[centre][hr][h1]Mila Wagner[/h1]

[sub][color=Silver][i]Garnian Salient: Front Line, August 25th - [b]he Battle of Hill 58[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
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Filthy. Filthy. All filth that surrounded her. All filth that refused to go. She was surrounded by all of it. Wounds that oozed filth. Boots that flung filth. Souls that reeked filth. Minds full to the brim with filth. She tried and she tried and she couldn't scrub all of it off. For she was filth too.

Gone were the days where she could act. Where she still did a pretend game of big sister. They were so young in her opinion. Just like the siblings back at home. They needed a guiding figure. A soothing hand. Even if she herself wasn't sure of it, she did her best to be reassuring and smile. Everything was going to turn okay, she whispered to the souls that huddled against her, like baby chicks in a storm seeking comfort. Comfort that she provided. Comfort that she claimed was going to give all times.

But she had been wrong. The combat started. Left. Right. It was unlike any training exercise. She was overwhelmed. Like everyone else. She could barely react. And... people had fallen already. All for a bunch of mud. What was the point she was trying to make? Patriotism? Show that she wasn't a traitor. They all were humans and bled. There was no difference. And yet... for the sake of idealism, people younger than her were thrown on this hell.

The stray bullet had splattered all the contents of the head, the face disfigured in horror. But she had recognized the corpse of the fallen soldier on her way towards the gathering point. Sandra. Daughter of a baker. Wanted to make cupcakes. She was a bit of an spoiled little girl, but not a bad person. Too bad she would never heard how well Mila was going to do her gingerbread recipe from now on. No. Her brains were now filth on the ground. The same filth that stained her clothes.

Everything was filth. But what was the point of it. Was her destiny to become filth? It may have to be. But she remembered. Her family would be sad. All the little girls who huddled under her and looked up to her would be saddened. She felt her stomach convulse, as the lance corporal vomited his orders. Very much like her breakfast now. More filth upon filth.

Filth. She was filth. But she had to pretend. It was us versus them. Every soldier killed was an ally spared. She was such filth. And yet... she could not bear to not kill. She had to kill. For the small ones. For their hopes and dreams. Even if it meant hugging her siblings with blood-soaked hands, she would fight. She stood up, trembling. Her heart was thrumming in her ears, barely able to hear the Lance Corporal instructions. The orders came. She felt her chest exploding, a numbing fire spreading through all of her body.

And yet... she was fine. She was calm. Sharp. Focused. Her eyes narrowed, her stance assumed the positions that had been beaten into her by the drills. She spoke, in a voice that was perhaps too sweet and nuanced for the confident Mila, as if years had been taken out of her.

[b]"I am going to murder every single one of them I find on my sights."[/b] She said in a singsong voice, hoisting her weapon, and charging. Rage that gave her wings, that numbed all sensations of pain and fear. More than machinegun fire, or dying by bullets, she feared to not be the big sister everyone looked up to. She advanced to a pace she had never thought she was capable off, her teeth gritted in a warped grin, a far shot from her usual smiling stance.

Lob grenades, he said. And she lobbed her, into the trenches. That would be enough to win time, but she had to breach. The Lance corporal was besides her now. She grunted, eyeing a corpse of an Imperial soldier she had seen in the battlefield. [b]"Rise and shine, corporal. The only way out is through!"[/b] She smiled, full of dirt and malice, before setting off the imperial grenade at the corpse's belt and kicking it back into the trench.

It was satisfying how they never expected a booby trapped corpse of their own. They were filth, and so was she. And then she jumped, her eyes narrowed and her posture slouched, as she lashed at everything vaguely resembling an imperial trooper with unladen fury.

[b]"IF YOU KILL THE PUPPIES, THE BITCH TEARS YOUR THROAT, IMPS!" [/b]She said, as she cackled, drunk on rage and blood.

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