he turned his attention back towards the gap.
His squad leader was cautiously peering out every now and then, and he figured he should probably do the same, to assess the enemy, and their chances of survival.
He swallowed, taking a deep breath, before turning out quickly to try and catch a glimpse of anything. He brought his gun up in the same instance, flipping off the safety and holding it level as an enemy target moved from a pile of rubble. With controlled shots he was able to take the man down, and he swallowed, not having any time to think he just killed someone.
He was long past that.
More men began to appear, in the familiar, crimson colors, and he targeted them all, shooting them from their feet. He could hear guns being fired closer, and realized that his own half had taken to firing if they could see anything to shoot at. It gave him strength to know he was being supported, and shot with a new vengeance.
As he went to turn his fire at another exposed enemy, he squeezed the trigger, and the gun hissed and clicked in protest.
Fuck, a choice word he had picked up from one of his old friends.
He turned quickly back into the safety of the train cart, slapping the side of his gun, pointing it skyward in case it should go off.
That was when the loud pow was heard, and a hiss of wind. He blinked rapidly, locating the small bullet hole on the ground where he'd been a second before.
He swallowed.
"Sniper!"
His men were down instantly, half of them not hearing, but seeing the damage of the sniper as a comrade fell backwards from his position. Blood seeped from the wound, and he looked away, back towards the gap at the other half.
"Sniper!" he shouted again, but they hadn't heard.
It didn't matter, though.
That was when he heard the familiar high-pitched whistle above him. It clicked inside of him, and he didn't give out a warning. They all knew what this was. He flung himself to the ground, covering his head, his half doing the same. He didn't even take time to spare a glance at the other half across the way.
It shook the ground with such a force he didn't hear it, because already his hearing was gone, the familiar ringing in his right ear, the exaggerated breath of himself the only constant, and somewhere in the mix a dull thud of heartbeat.
If he heard that, it meant he was still alive.
Plumes of dirt and metal shot towards the sky, ricocheted off obstructions, and deadly, scrap metal found its way into the bodies of his squad.
He pressed his hands to his ears, his vision dancing before him. Clouds of smoke and dust, men lying on the ground screaming with no words. He was heading towards the building. Cover. That's where he needed to go.
He glanced over his shoulder once, to find his squad leader the first one actually on his feet. He was, after all, the Veteran of the group, surviving the most battles.
But not this one.
He watched as the bullets shredded through him as the squad leader tried to rally his squad. He watched as the man died silently, falling on to his back, a bullet piercing his shoulder–
Edward...age 28...native of Mideel...carpenter
He crawled towards the safety of the building, sound still evading his ears.
Edward...age 28...native of Mideel...carpenter
He wouldn't make it, he realized, as sound ebbed into his ears slightly. He glanced over his shoulder, picking out the crimson uniforms as they slaughtered his men.
Once chance.
Edward...
Michael...age 22...Midgar...weapon-smith.
He'd passed his overturned cart now, and reached one that was actually right side up. He'd never make it to the building, and even if he did, that would be the first place they'd look.
He might die here.
Promises, promises, promises...
Hey, if you do this–
Anne...age 19...Rocket Town...mechanic.
–You can't go running off and gettin fuckin killed, hear me, kid?
Roll, roll...rolling.
Under the cart, only chance. Breathe, softly, but breathe.
Aaron, age 17...Junon...fisherman...
Feet rushed past his vision, hearing still eluded him on a certain level. He couldn't move, but he wouldn't move. He was too tired, his vision still moving even though he was lying on the ground. More feet, more shouts, people in pain, people giving orders.
Dead, they were all dead, or would be.
Promises, promises, promises...
Edward promised his wife. Michael promised his mother. Anne promised her father. Aaron promised his girl.
And...him...he promised.
A train...the train promised safety.
The train whistled as it passed through the second town, the wheels squeaking every now and then. Denzel, at age fourteen, gazed out the window at the passing countryside, before turning his attention back to Cloud.
