Poppies. The red flowers were the most ridiculous thing for Deryn to be focused on during the battle.

Men fell left and right around her, their cries ringing in the air. Bullets whizzed past, some missing, others finding their marks. The sky was grey and dark, the ground wet with blood.

Her head whipped around, searching the battlefield for familiar faces. She'd seen Mr. Newkirk fall hours ago—or was it moments?—and the ship's bosun, Mr. Rigby, had also been shot down.

Where were the rest of the officers? Where was the airship? Where was Alek? The crew didn't belong on this battleground; they weren't even supposed to be in France. She needed to find someone to help her get back on the Leviathan. But there was no one. All she saw was a stretch of red as far as the horizon.

Deryn ran, crushing the red stems beneath her feet, slipping in gore, ignoring everything but the pounding in her head and the crimson color that now was painted on the inside of her eyelids.

Red like poppies.

Red like blood.

Red like the flames that had devoured her Da's balloon years ago.

A fierce pain suddenly ripped through her stomach. Deryn fell, writhing on the ground. The pain like fire, spread through her torso until her entire body was in agony. No, no, no. She didn't want it to end like this. She had promised Ma…

Deryn hadn't wanted this. Not the killing, or the fighting, or the dying. She'd wanted to fly, not fight in wars.

Now all she wanted to do was go home.

Slowly, the sounds of fighting faded. All Deryn could hear was the slow, shallow sound of her own breathing. She heard someone call, "Dylan!" in a voice she vaguely recognized, but couldn't remember where from.

She let her eyes slide closed and her heartbeat quickened suddenly. One last shuddering breath and—

"Dylan."

There it was again, but this time only a whisper. She felt a hand clasp her own. With the last of her energy, Deryn croaked out, "…Alek—"

` But it was too late. Deryn Sharp died with that angry red still imprinted on her lids.

According to a WWI book I found in my treasure trove of a basement, the poppy fields of northern France were where some of the bloodiest battles in that war took place. Apparently, these fields are why the poppy symbolizes everyone who died in World War One.

Sad fic. I'll make it up to you with some fluff later. (I'll also kill off alek when I find some inspiration.) Review please!