Post by ρłαgυegı .. on Mar 17, 2017 0:07:11 GMT -5
i'm sorry this is essentially just a lot of me rambling as i have muse rn and try to organize my thoughts
what's happening really is i've introduced a soldier into a war setting in a foreign country and he's going to find someone he's been told is "safe" on the edge of a big city
the plot here consists of a stranded military unit in enemy territory that can either try to find each other or survive on their own with the aid of discontented civilians
read if you like, and if you do jump in, you are under absolutely no obligation to type nearly as much as i did
my first/introductory posts tend to just be me rambling and are nothing like what i ordinarily write lol i swear
forewarning there will be mention of violence cause it is a war theme but please do let me know if anything gets too intense cause i totally care about y'all and whether or not you're sensitive to this kinda thing or what QAQ
anyway here we go..
"I hate you, and that's an understatement."
The muffled voice that graced his ears and gained his attention was hardly a noticeable one, not until he summoned the psychological strength merely to focus on the clipped words spoken by what he could only assume to be one of two individuals. The argument- or what he had thought was one until it gave way to easy bantering- carried on some time before the rubble beside him shifted. The voices cut off, silenced as quickly as they had first become known to him. Still, he didn't move. Didn't even open his eyes.
"Burro, call for help."
Why was that? For a moment his mind feebly reached for any indication of why help was needed. His thoughts slipped away like water cupped in his hands; every thought he held escaped the confines of his tightly pressed fingers and no matter his efforts he couldn't keep all of them as he barely managed to hold onto even one train of thought. It was with a sharp inhalation of breath that blips of pain registered in his brain as hands brushed over his head.
The night had been a boiling hot one, just as all the others, and they hadn't expected to find a soldier still breathing. When they had, the two teenagers had been more than a little horrified by their finding. He was big, dressed in earthly colors and dirt and grime stuck to his tanned skin. There was blood everywhere- for a moment, he'd been scared to come close. But now what could he do? Ignore him? A crimson path led from his lips and nose toward his ears, he was turned face to the sky, and yet his chest still rose and fell. He was breathing and so painfully alive that it was morally wrong for Jack to so much as toy with the thought of leaving him completely abandoned in what was bound to become No Man's Land in the near future. Companion sent away to retrieve aid from their humble little town, he had brought it upon himself to venture forward and bend, taking the stranger's head in his hands and lifting it onto his knee. Indigo eyes roaming the battered and beaten body, he saw that the man's pants were faded and thinning at his knees, boots and lower legs plastered in mud so dry it had caked to a stiff white cast over the clothes. There were buckles and straps and guards he couldn't even wrap his head around, a thick vest overlying a long sleeve with pouches of varying size overlying every little space. And yet some of these pouches were gone, the vest tattered and hanging on one side, while the shirt had been blown to strips with blackened and frayed edges, the skin beneath gleaming a slick oily red under the sand and clotting that had already collected. Whatever may have happened, the man laying before him looked as if he had taken a grenade to the chest and somehow managed to keep his life in tact.
The voices were back again, and this time they had multiplied in the span of however long he had lain in the lap of some stranger. Minutes? Hours? The concept of time slipped away into something beyond his comprehension. All he knew now was the heat and the incessant ringing in his ears. The horrible cotton mouth he was forced to endure was of no help, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and throat so dry he thought his head may shrivel and fall from his shoulders. One voice, then two, three, four- how could there be so many?. Or was he just imagining them? The overbearing quiet of the last day or two he had laid in the rubble had driven him mad despite his inability to so much as open his eyes- perhaps he had finally reached his breaking point? No, because that very night he'd feel the hands of multiple people moving him from dirt to gurney, gurney to table. He'd lay in paralyzed silence as his clothes were peeled from his scorched flesh and while he couldn't cry, he sure tried. But then the pain faded. Cold, damp clothes washed over his sweat and dust coated skin, water against him acting both as cooling and comforting though he had next to no idea of who had been so incredibly selfless to help him. And then he'd be placed under a thin sheet, his breathing would slow, and sleep would claim him.
