Once, Roxas believed that the man before him would have had a family, and a lovely wife. Before he was abandoned, before the war.
Shot in the leg, it was obvious the man had no way of escaping. It was also apparent by his lack of weapons that he had no way of defending himself. His gray uniform proved he was indeed an enemy soldier, yet his crimson hair stuck up in spikes no sane man would have kept in the war. It was equivalent to holding up a sign saying 'shoot me', and Roxas was willing to bet that someone had done just that.
Once, Roxas imagined that he would have been handsome to the point of beauty. Now, he was covered in dirt, muck and various other things. There was a dark brown splotch on the chest of his uniform, his black military boots were caked with mud, and there was slime under his nails. Roxas let his gaze wander to the man's face, and he noted that under all that grime, the man's skin would have been porcelain, a miracle in this weather. His hair, while still bright, seemed to have a thick layer of dust covering it, and was matted with fear-sweat. His face was devilishly handsome, with a thin oval shape, high cheekbones, a delicate jaw, and large emerald green eyes. Because of the dirt and Roxas' slightly unfocused eyes, it was hard to tell if the black dots under each eye were scars, tattoos, or just more debris. Roxas watched the man's wide, delicate mouth as it moved. He was gasping for air one second, and garbling it all out the next as he pleaded in foreign tongue. From the little that Roxas knew, he could hear 'please', 'hurt', and 'help'.
The pistol in Roxas' hand shook, and he knew it was because his arm was quaking, too. He kept it pointed at the foreigner's chest, though, and steadied the offending limb.
The man was crying now, tears coming slow at first, the faster, faster, until he was almost hysterical, and Roxas could hear more words now. The soldier was wailing kill, no, please! and Roxas' gun began to quiver again. His own blue eyes were locked on the man's jade green, cat-like orbs, and he couldn't look away from the human being at his feet, begging for an enemy's mercy as he sobbed and clutched at his wounded leg.
Roxas knew if their positions had been switched, he would be begging for his life as well.
His fellow allies were jeering at the, apparently, 'pathetic' sight before them. Only two men seemed to realize what was going on--one was a Corporal, and watching silently, his aqua eyes clearly stating he knew what had to happen. Another was staring in horror at Roxas, with sky-blue eyes. He could see the question in the man's eyes—though now that he got a good look at the male's spiky brown hair, small body, Private First Class Status, and watery eyes, he decided the term boy was more accurate-- would you really do that? Would you really kill a harmless man? The Corporal with long, silver hair and aqua eyes put his hand on the boy's shoulder and whispered in his ear. Roxas watched as the Private's eyes lowered to the ground, unable to watch any longer as he nodded to his aqua-eyed superior.
He turned to his Major, a large man with long brown hair, a scar between his gray eyes, and a permanent frown etched onto his striking face. Slowly, he nodded. Roxas' gaze returned to the enemy.
He was still crying, still babbling, still shaking and clutching his leg. He was still scared, still crimson, gray, and green. He was still gorgeous, still wounded, still spouting scarlet blood from the gooey, gaping hole in his right lung—
Roxas eyes widened as the bang finally reached his ears.