But the shit that I've done with this fuck of a gun, you would cry out your eyes all along!
We're damned after all! Through fortune and fame, we fall! And if you can stay, then I'll show you the way, to return from the ashes you call!
We all carry on, when our brothers in arms are gone! So, raise your glass high, for tomorrow we die, and return from the ashes you call!
Through his Draculoid mask, Pistol panted heavily as another body fell to the ground. His knuckles were white from gripping the black rifle too tightly, and tears were welling in his eyes as he, with guilt burning inside him like a deadly inferno, kept shooting at the enemy.
He felt utterly terrible, like a traitor, a monster.
A ruthless monster, obediently fighting alongside and becoming the very thing he once sought to destroy, and battling against Dead Pegasus, the thing he formerly pledged to protect.
Helena must be safe, he forcefully told himself. It is essential that I protect her. I've made that promise.
He lay on the ground in prone position, his elbows supporting his upper body and the rifle held in his hand. With each shot, a bullet shell fell into the sand below him, making a soft clank against the shells already on the ground. He was surrounded by the sound of ammunition shooting at and from the enemy, or, his former fellow soldiers. Now, he's on the opposite side.
He kept on firing at the enemy, remorse and shame flooding his lungs and drowning him with each shot. As his hands went automatic, he became immersed in his dreaded thoughts.
Guilt. Shame. Terror. Betrayal. The blood that spewed out from the wounds of his bullets. As much as he wished he could hold himself back, for the sake of Helena's life, he must keep on shooting. He desperately wanted to kill his "fellow" Draculoids, but no… He couldn't.
He felt selfish, for killing off his former friends and his belief of freedom, just to keep his sister alive and, hopefully one day, again by his side. Perhaps his intentions were pure and good, but now, protecting her had twisted into some form of unescapable addiction. It's as if there was a pit. Inside the pit are the lives of thousands of men and friends, and outside the pit was the life of Helena. It was such a cowardly act, but if he were to ever again unconsciously stand on the edge of the endless pit of deserting Helena, his brain would always convince him to step back from the pit and throw grenades down onto the thousands of people crying out and pleading at him. He would wince at the thunderous explosion and the suddenly silenced screams, but ultimately, he would walk away…
Finally, when a bullet whizzed past his neck, Pistol snapped out of his mind's nightmare, flinching, frantic to concentrate on the battlefield. He lounged forward a tad more, raising his body to give himself a better shooting range. Sand fell from his dirty "white" clothes, slipping down from the middle of the slope to his feet. Pang! Another DEAD PEGASUS soldier fell onto the sand, a pool of blood forming around his writhing body. A combat medic rushed to the dying soldier, but was stopped when a nearby Draculoid shot him in the chest. The medic gave a loud screech that Pistol could somehow hear amid the rushing bullets and grenades, but he was shushed when another Draculoid shot him somewhere else on the body.
Wincing in unease, Pistol quickly looked to another direction, momentarily hesitant to shoot. He was positive that he knew the medic; perhaps they'd met before in a tactic conference. He ducked down and deliberately shut his eyes, as rage and sadness charred his heart. I'm… I'm so...
Pistol hesitated in his thoughts.
"Save me! PLEASE! They're killing me!" He could hear Helena's distressed pleas as she struggled around aimlessly, trying to escape the grasp of countless Draculoids.
A burst of anger and despair made him get up again. He returned to his prone position, shooting at his former allies. A stubby streak of tears began to leak down onto his face, as torment penetrated his heart and mauled away the flesh and blood. Control yourself, or they'll spot you, he persistently tried to tell himself. However, the unfinished phrase from earlier broke through his mind's thick barriers, and reluctantly whispered,
I'm so sorry.
They're these terrors, and it's like- It feels like as if somebody was gripping my- They're theses terrors and it's like, it feels like as if somebody was gripping my throat. Like last night, uh, they're not like tremors, they're worse than tremors they're, they're theses terrors… Like last night, uh, they're not like tremors, they're worse than tremors they're- they're theses terrors, and it's like- It feels like as if somebody was gripping my throat, and squeezing and- it feels like as if somebody was gripping my throat…
In the haunting night-black, Emily helplessly thrashed around as that silent claw tugged her away from Pistol. Pistol tried to free himself from the enclosure he was trapped in, but as always, no matter how much he panicked and flailed, he couldn't move. It was as if he were frozen in an ice cube that would never melt; in all the nightmares like this, he couldn't even blink an eye.
Please! She continued to cry out. Can you hear me!? Are you near me!? Demolition, please, can you hear me cry out to you!? Demolition, Demolition! DEMOLITION!
He frantically tried to nod, but his neck was too stiff for movement. From the distress, his body felt as if it were sinking into lava, and his eyes could pop out from their sockets any moment, but something was holding him back. Pistol continued struggling to fight out of his cage, until suddenly, bullets came rushing towards him, and the blackness turned into a battlefield. There was so much crying of pain, accompanied by the sound of exploding grenades and slaughtering bullets. The violent ocean waves and the pouring rain added to the earsplitting noises, drowning Pistol with alarm and fright. The bodies writhing on the ground, and all that blood, the warm crimson that poured out from the infinite number of wounds stretching out on those dying bodies…
The formerly beautiful ocean was now stained into a hell-like shade of red, as fresh blood seeped out from the lethal wounds of countless dead soldiers.
