Cloud fought mechanically, hacking wildly with his sword, finesse forgotten in place of staying alive. All around him, cadets he had trained with died by the hundreds, most of them lucky to take three of the enemy with them. Cloud was soaked in coppery blood, both his and the enemies'. He didn't even know who the enemy was, merely that they were trying to kill him, so he should do the same to them. So far, he had been successful. But his arms were leaden and burned with fatigue. He been fighting and killing for three straight hours, long past any of his training missions. None of them had really prepared him for actual combat, and if he had had more energy, he could've put the facts together.
An enemy soldier swung wildly at him, and Cloud brought his blade up to block the strike. The enemy's sword sheered clean through Cloud's issued blade, and bit deep into his shoulder. Severing muscles and veins. Cloud felt a distant, burning pain in his arm as he plunged his broken blade into the opposition's heart, pulling it out with a spray of blood.
Taking the blade that had stabbed him, he fought on in a red haze of blood, vaguely wondering if he would survive to get any medical attention. Twice more he was too slow to block a strike and took deep hits, once to his back, another to his ribs.
When Cloud straightened up from the last blow, he spun dizzily and fell to the blood-drenched grass, made dark and slick from all the blood spilled on it. Cloud wondered if grass would ever grow here again, because judging by distant explosions, quite a bit of it was getting torn up.
He made no effort to regain his feet, grateful for even a moment of rest. He was sure that any moment, an enemy soldier would see him lying there, making no move to control his breathing and slit his throat. The notion didn't disturb Cloud as it should have. Instead, he almost welcomed the thought of death. He sure as hell didn't know if he could live with himself after all this carnage.
He was startled from his thoughts by boots crunching towards him. He let his eyes remain slitted, having given up all hope. Silence reigned now, except for the cries of the wounded and the muted gunshots of enemy prisoners being executed. Cloud mentally sighed, and was ready to accept his death when a too-familiar voice said incredulously, "Cloud! What the hell are you doing here? This was a Third Class or above mission only! Medic! We've got a wounded cadet over here!"
Zack. Zack was here. Cloud did sigh aloud, in relief, and promptly blacked out, now that he was at least in friendly territory.
Zack stared down anxiously at his young friend, whose face and lips were too pale, now that all the blood had been cleaned away. He was swathed in bandages, and receiving a blood transfusion through an IV. Zack had found at least two regiments of cadets dead on the field, and out of over 150 cadets, Cloud was the only survivor.
Running his hands through his messy black hair, Zack shook his head. That had been one huge mess after another. And because of it, his protégé was about to die. It was fairly inevitable, but Zack still held out hope. Miracles could happen…but this miracle would never come. Cloud, his essence and spirit, were gone. Only his body, a fragile shell, remained. With burning eyes and a lump in his throat, Zack tousled those familiar golden spikes one last time, hugged his friend's body and walked out of the medic room. Slipping on a mask, he nodded when the doctor informed him life support was no longer necessary. Only when Cloud had truly died did he let the tears fall freely.