Something on the ground was moving, fidgeting and writhing with and against the wind. Nobody had noticed this poor thing on the ground, surrounded by such utter chaos. In a land of carcasses, no one notices the living. No one's alive to do so, rather.
Half a day. It was half a day before anybody showed up to see the damage done. It was only a couple carriages, too. People immediately started climbing out of the first two, carrying all sorts of mechanical objects and fidgeting with each other, arguing over the smell, arguing over where to build whatever it was they were holding. Arguing about all the things a wounded man couldn't care less to even think about.
Then the carriage closest to a certain fallen man opens, slowly, and a man in black hops out. He turns back toward the carriage- looking for more mechanical crap?-, and someone coughing is heard. Clearly a woman's cough, right? A man's could never reach that high. An accidental frown settles on the wounded man's face; who would let a woman come to such a place, littered with more bodies and blood than should be possible. The man in black bows to whoever is in the cart, saying something too soft for the man to hear, and closes the door. He turns around, weakly but fully, and stares at the battlefield. Is that- is that sadistic bastard smirking about this?
Not a second passed after that thought did the man spot the fallen soldier, who held on tighter to a fellow, though lesser fortunate, comrade. The man in black's expression softens, an almost kind smile settling in whatever earlier expression was there. Neither said anything, not for a long while, and it's finally a broken man that speaks up and breaks the silence, effectively startling all nearby camera (they were cameras, weren't they? Those damn objects) men and everyone else except for this one man in black.
"S- save him."
The man doesn't glance down before responding.
"He's already passed away, is he not?" The smile doesn't falter.
The bloodied man flinches, holding on even tighter. "Tch… B- bastard. I told him… I told him not to die on me."
"What shall we do with him, Young Master?" That man in black asks, and the soldier hesitates. It wasn't until then that he realized they were no longer alone.
A young boy, no older than eight with an eye-patch, coughed into the handkerchief he pressed to his face before speaking. "Must you ask such a question, Sebastian? You know as well as I that our orders were to report any survivors to the queen." The boy then turns away from… Sebastian, was it?, and towards the fallen man with a look of disinterest. "What's your name, soldier?"
"Lieutenant Bardroy."
"Do you know of any other survivors?"
"The others, they- they shot themselves down. It's hard to stay alive when you see your friends, your allies, your- sometimes even your heroes get shot down in front of you."
The boy sighed, bored. He glanced down at Bard. "Is your arm infected?"
"Eh?"
"Do you not notice your blood stained arm? Perhaps a bone could be piercing your skin, but instead of surveying the damage, you wasted your time praying to someone who can't hear you."
Bard frowned, his expression even becoming audible as his voice raised in volume. "Praying? Tch, like 'ell I'm praying!"
The boy watches him with a careful expression. "Of course. Sebastian, try and clean him up as best you can. I'll be in the carriage."
Sebastian, that man in black, replies solemnly. "Yes, my lord."
"As for you, Bard, I think you shall refer to me as Young Master from now on. How would you like to be a cook for me, in return of finding you, burying your… friend, and perhaps saving you from infection?"
Bard scoffed. "Fine, but I ain't being a cook for some damn child 'cause I want to, just for the record."
"That's fine."