I do not own Valkyria Chronicles. If I did, Selvaria would not have died. At least, not in such a miserable way.


"What the hell do you mean, I'm too young to join?" I demanded, "one of my best friends is dead already, and not a single shot has been fired. I already realize that this is going to be hell!"

"I mean that you're too young to join, militia or army, kid," the soldier before me replied.

I couldn't believe this. They were drafting people who'd just turned fifteen into the military to fight for Gallia, forcing them into a living nightmare that they'd never escape from. And yet here I was, someone ready and willing to fight through that nightmare to protect Gallia, but wasn't allowed to join because I was fourteen? Because of a one year age difference? Ridiculous.

I made no attempt to hide my swears as I turned my back and got ready to stalk off. I heard the soldier behind me say "trust me when I say this kid. I'm not in any way holding you back. I'm saving your life, and your innocence-"

"I lost my innocence a long time ago, you stupid piece of crap!" I cut him off, shifting my jacket slightly to reveal a knife. The other people around me gasped in fright, both the ones that were just minding their own business and the ones that were joining the military, and it became clear that I wasn't the most subtle person when it came to making threats. Then I spat angrily, and, completely ignoring the evacuation order that had been given not three days earlier, walked off towards my home. Ever since my parents died, I was all on my own. Why I wasn't shipped off to an orphanage I have no idea, but I was pretty much left to my own devices after the explosion that took them. No one seemed to care. So in order to get away from it all, I backpacked across Gallia for a year or two, making friends in a lot of different places. There was this one lady, Jane Turner, who I swear to God not only needed anger management classes, as she threatened to kick me to the curb multiple times for not asking before I did a chore or two for her during the time I stayed with her (long story), but was also an insane sadist (she kicked the crap out of a street gang once, with a look of crazed glee that would always spread across her face whenever she heard someone scream in pain. Why she chose to run a flower shop is beyond me, considering her mindset, although I'm willing to bet she secretly grows poisonous plants in the back in case she meets someone she hates. Still, she had her occasional "nice" moments.). But I'm getting off track. All that was important about my home was that it had what I needed. If it weren't for that, I would have burned it to the ground a long time ago.

I walked in through the door and went into my dad's old safe, the one in the cellar hidden under his study. If he were alive and knew what I was doing, he would have killed me for two reasons, the first for going through the things from the First Europan War (something he wanted to forget; he came home drunk more times than what I could remember because of that simple fact), and the second because what I was about to do would in all likelihood get me killed.

But that's not important, I thought as I finally yanked out the rusty, ragtag hunk of metal that he had evidently called a lance. Even though I had a thing for close combat, war was something fought with projectile weapons. I had to swallow my pride if I expected to fight. Even as I pulled out my dad's plans for a custom-made lance and started going over them, gathering the pieces I'd need to complete the hunk of junk that my dad had left behind, I thought if I can't fight the Empire with the military, then I'll fight the Empire on my own terms.

For hours I worked, gathering the materials I needed, and melting down every piece of metal I could find, removing the rusted pieces from my old man's lance until all that was left was the frame as I melted those down as well. Cutting, shaping, hammering, and melting filled the hours of two days until I completed it. I hadn't even gotten to the test rounds when the first gunshots were fired.

I bolted outside with my newly completed lance. Smoke rose from the outskirts of town as more gunshots sounded, along with several large explosions that reduced several buildings to rubble.

The invasion had begun.

I stood for a moment, then slowly, took out a piece of cloth from my back pocket. It was a light gray, almost beige in colour, and had a pattern of twin lines that intertwined with one another along the center of its length, made up of jagged straight lines, never curving, and a large mark in between where the lines parted – Matt's Darcsen headband.

I stared at it, and then tied it around my head, handling it as if it were the most precious thing I'd ever held, "I hope you're watching, Matt," I breathed, "because I'm going to protect this town with my life."

With that, I shot off towards the gunshots. Once I saw an Imperial squad in range, I immediately brought the lance up on my shoulder and took a practice shot. I found myself winded, stumbling back with an aching shoulder, almost dropping the lance as I fell to my knees. I looked up upon hearing the satisfying explosion that followed, along with the shouts of the Imperials that had been blown away in the dust.

