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Generic Title: Catch-22 (a)
Title: Militant Success
Set: WAR
Pair: SasuNaruSasu, if seen as so.
Author: darkenedmoonlightflame
Summary: 1st theme: A Bridge Too Far. (There was to be no success, and the entire battalion knew so.)
Rating: T, for implied soon-to-come violence and theme.
Word Count: 269.
Disclaimer: I do not own either Naruto or the 1000 Themes, and do not claim to. However, everything else, AKA: the writing, (some if not all of) the (theme-guided) plot, any poetic interpretation, et cetera, IS MINE.
(A/N: …Ah.
(So, presenting, Catch-22, Part One.)
Catch-22 (a)
March 28th, 2007
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One, A Bridge Too Far—Militant Success—He sighed, rubbing circles in the dirt with his gleaming boots. Military boots, of course, were not in public demand, and so it was all right for the time being to tarnish them. The delicate little eyelets seemed to mock him, ever-more condescending as the thin laces swayed. Every movement was performed in a superior, omnipotent fashion. Wordlessly, Naruto narrowed his eyes. Adjusting his grip on the sniper, he dug his heels in, forcing more pressure into his mind-diverting task.
It was futile. This whole operation was futile. There was to be no success, and the entire battalion knew so. It was an awfully foreboding sensation. He closed his blue, blue eyes and steeled himself for landing. Four hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty-two seconds left until inevitable demise.
It was unbearable.
Nonetheless, he tried to let his hands do the thinking. Let his hands feed a new magazine of bullets into the barrel. Let his hands ignore the trembles that overtook his body. Let his hands be unaware of his terrified, rapidly-increasing heartbeat. Let his hands forget the sound of blood rushing throughout him, roaring with impertinence. Let it be only his hands that raged with insincere killing intent. Let it be only his hands—!
A callused, familiar hand shook him from his reverie. "Hey."
His not-quite-yet-heartless eyes softened, vision blurred and tears building as he turned to the dark-haired boy. And his parched lips whispered in return: "Hey, teme. Just don't die." No more words emerged from the warm, wry shape beside him. Companionable, apprehensive silence reigned in the aircraft.
Four hours, ten minutes, thirty-one seconds remaining.
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