Screeching. Bullets. Rifles. The gory waves, brutally crashing onto the shore as the rainstorm grew louder and louder. His surroundings were mere whirls, happening so hurriedly, and yet he could see everything… Limp bodies rolling down the sand dunes, dead bodies lying on the shoreline and floating in the water, dead bodies on the sand, dead bodies in every inch of visibility…
The final soldier was shot down with a pang; he collapsed onto the sand, soon limp, leaving Pistol alone and uncontrollably quivering as terror seized his brain, gnawing on the tissue and injecting a cocktail of panic, pain, and dread.
A beach contaminated with bullets, a seashore sketched with all those bloodstained "green" battle uniforms, a coastline of salty, scarlet water, a battlefield stained red…
Boom. His surroundings switched back to the disturbing obscurity. Emily was still in sight, distraughtly squirming around in the darkness. However, now she had decided to start begging him to escape from the terrible claws of this monster…
Demolition, save yourself, I'll hold this monster back! These are words I thought I'd choke on, but Demolition, please, LEAVE!
All he could do was tragically and helplessly watch Emily being swiftly pulled away, as she returned to shrieking Pistol's name. She struggled and struggled, but the horrifying eternal darkness soon swallowed her whole…
Pistol sat up, hyperventilating as his eyes widened in terror and shock. Demolition! Demolition! Demolition! Emily's cries still echoed in his head. He gasped for air, then sighed, knowing it was one of those nightmares again.
They're not real, he told himself. The monster, the battle, and Emily. They're not real.
He tightly swallowed, washing away the voice inside his head with a forced gulp. The sheets were on the floor; he had probably shifted around during his frantic nightmare, or perhaps tossed the fabric away. Ding! He looked to his right. The doorbell rang. He got up, recalling today he would receive replenishments for his pill bottle.
All Draculoids are forced to take pills every day, to ensure they remain emotionless and loyal to Better Living Industries. On his first day as a Draculoid minion, Pistol was told that "all Draculoids who refuse to take this medicine will be deemed disposable". Pistol refused to do so, and simply acted as flat and robotic as he could when confronting higher ranking minions. After all, he was nothing to them but a bullet, so why should they conduct a search just for him? Good thing he was rather exceptional at acting.
Pistol rejected the pills, mostly because he didn't want to become a robot and one day forget about Helena. After all, he was doing all this for her, and he didn't want to personally destroy his own "rightful" actions. Plus, perhaps in a twisted way, feeling such hatred and guilt, and knowing his pathetic, pitiful helplessness against the Industries, was a way of punishment and torture to himself.
Pistol eventually got to the doorway, and retrieved the bottle from the little sliding box situated at the bottom of the door. He stared at the medicine bottle gripped in his hand, then rolled his eyes in annoyance. Ugh. He shuddered at the clanking sound that the pills made as they swished around.
He strode to the restroom and twisted the bottle's lid off, hurriedly dumping all the pills into the toilet. Then, he wrapped the bottle in a thick wad of toilet paper, discarded the bottle into the trash bin, and walked away.
No. He's not a traitor. He's not doing this. No.
Tears trickled down her face, as she stared at the ground, shaking in disbelief.
It can't be true. It simply can't. He pledged to serve Dead Pegasus; he couldn't have become a traitor. Even if his intentions are to save me, he'd know that I'd rather have myself die than risk destroying the lives of countless friends.
No.
With tears rolling down her cheeks and a shaky voice built upon disbelief, she muttered, "Demolition, brother, why did you betray me?"
Amused (in a robotic way), the minions continued to grin at Helena, whose ankles and wrists tied to a metal flatbed. One of them stepped closer, raising the needle in his hand. Helena jerked up, struggling to free herself from her confinement. "LET ME GO! FUCK!" She spat.
However, it was useless. Slowly, the sharp needle sank into her flesh. Her vision blurred, followed by a harsh ringing in her ears. The world started to spin, and as the ringing grew louder and louder, someone hit her on the head.
The earsplitting ringing faded to nothing as her head dropped to unconsciousness.
He sat on his plain white bed, burying his face into the palms of his two hands, plagued by the humiliation and blame that suddenly made its way into his mind when he previously stared at his rifle. There were no tears; he restrained himself from spineless crying. He had no right to cry. He thought about the ruthless monster, the catastrophic killing machine that he has become...
Once more, he stood at the edge of the endless, dark pit, peering down at the many voices calling out at him. His face was flushed red with turmoil, as Helena's cries for help rang into his ears. Turning around, he frantically backed away from the edge, smiling in relief at the sight of Helena, safe and sound.
He knew she would never forgive him, but no, the only thing he wanted was for her to remain alive, even if it's at the cost of him forever known as a loathed defector.
Helena, there's things that I have done… You never… should ever know.