[centre][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/181008/b02a8e514a847d83c3d8892fffdb6f35.png[/img][/centre][hr]
[color=gray]"...I and Papa will be waiting for you back at home..."[/color]

...

[color=gray]"...waiting for you..."[/color]

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[color=gray]"...back at home..."[/color]

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...

[color=bf00ff]"Haa...Haa..."[/color]

That once beautiful, sparkling, curious and innocent eyes of that day. It was still there, but the adjectives had all dropped. Decayed. Disintegrated. Gone. It was now replaced with a dim fire underneath the dark blue. His lids were all blood. His brows mud. His forehead both. His lips swayed up and down unconsciously, but rhymed with the ups and downs of his chest. His hand was still holding the Longfield rifle that he somehow still miraculously retain. The bolt had just been cocked, an empty shell lied on the cold muddy ground. And behind him were more than a dozen faces, some still frozen with rage, while some had drifted away into the eternal sleep. Federations and Imperials alike, piled up together as blood mixed and washed into the stream of rainwater in the narrow trenches.

Continue, he must. Another step, he walked. Even if he was all by himself now, his legs still found its strength to take another step. Two Imperials were in the other trenches, as Michael turned the corner. They were probably as shocked and as scared as he was, seeing how the Federations were taking the fight right to their noses. And they were completely unaware of the five foot tall sapper behind him. 

Two shots. His Longfield Rifle made it into his left shoulder. The iron-sight lined up. The trigger pulled. His left hand breached over the stock to grab onto the bolt on the right side of the gun, as he silently complained why the manufacturer would not create one on the left side for him and those like him. One soldier fell to the ground, his eyes refused to close. The shock of his companion's death stacked up among the other shock and horrors these two had been through, so that even though the Imperial, if he was fast enough, could have shot Michael dead on site, his arms had been crackled to freeze where it stood. With the horrors in his eyes, and his mouth gaping wide, he watched as the sapper pulled the trigger once more. 

As the two Imperial soldiers dropped dead on the ground, Michael did not hesitate to reach for two strip clips inside his pocket, pulled back the bolt, rack the clips into the gun one by one then pushed the bolt forward, as he moved forward, stepping over the two Imperials he just unknowingly shattered their parent's only will to live. 

And yet through all of that, he felt nothing...Absolutely nothing but two dead Imperials.

As Michael walked further, he discovered another two soldiers. But they weren't buddies like the last two. Their uniforms contrasted. And they were upon one another, one were grinding a gun with its bayonet onto the other one, while the poor victim was desperately trying to stop it. For one moment, Michael's eyes opened wide. There was something about that soldier on the ground. Short brown hair with that scar across his cheek. That's Briggs for sure. A future carpenter. His family owned a workshop that he intended to inherit and do the same to his children and grandchildren. An extremely simple guy. He met Michael at the bootcamp and, although weren't that close, helped each other to go through the grueling training of the Federation. 

Again, with no hesitation, Michael brought the stock of his gun pressed tightly onto his left shoulder, but he fired as he moved forward to Briggs. The first shot did not connect. Grunting inward, Michael hastily cocked the bolt. His eyes looked both over his gun and his friend, as the Imperial's bayonet continued to sink into his stomach. Once the bullet had ejected, Michael fired the second shot. He did not miss this time. It was a direct hit to the Imperial soldier's cheek, as the soldier fell dead on spot. 

All of a sudden, another Imperial appeared as he charged toward the young sapper. Now that he noticed it, he was in the middle of the T-section between the two trenches, and unfortunately, whilst he didn't notice the other guy, the Imp saw him, and was coming running at him full speed with a trench club. However, just barely enough, Michael's survival instinct saved him this time. The club was a few millimeters away from his head, as the sapper dropped his rifle to hold onto it like it was his life. It was his life in fact. His other hand caught the other free hand of the Imperial, as the two soldiers dragged each other onto the ground. Both were exhausted, their lungs couldn't form a breathe, and yet once on the ground, they were still holding onto the other in the same stance like they did standing. 

It may look unbelievable to an outsider, and it was unbelievable to both combatants as well, as the smaller, shorter and seemingly unimpressive soldier emerged as the one on the top of the Imperial soldier, whilst the bigger one got pinned onto the ground. The one who took it worst was perhaps the soldier himself. How could this youngling that had probably just stopped drinking their mother's breast put him in a position like this? His hand trembled in anger, but the story of anger fueling retaliation to victory was all but fairy tale nonsense. 

Michael quickly glanced around as he continued to pin the Imperial down. Right above the guy was his helmet that fell off during the struggle. It was his chance. His life. Michael, without half a second wasted, reached for the helmet, held the side firmly and slammed it onto the Imperial. Each hit emitted a sound of uncomfortable cracking. By the fourth one, the soldier was dead, the side of his forehead existed a trough. 

And yet again, it ended at that. Without a second of thought, Michael dropped the helmet on the ground as he stood up. Dragging himself over to his friend Briggs lying next to the dead Imperial, he crouched down to check on him. No response. His eyes still opened, the gun and bayonet still in his gut, yet no breaths, no pulse. 

Slowly, the sapper stood up from his dead friend. His eyes turned to the sky. The heaven still poured down gallons of water onto him, as if it was trying to clean his soul. But deep inside, he knew it would never be able to. He had claimed a total of nine kills today. Nine lives he claimed, nine dreams he destroyed, and many more love he crushed. How could one justify for such an action? 

Every steps he made felt autonomous, but he was conscious enough to realize that the battle had ended. For now at least, but it had ended. The Federations had breached the Imperial defense line. He actually made it through. He somehow made it through the hails of gunfire, the shells of artilleries, and the unrelenting rain. He made it through alive, and without significant wounds. But Briggs did not. She did not as well...

Soon, Michael saw the rest of the squad again - those that holed up at the church ruin just before. They seemed to be alright from that group of Imperial soldiers. But then again, they were not. The Darcsen Lance Corporal was now a shadow of his former self, as the rain could do nothing to hide the tears coming out of his eyes. How he envied that man? How could that man let out such emotions and yet he here could not? He looked down onto his shaking hand, now soaked of not just one person's blood. His eyes blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice? Yet nothing came...

Once he looked down now, he realized that he wasn't alone. He was standing beside a giant, to him at least. A girl probably two heads taller than him, with a side ponytail, all in a yellow that could have looked pretty in a clean environment, but was utterly stained by the blood in the mud in the rain. She was lying flat on the mud on the ground, facing the rainy sky. Her sniffles echoed like a bat's cry, as she muttered out loud. The words that echoed louder than her sniffles, or anything that could have. 

[color=bf00ff]"Everyone's filthy. In fact, I admire you and the Lance Corporal for your cleanness."[/color] Michael uttered softly, as he slowly crumpled down in the trenches, resting his back on the wall made of dirt and wooden planks, his eyes looking down on his thigh, and the gun, the gun he used to kill those nine souls. [color=bf00ff]"How you could express yourself like that, while I can't."[/color] 
[@AtomicNut]