[hider=Abate]
[center][i][b]Abate[/b][/i][/center]

	Sometimes it’s hard not to wonder. Back in Astrya, things were a lot more simple. I always had the mind of a businessman, or so my family had said. You’ll grow up to be rich, successful, everything you ever wanted. Money? Happiness? Keep your head down, stay out of trouble, play things smart… it’ll all be yours, I’m sure. Perhaps they were just optimistic, or maybe they actually could tell the future. Parents have that way about them, I always found; you might not think they understand, but give it time, and you’ll find out that they sure as hell do. They know things better than you ever will. 
	I suppose in that vein they were right. I found myself within an explosion of wealth. And when I say explosion, I don’t say it lightly - I mean an explosion. Everything I could have ever wanted, you should have seen it. Or maybe you did. Astrya was one of those countries where if you understand what you needed to do, fortune wasn’t that far away. The Luxurious Capital they call it, famed for its vast exports of spice and silk and fruit and… you get the picture. It bled money. They were right after all - I figured out what to do, worked my way into a meagre fortune, bartered my way to a plot of land, and from there… well, in my prime they called me [i]”The Spice King.”[/i] Pretentious, yeah, but that was me. Married my way into a Noble family, and… fuck, it was the life. Everything you could ever want… if only my parents knew just how true it was.
	It was the sheltered life. I never thought I’d be able to wield a gun, or shoot straight, or work up the courage to kill. Not that the conscription system cares. See, I ran myself up some debts… got a loan from the government, and couldn’t pay it back. That’s what they do. If you can’t pay, you get drafted into the military for God knows how long. Either you die, or you keep going until you’ve completed whatever arbitrary goal they set based on whatever you owe. Desertion is grounds for execution. It was a shock, going from the feel of wine glasses and a fine ass in your hand to a metal rifle, from polished wood floors to churned and scorched mud, drenched in the stink of human life.
	On the other side of the battlefield is Iathen. We used to be allies, but an assassination and coup later… and here we stand, shooting each other to fuck. I’m bedecked in a standard issue military garb - metal helmet, brown clothes and boots. I don’t know anyone here. Making friends was never my strong suit. Even if I wanted to do something else, I have no other notable skills. Apparently I’m a decent shot, who knew. I grip the rifle tightly, already caked in mud and filth, my hands coming to resemble a similar state. The air is acrid with smoke, sweat, and blood. And it’s already the seventh day. I dunno where they store the corpses, but wherever it is, I swear, I can still smell it from here. 
	I take the initiative and push up the field, rounding a blackened hill riddled with bullet holes and artillery shots. Whether or not I’m acclimated to the sound of explosions nearby is up for debate, but it still stands that I barely notice them any more; just dull thuds in my eardrums as I run through the mud and filth, keeping low as I approach my comrades. Not even two hundred feet in front of us is a line of soldiers, peeking, taking shots periodically, keeping our men at bay. Approaching our line, I hear a shot ring out - one of our guys. I skid up next to him, sliding through the grime, and take a blind shot to force anyone in front of us to duck down. 
	I don’t even get a chance to say anything. There’s another shot, and I feel his blood spatter against my face, his limp body collapsing backwards into the muck, eyes still open, even in death. If you had asked me, two years ago, “How would you react if you saw someone die?”, I couldn’t have answered you. I wouldn’t know what to say - simply hope I never have to see someone die. I can answer you now, though: I wouldn’t bat an eye. Maybe the tiniest glimpse of sympathy would grace my thoughts, but at this point, I’ve seen too many fall prey to a hail of gunfire. It isn’t worth wasting emotion on anymore. I hate myself for saying it, but even that won't change my mind - I know what I’m saying is true.
	One of our men shouts to me, drawing my attention from the coin sized hole burrowed into the soldiers cranium. He nods to me. I nod back. Wordless communication… I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to it now. Five of us in total sit crouched behind a makeshift fortification of dug of mud and sand bags, a kind of forward base as it were. A catch a glimpse of one of the enemies through a hole in the cover, and with my “friends” stand and fight; line the shot up through the iron sights; feel the power as the butt digs into the shoulder; idly recognise the fear in my enemy's eyes moments before a bullet rips through his garb and sends him sprawling backwards into whatever trench or crater he was using as cover. I think that’s my fourth kill now. 
