936 — We Are at War
They were at war — and a war zone it was. The streets were covered in a sauce of blood, sprinkled with debris from buildings, and topped with scattered bodies, bloodied and burned. There were women and children screaming and crying, desperately but fruitlessly clinging to life. Men, once dutifully protecting their city and more importantly their lives, were now drowning in their own personal kiddy-pools of red. Gunshots and explosions still rung like foreboding birds in the early morning. One couldn't even walk without stepping on an appendage or two.
Fuery knew he should be out there, assisting his comrades in the mass slaughtering. After all, it was his duty. But, he couldn't. He tried to calm himself from his sweating, hyperventilating state, but he knew if he wandered from the comfort of his alleyway, only tainted by a stream of blood... He knew regret would fill him whole and his heart would shatter. He was but a man of pure, pacifist thoughts. Normally, he was without hostility, so it's only natural he would panic in a setting such as this. Plus, he was just a Communications Expert, he shouldn't be here!
However, they were at war and he had a duty to serve and fight for his country. What would the Colonel say?
Fuery tightened his grip on the strap of his issued shotgun and tried to calm his erratic breathing. Deeming himself calm enough, the raven-haired man slowly crept from his safe haven. His already dark eyes dimmed a shade as he took in his surroundings. His boots made a splash as it met with a puddle of blood, staining them almost immediately. The air was humid and depressing; the clouds dark and rumbling. And as the first drops of rain fell, a fallen woman crawled near him.
Both of her legs were severed, flesh flapping as she army crawled her way to him. Her blood formed a trail behind her and her face was tired, pained, and red. She struggled to speak, voice like gravel and the blood pooling in her mouth gurgled and spat.
"K— kill...me," she wheezed, latching a bleeding palm onto his leg.
Fuery found himself deeply disturbed, but pitying the woman as well. His breath sped up and tears pricked the corners of his wide eyes. This woman was asking him to end her, no doubt to put her out of her pain. So, if he killed her, he'd be doing her a favor. He'd be helping the pitiful woman, r-right? Right?
So, the brunette chanted that prospect over and over in his head and at the same time raising his gun. It quivered along with his shaking hands. She continued to plead him, eyes already looking dead to the world. Fuery took a long breath and steady his arms, tapping the tip of his shotgun to her head. "M—may your tortured soul find p—peace," he stuttered, voice cracking.
The shot was never heard over an explosion in the distance, but it still echoed in Fuery's heart.