You duck, roll and fire.
Another man falls, but you don't care.
You can't care.
They try to run, but you keep firing.
One is left, black blood running from a shot-up eye.
He cries and begs. He talks of his family.
You ignore him.
Another corpse.
Again and again, you send them.
You watch them as they charge into the breach.
You feel a stab of something as they fall.
Not pity.
Not sadness.
They are one more name to avenge.
You vault over your cover, a brilliant orange blade flashing onto your wrist.
He turns to flee.
Orange bursts from his chest.
Blood spatters your visor.
It runs off your armour in streams.
You kick down the door, its frame cracking under your armoured boot.
A mother and her child huddle in the corner.
She stares at you, crying softly.
You see your mothers' corpse in the kitchen, sprawled over your brother.
You don't stop firing until your rifle overheats, and you are covered in innocent blood.
The monster inside you roars in triumph.
But you feel numb, and cold.
They find you on your bunk, staring at nothing.
Tear tracks on your face.