"Drake, one, Imperial Army, zero," I grinned, and then stiffened at a horrible realization: I'd just killed someone. Multiple people had been killed in that single shot I'd fired. I breathed deeply, trying to get myself under control, but ultimately failing as I began to hyperventilate. I swallowed, grabbed onto something, and hit myself hard with it. Fortunately, it brought me back to my senses. Unfortunately, what I'd grabbed happened to be a rock. Blood ran down the side of my face as my head began to clear, though the regret in my gut didn't budge. But it didn't matter what I had to do. If I had to kill the enemy, fine. I'd kill the enemy.

I forced myself to my feet, and ran through the dust and smoke rising from the debris that littered the streets and what remained of the buildings, firing and reloading as I went. They had clearly not been anticipating this kind of weapon to be on the field against them. Every time I stopped to fire, something exploded. Every time I stopped to fire, I saw fear ripple through the enemies' ranks. Every time I stopped to fire, more people died at my hands.

Then the metal grinding against stone began to sound. Closer and closer and louder and louder it drew, bringing a mechanical hum along with it as the soldiers ahead of me, both Gallian and Imperial scattered in fear.

I readied my lance, both eager to take a shot at whatever was coming and ready to sprint in fear at the same time – I had a really bad feeling about the approaching grinding. I froze as my fears were confirmed – a tank rounded the corner, firing its massive main cannon into alleys, barricades, buildings and whatever else held people as it crawled along. I sword, running back through the street as it exploded behind me.

I pulled myself into a back alley, breathing hard as I attempted to reload. I continually glanced out the alleyway as the sound of the tank grew ever closer, until I finally loaded my lance. I lifted it taking aim just as the tank pulled up alongside the alley. The tank head swivelled, centering on me as I fired. Everything seemed to slow. I could actually see my shot in midair as it blasted through the air, and struck the base of the barrel of the tank's main cannon. Everything froze for an instant that seemed like eternity as the tank sat, and then immediately exploded, launching everything back into normal time as it was blasted apart into a shower of shrapnel.

I coughed harshly as I tried to breathe, the air choked with dust and smoke. I dragged myself out of the alley to check out my handiwork. All that was left of the tank was a flaming hunk of metal surrounded by a scorched street and some damaged buildings. I smirked, now seeing why my dad had liked this design of lance in his day. Sure, it was old school, but damn, was it effective, even compared to today's models.

Another explosion brought my attention to a squad of Gallian soldiers and a group of would-be escapees as they were buried in the rubble. I stared in shock, their screams echoing in my ears, and then looked back down the street. An Imperial lancer stood there with his own squad, all of them laughing an slapping each other high fives.

Shock turned to rage as I let out my own scream, a scream of wrath and outrage that would echo in my own ears forever. I raised my lance again, losing all regard for friend or foe, losing all thoughts of self-preservation as I shot a building above the enemy squad. It crumbled instantly, crushing them underneath as I dashed through the streets, now hunting for my prey with a vengeance.

I don't know how many people died in my onslaught. All I know is that I killed a lot of people in cold blood that day, and that in all likelihood, I would have killed more, if I hadn't run into one distinctive soldier. She was incredibly tall, almost six feet in height, with long, silver hair and forbidding red eyes. Not that I particularly cared. I raised my lance, and immediately found her standing over me, easily towering over me by almost half a foot.

"So now Gallia sends children into battle?" she asked coldly, wrenching my lance out of my grip and tossing it away, "how pathetic."

"I'm not here under orders, you bitch!" I snarled, drawing my knife, "I'm here because I want to be!"

I swung my knife up at her throat, only for her to dodge around it, a mixture of a smirk and a look of pity crossing her face. I let out a snarl as I brought my knife back, catching her on the shoulder and ripping through cloth and flesh as I glanced at the blade. Blood dripped lightly from it, even if just a few drops. The woman wiped at the tear in her uniform and stared at the crimson liquid that seeped from the cut and stained her glove before returning her glare to me, this time around with no amusement in her eyes.

"Oops. Looks like I accidentally nicked your shoulder," I smirked, tempted to lick the blade clean of her blood, "and now I'm going to accidentally nick one of your lungs."

I lunged forwards, but before I even got a chance to use my knife, I found myself on the ground, gripping onto my snapped ribs. The last thing I saw before slipping unconscious was the form of the woman standing over me, beautiful but deadly as her hair caught the sunlight and her eyes bored into me as if I were some kind of object to be looked down upon, something to be pitied.

I wanted to say 'stop giving me that look. I despise it when people look at me like that. Especially people like you!' but all I could manage was "Damn you..."