Cloud was seated across from him in their own compartment, his head tipped backwards, eyes closed. He wasn't sleeping though, Denzel could tell, he was too tense, and he was sweating.
"Cloud?"
He cracked his eyes open, giving a forced smirk to the boy.
"You okay?" Denzel asked.
Cloud nodded his head once.
"Tifa said you didn't like trains...why?"
Cloud smirked for real this time, "That's true...but, it's more than that this time."
Denzel furrowed his brow, "What do ya mean?"
"Well, Denz," Cloud scratched the back of his head, "With the way things are right now..."
"Oh, yeah...that. Barret was talkin to Cid about it. But it's okay, cause we got you guys."
Cloud nodded his head, "Yeah...we do."
"But...it's different this time, isn't?" Denzel's gaze returning to the window.
Cloud lifted his eyes slightly, studying the boy.
"It's changed since the last time anyone's fought...it'll be different fighting."
Cloud swallowed slightly, "It might be, it might not. Either way, you'll be fine as long as you stay with us."
Denzel glanced at Cloud again, giving a confident smile, "Promise?"
"Yeah, I promise."
That was when the explosion ripped the train in two.
Denzel groaned softly, dirt puffing away from his lips. He didn't know how long he'd been out for. Gravel dug into the side of his cheek, and his left eye was swollen shut. His entire body ached as he lay there swallowing, his throat parched.
Silence.
There was no noise, and it wasn't because of the explosion. The fighting had stopped, bodies of his squad and his enemies spotting the ground behind the train cart. He moved his hand, squeezing it closed and then opening it. He tested his arms, both rolling easily considering the stiffness. It was when he shifted his left leg the pain shot up to grip his back and he grimaced, gritting his teeth.
As the pain subsided, he heard the soft footfalls of someone. Light footsteps, cautious, moving into the edge of his vision a ways off. Not red. Not an enemy.
He paused at a body, leaning down to feel for a pulse, before making a move to close eyes, and take dog tags. The man sighed deeply before standing, moving onto the next body.
He was moving freely, no enemies around, and he was an ally.
Denzel struggled with his left leg as he drug himself from the shelter of the train cart. The man heard the movement, raising his gun quickly, and then hesitating when he saw the broken form of Denzel Strife dragging himself from beneath the train.
He ran over quickly. One survivor, it was better than none.
Denzel looked up at him as the man reached him, helping to move him from beneath the train. He gave Denzel a soft smile, as the boy sighed in relief.
"Cam," Denzel said gratefully.
Cameron...age 21...Midgar-orphan...stock-boy.
Cameron, age 21, was not dead.
Cloud had flung himself across into Denzel's seat as the train screeched and howled in protest. Wrapping his arms around the boy, Cloud braced himself for the inevitable impact. It came, slamming the two up against the seat roughly before their world turned.
They were resting on the wall when Denzel finally came to. There were screams echoing up and down the cart, cries and yells. Denzel burrowed himself into a tiny ball, pressing his hands over his ears, blocking out the cries.
He didn't know how long had passed when he came to again, he sat up, slowly. There weren't anymore shouts, any more cries of pain. He unraveled himself slowly, glancing to his side where Cloud was laying, blood trickling from a cut on his head.
"Cloud...Cloud!" he shook the man's shoulder.
He didn't stir.
"Cloud!"
A/N: This is a short six-part series I'll be posting for the next six days. It's revolving around Denzel, and his memories will be popping in and out. It's something that came into my head, and it's six chapters total. On the 19th I'll post the epilogue to this story, and chapter 42 to Diaries of A Broken Man. It'll be like, our 7th months anniversary since the story has been published. Anyways, I'm hoping to pull something epic off with that...but that's all I'll say about it. I'm not going to be updating any other stories other than this for the next few days. This is basically just a way for me to clear my head of all my stories I've got going (what, four? Five?) I hope you like this, and maybe the awfulness of this story will be counteracted by the awesomeness of Diaries. Till next time loves.