He woke up five days later. Brown and blue eyes opened to the interior of a hovel of a home, a ceiling fan swirling slowly overhead in a poor attempt of circulation. The floor looked chalky and the furniture was bare and wooden. Mounted to the walls were decorative paintings and pictures few and far between. Choking on the dry and heated air, the muscles in his upper body coiled and he turned, able to see now that he rested on a low lying table and a plate of medical supplies occupied the floor beside him. He tried not to pay too much attention to the bloodied gauze and towelettes, oddly hued eyes turning toward the curtained yawning of a doorway that, given the sunlight filtering through and around it, would surely lead back outside. What had happened to him that he had been here? Faintly, he remembered the yelling of orders- his unit. He had been on patrol. Coming back to him now, he recalled that someone had opened fire and he'd been separated. There's been an explosion, he'd hit his head..." Callous fingers lifted, drifting to knotted sandy brown hair at the back of his scalp where he found his skin overheated and a patch of white taped down despite his unruly hair. Was he in enemy territory? Did it matter? His scrutinizing of the mostly bare room informed him that he had lost his guns, and given a glance down at himself, he saw his clothes had been taken and in place of them he wore jeans and a tank top. It was ever so slightly inconvenient, actually.
"Tirador fantasma, glad to see you awake." Jack had returned. Short black hair, skin so caked in grime he looked five times darker than he actually was, and sporting bruised knuckles and scrapes everywhere that his clothes didn't protect him. "We thought you moved on from your body." Oh, this wasn't good. The soldier was looking at him oddly, and given the one eye was half blue while the rest was brown was honestly freaking him out just the tiniest bit. "Take the poncho and hat and go. There is a safe house on the edge of the city. Go west." Jack and his family lived in a small town ravaged by the oncoming war; should this soldier stay, they'd all be slaughtered for harboring one of the enemy.
Understanding the severity of the situation though thrown out by how quickly he was being asked to move, the man's head bobbed in a curt nod and he did as asked of him, retrieving his newly acquired hat and throwing his heavy woolen poncho over his shoulders. The heat was scorching under it, but the fabric brought a welcoming shade and protection from the sun above as he left the little home and trekked out along a well worn path. The city was a five mile hike over a small ridge, and according to his savior someone would meet him at the aforementioned ridge to help him the rest of the way. So far now he carried on with his slow pace and worsening limp, lips dry and cracked and the hot air he sucked into his lung scraping against his esophagus and burning at his nose and insides with every attempt of breathing. The reopening of his wounds would actually be welcomed, given the bleeding would cool him down the tiniest bit.
what's happening really is i've introduced a soldier into a war setting in a foreign country and he's going to find someone he's been told is "safe" on the edge of a big city
the plot here consists of a stranded military unit in enemy territory that can either try to find each other or survive on their own with the aid of discontented civilians
read if you like, and if you do jump in, you are under absolutely no obligation to type nearly as much as i did
my first/introductory posts tend to just be me rambling and are nothing like what i ordinarily write lol i swear
forewarning there will be mention of violence cause it is a war theme but please do let me know if anything gets too intense cause i totally care about y'all and whether or not you're sensitive to this kinda thing or what QAQ
anyway here we go..
"I hate you, and that's an understatement."
The muffled voice that graced his ears and gained his attention was hardly a noticeable one, not until he summoned the psychological strength merely to focus on the clipped words spoken by what he could only assume to be one of two individuals. The argument- or what he had thought was one until it gave way to easy bantering- carried on some time before the rubble beside him shifted. The voices cut off, silenced as quickly as they had first become known to him. Still, he didn't move. Didn't even open his eyes.
"Burro, call for help."
Why was that? For a moment his mind feebly reached for any indication of why help was needed. His thoughts slipped away like water cupped in his hands; every thought he held escaped the confines of his tightly pressed fingers and no matter his efforts he couldn't keep all of them as he barely managed to hold onto even one train of thought. It was with a sharp inhalation of breath that blips of pain registered in his brain as hands brushed over his head.
