What of them now? Yesterday, yesterday was hope. Sweet, beautiful hope that made him feel so alive. He still felt it, but it was fleeting and bare. The inside that enclosed their being, hollow and putrefied but still somehow physically there.
What were they now?
They were all broken. Dead, miserable beings trudging on tired feet. Their essence, reduced to the bitter control of cheap whiskey.
Friends, allies, brothers, only useless words that brought false hope.
What did they really want?
Tomorrow. They were so captivated, so enthralled with the idea of tomorrow, of a so foolish dream, that the present that forced itself upon them was too much. The failure, the humiliation, and most of all, the god-awful pain that wracked their shivering frames left them in this pitiful state.
He tried to avoid the feeling. Dodge all he could, it was still there, an undeniable air of desperation. The fate they sealed together loomed over them like a heavy raincloud ready to burst.
And it did burst, with the sound of gunshots and screams and utter despair.
How could they fear death when they were already dead? So tired, so tired. The soldiers were gone again, probably laughing at their state of hopelessness. Who were they to think they could actually win? Against an army of trained men? And what did they have?
Students, barely even men, wishing to fulfill a dream. A dream so near, hovering above bleeding streets and childish desires, yet reality pushed it as far as it could.
Please, please, please.
Everyone was pleading to a god who seemed to give no mercy. On their knees, on the ground, in a corner standing alone in silent prayer, wishing and begging and begging and wishing. Everyone's thoughts were replicas, copies, a singular chant that infused the blood-filled streets, of the little hope that remained.
But everyone, everyone was just a group of thirty or so little hopefuls with no chance at all.
No chance at all.