Number 4:
Song- Welcome To The Black Parade by My Chemical Romance
A.N- FINALLY I get to post one of my Max-centric ones! Sorry for the long time no update. Also, I use the title of the song in the end for lack of ideas, and the overall mood of the drabble is based on the rise and fall of the song. The calm, then the bang, then the massive overlay... Yeah. I know, I'm totally normal... Huge shout out to Bookish for reviewing and being super awesome like that. ;)
Lyrics that influence this fic the most- "He said, "Son when you grow up, will you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned?"" "Sometimes I get the feeling, she's watching over me. And other times I feel like I should go. And through it all, the rise and fall, the bodies in the street-" "The disappointed faces of your peers....Take a look at me 'cause I could not care at all" "Do or die-You'll never make me" "I'm just a man; I'm not a hero. Just a boy, whose meant to sing this song. I'm just a man; I'm not a hero. I Don't Care"
It was so easy to tell them apart. There were those that wanted to be here, trained soldiers eager to serve their country. There were those that didn't, terrified clueless young boys. And there were those that could have been either, but up until five seconds ago they had no idea what they were up against. Max Carrigan was a proud member of option three.
So maybe a little of it was exaggeration. He'd knew enough about the real word; he knew people died and he that he probably wasn't going to joke around and learn to box and all that jazz. But he hadn't expected to be dropped off in a jungle, handed a gun, and just a little bit later hear a loud boom and watch a smoky eruption of something explosive.
"Just keep moving," they'd said. "Walk in a line and get to the base and watch each other's backs," or something like that. Never in his life did Max take direction well, but he honestly would have liked a little more guidance, even if this was a dire circumstance that happened to cut short training and send everyone that actually knew what they were doing to the fields right away, leaving those who didn't in this little fix.
If there was a mirror in front of him, he'd curse his eyes, simply because he had no way of reducing their size to anything less than the saucers of a fearful child first seeing the wonders of the wide world. In all honesty, that was quite the way he felt.
For the first few agonizingly slow minutes, or maybe it was many quick passing ones, there was nothing but the group and the forest. Then someone in the front tripped over something, and everyone looked down into the thick swampy floor. There were dead bodies. A lot of dead bodies. And they weren't just dead; they were disturbingly bloodied with twisted expressions and pain and mangled limbs. That was the nice way to put it.
Someone turned and threw up violently. Nobody blamed him, because half of them looked ready to do the same, and it was a wonder some people could gather their bearings and hold up their guns and march on. Apparently this area wasn't as serene and untouched as it appeared.
Not everyone was dead. Max took note of that. He took note of a little Vietnamese girl, no more than eight years old, on the floor, whimpering, dying. He took note of that fact that they couldn't do anything, and they simply had to walk away, and the last thing she'd ever see would be these evil American troops, her murders. This was the kind of stuff that caused damage. Even after they walked away, he could still see her face.
And the only thing that made it go away was the boom. Whether it was a gunshot, explosion, or some kind of a call or warning nobody seemed to know. People took off, doing what they were supposed to do at this given moment. Max didn't know. He didn't know how they knew. But everything from that moment on was nothing more than a timeless blur of a black parade.