The night had been a boiling hot one, just as all the others, and they hadn't expected to find a soldier still breathing. When they had, the two teenagers had been more than a little horrified by their finding. He was big, dressed in earthly colors and dirt and grime stuck to his tanned skin. There was blood everywhere- for a moment, he'd been scared to come close. But now what could he do? Ignore him? A crimson path led from his lips and nose toward his ears, he was turned face to the sky, and yet his chest still rose and fell. He was breathing and so painfully alive that it was morally wrong for Jack to so much as toy with the thought of leaving him completely abandoned in what was bound to become No Man's Land in the near future. Companion sent away to retrieve aid from their humble little town, he had brought it upon himself to venture forward and bend, taking the stranger's head in his hands and lifting it onto his knee. Indigo eyes roaming the battered and beaten body, he saw that the man's pants were faded and thinning at his knees, boots and lower legs plastered in mud so dry it had caked to a stiff white cast over the clothes. There were buckles and straps and guards he couldn't even wrap his head around, a thick vest overlying a long sleeve with pouches of varying size overlying every little space. And yet some of these pouches were gone, the vest tattered and hanging on one side, while the shirt had been blown to strips with blackened and frayed edges, the skin beneath gleaming a slick oily red under the sand and clotting that had already collected. Whatever may have happened, the man laying before him looked as if he had taken a grenade to the chest and somehow managed to keep his life in tact.
The voices were back again, and this time they had multiplied in the span of however long he had lain in the lap of some stranger. Minutes? Hours? The concept of time slipped away into something beyond his comprehension. All he knew now was the heat and the incessant ringing in his ears. The horrible cotton mouth he was forced to endure was of no help, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and throat so dry he thought his head may shrivel and fall from his shoulders. One voice, then two, three, four- how could there be so many?. Or was he just imagining them? The overbearing quiet of the last day or two he had laid in the rubble had driven him mad despite his inability to so much as open his eyes- perhaps he had finally reached his breaking point? No, because that very night he'd feel the hands of multiple people moving him from dirt to gurney, gurney to table. He'd lay in paralyzed silence as his clothes were peeled from his scorched flesh and while he couldn't cry, he sure tried. But then the pain faded. Cold, damp clothes washed over his sweat and dust coated skin, water against him acting both as cooling and comforting though he had next to no idea of who had been so incredibly selfless to help him. And then he'd be placed under a thin sheet, his breathing would slow, and sleep would claim him.
He woke up five days later. Brown and blue eyes opened to the interior of a hovel of a home, a ceiling fan swirling slowly overhead in a poor attempt of circulation. The floor looked chalky and the furniture was bare and wooden. Mounted to the walls were decorative paintings and pictures few and far between. Choking on the dry and heated air, the muscles in his upper body coiled and he turned, able to see now that he rested on a low lying table and a plate of medical supplies occupied the floor beside him. He tried not to pay too much attention to the bloodied gauze and towelettes, oddly hued eyes turning toward the curtained yawning of a doorway that, given the sunlight filtering through and around it, would surely lead back outside. What had happened to him that he had been here? Faintly, he remembered the yelling of orders- his unit. He had been on patrol. Coming back to him now, he recalled that someone had opened fire and he'd been separated. There's been an explosion, he'd hit his head..." Callous fingers lifted, drifting to knotted sandy brown hair at the back of his scalp where he found his skin overheated and a patch of white taped down despite his unruly hair. Was he in enemy territory? Did it matter? His scrutinizing of the mostly bare room informed him that he had lost his guns, and given a glance down at himself, he saw his clothes had been taken and in place of them he wore jeans and a tank top. It was ever so slightly inconvenient, actually.
"Tirador fantasma, glad to see you awake." Jack had returned. Short black hair, skin so caked in grime he looked five times darker than he actually was, and sporting bruised knuckles and scrapes everywhere that his clothes didn't protect him. "We thought you moved on from your body." Oh, this wasn't good. The soldier was looking at him oddly, and given the one eye was half blue while the rest was brown was honestly freaking him out just the tiniest bit. "Take the poncho and hat and go. There is a safe house on the edge of the city. Go west." Jack and his family lived in a small town ravaged by the oncoming war; should this soldier stay, they'd all be slaughtered for harboring one of the enemy.
Understanding the severity of the situation though thrown out by how quickly he was being asked to move, the man's head bobbed in a curt nod and he did as asked of him, retrieving his newly acquired hat and throwing his heavy woolen poncho over his shoulders. The heat was scorching under it, but the fabric brought a welcoming shade and protection from the sun above as he left the little home and trekked out along a well worn path. The city was a five mile hike over a small ridge, and according to his savior someone would meet him at the aforementioned ridge to help him the rest of the way. So far now he carried on with his slow pace and worsening limp, lips dry and cracked and the hot air he sucked into his lung scraping against his esophagus and burning at his nose and insides with every attempt of breathing. The reopening of his wounds would actually be welcomed, given the bleeding would cool him down the tiniest bit.