	Two of our guys fall against the mud in death, and the three of us drop down to avoid any retaliation, though I assume we killed them all. I barely think. At least, I try not to. My eyes meet one of my surviving comrades. There’s fear in them. Looking at them, I see it grow like a cancer, multiply in a dilation of his pupil, as a object lands behind our fortification.
	“Grenade!” I hear him shout over my natural filter, keeping out the sounds of explosions. We barely have time to react, scrambling to our feet to jump away. I leap just too late, flinging myself head first into a crater to my right as the explosives goes off. The shrapnel embeds itself in my body.
	Maybe seconds pass. I can’t tell. The adrenaline only lasts for so long, dilates the pain for so long. It’s soon replaced by a searing pain, and awful heat. My legs and my back flare with pain, leaking blood despite his palm pressed tightly against it. Every soldier was given basic medical training, but the idea barely even registers in my head, instead replaced with agony and fear. This is it. I’m a dead man. My corpse might not even be recovered, I’ll just be left here to rot, or burnt, or God knows what. I had a feeling I might die at some point. Conscripts didn’t come back unless they were lucky. Either you died, or you never repaid your debt. Come to think of it, either way, you keep going until you die. 
	“Hang on there, soldier.” a thick, heavy accent permeates my senses, tearing through my fear for just a brief second. I can’t place the voice, nor the accent, but the next second all the fear that had for the shortest of times evaporated return twice fold. This wasn’t luck - this was probably a soldier of Iathen, here to finish me off before they continue their push up our ranks. My vision blurs, but when it returns, I’m greeted by a dark skinned male, crouched over me, rummaging through a pack of supplies. Instinctively I attempt to crawl away, but the pain in my back flares up immensely, leaving me to lie aimlessly, struggling for breath against oncoming death. Despite the summer day, it feels… cold. 
	From his bag the man turns, drawing with him some tape.
	“Keep still, don’t struggle.” he rips off a strip, wraps it around my leg, before approaching me. Only there do I see the medics band around his arm.
	“Hah… medic, huh?” 
	“That’s right, gotta have someone to get you back alive.” I can’t help but laugh. I still can’t place his accent, but with it I can barely take what he says seriously; gallows humour, maybe, but I welcome it, “It looks bad, but trust me - Imma’ get you back safe, okay?”
	“Your accent…” ignoring what he says, I can’t help but ask, “...where are you from?” to that, he laughs too. 
	“Where d’ya think? Vestal - only place get this stupid fuckin’ voice.” I look at him quizzically, as he turns back to his pack.
	“Why… why are you here?” Vestal - a war torn state. Their government felt to a religious extremist group, and ever since it’s been the forefront of gruesome conflicts. Some would argue the new government is better than the dictatorship before it, but such arguments debates aren’t common place.
	“Tryin’a get my family out of the shithole, that’s what. You get permanent citizenship for military service, including your family.”
	“You’re a conscript..? Like me?” I say as he turns back, carrying a small syringe, smiling. 
	“All the more reason to get you back alive then, eh?” I can’t help but smile back, “This is Morphine, I’m gonna get you back to base - alive.” I nod, “So tell me, Mr. Conscript… what’d you do?”
	I hesitate to say anything, as he slides the syringe into my arm. But that smile, and his laugh… I can’t help but find myself in company. If I’m gonna survive, I might as well have a friend.
	“Debt… got a loan, couldn’t repay… already been two years…”
	“A loan from the government? Musta’ been a noble or something, right?” I nod, slowly, as the drug begins to kick in.
	“I fucked it up pretty badly…” I feel his arms on me as he hoists me up, and we start walking.
	“So… got anyone waiting for you back at home?”
	“Yeah… my wife… and son… Her dad wanted to kick me out of the family, called me a useless cunt despite all I gave them… she refused to let me go… the fuck disowned her…” I catch what looked to be a frown on his face, though I can barely see it. Yet the closer it looks, the more it seems to be a smile.
	“Then you have even more reason to get back alive, right? See your wife, your son? No way can I let you die here in that case, eh?” I chuckled, a numb and semi conscious laugh.
	“...and you’ve gotta get your family… no dying for you, either.”
	“Heh. Yeah, you said it. What’s your name, mate? Wouldn’t mind a friend here?” a friend… wouldn’t that be nice. 
	“Adam… Cooke…”
	“I’m A’dre. ‘S good to meet you, Adam.”
	And before I knew it, I was unconscious.
[/hider]