Note: This is short because I'm really, really tired. I have more ideas, but I don't want them to come out crappy. personal preference.

Part Four: Eye-Dentity

The water from Patrick’s canteen had long since dried on his lips, had become a distant memory in the pain and the dry, unrelenting wind that swirled around him. The hunger and thirst were twin pains gnawing at his chest.

Guilt was the triplet pain, and the worst of them, but in the crucible of fear and starvation, it was transformed into anger, blazing hot as the sun overhead. It had been a week, and if he’d seen one man die, he’d seen a hundred. There were maybe two-hundred of them left, scattered about the field. Someone had once said that no man was an island; that someone hadn’t sat on the surface of some gorram rock, watching everyone around him die. If that wasn’t an island, than nothing was.

True, sometimes a man or a woman would walk by—might even make some attempt to talk to him. He’d answer with a few words, close his eyes, and be alone when he opened them again. Gabriel didn’t know if they’d even been there, if they were real.

He was barely conscious when the Alliance arrived; he’d felt near to death himself, burning inside and out, and to tell the truth, he didn’t hate the notion. It’d stop the burning, the thoughts rushing through his head, and the smell of bodies slowly going to dust around him.

He heard voices talking to him, but the words didn’t make sense. With a barely audible groan, he opened his eyes and saw hazy figures standing next to him, blue-grey and stark against the morning sky. Two strong arms took him under his shoulders, and lifted him up, so that only his shins were touching the ground.

Suddenly, his vision was obscured by a bright green flash; in the afterglow, he could see a small, hand-held unit was being pulled away from his face. The man holding it looked at it, frowned at the display, then looked to his men.

“Eye-dent scan says he’s one of ours,” the man said in a low voice. “He’s AWOL. Take him.”

Gabriel’s vision grew sharp and focused as the glow faded; the hatred burning in his chest also grew sharp, pierced him from front to back, hard enough to make him cry out. He shook off the man holding him and tried to run, only to receive a punch in his side.

It wasn’t enough. He staggered, but ran, took a swing at the nearest man. They caused the pain; they could take it back. He swung again and again, sometimes hitting, mostly missing, until a kick took him between the ribs and he fell to the ground gasping. Another kick hit him in the shoulder, and another in the head, until the world spun and faded into a white nothingness.

Part Three: Water

Note—for whatever reason, I’m having trouble writing the battle part. Maybe it’s because it isn’t important yet, or maybe it’s because I’ve been lucky enough to avoid being put in a battle. Therefore, what I write here is going to be even more unpolished than usual. My regrets in advance.

Gabriel’s sides ached and shoulders shook as he huddled behind a rock. When had the orders to stand down and surrender the valley been given? Two, three days ago? Five minutes ago? He couldn’t remember, and it didn’t matter. People were still fighting, and even more people were dying.

He hadn’t seen anyone from his platoon in so long. No one; not the Sarge, not Patrick, none of the fresh recruits they’d picked up just a few months before. No one.

‘Course, he knew where most of them were; dead on the ground, bled out and starting to stink. He didn’t much want to think on that. Enough people had died that an unknown sergeant ended up being in charge of things. Guy rallied the troops, made a stand, and those who still remained. . .well, they followed, and damn the orders. Of course, it was real easy to shoot back when someone else shot first.

By now, though, even a nian qing sha gua like Gabriel could see the way the wind was blowing—and, if he couldn’t see it, the gnawing pain in his stomach certainly pointed him in the right direction. He knew this wasn’t going to go well.

Any one who still fought was at this point limited to words, fists, and hurling debris. Most of the bullets had run out, though the occasional far-off burst of gunfire proved that there were still a few lucky individuals left who still had a stock of lead.

Water. He had to find water.

He stood up, using one hand to brace himself on the rock. He recognized the surroundings now; it was one of the places where his group had fought, where he’d run across the field shooting. Where’d he’d last seen folk he recognized.

With a sick, wrenching feeling that ran down his spine and out his abdomen, he realized that most of them were probably still on the field.

Couldn’t think about it. He needed water. He tried to ignore the bodies around him, tried to ignore the silence and the smell and the steps he had to take, careful to tread on the ground. One body on the far side seemed different than the others, though Gabriel couldn’t say how at first. He grew closer, then realized what it was:

The body was moving.

He ran over there, still dodging human remains and trying not to think of anything—not water, not death, just the moving man who was rapidly growing closer, whose existence meant that Gabriel wasn’t alone, wasn’t going to stay by himself forever in this guay, wasn’t going to go still and motionless and gone there on the grass. He fell to his knees next to the body, heard the groaning and the breathing of the man next to him.

No, no, not now, not in front of me. . .

It was Patrick. His tawny hair was streaked with dirt and blood, and his left leg wasn’t so much a leg as it was a swollen, bloody mass, but it was Patrick. His eyes were lightly shut, and his right hand clutched a small medal, fingered the female figure on it.

Gabriel couldn’t talk. He hadn’t grown up religiously; if he had, he might’ve known the right prayer or at least the right words to say. As it was, Patrick’s eyes opened and rolled up to look at him, widened in recognition, and Gabriel could to nothing more than to think, no, not this, anything but this.

Patrick’s lips drew back, and Gabriel couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a grimace. He found his voice again.

“Shit. . .” he said, his words catching in his throat, threatening to turn into sobs.

The smile—Gabriel was sure it was a smile—grew larger. Patrick reached down, under himself, and grabbed a large, leather container. His canteen.

“Take it,” he said, holding it out, thrusting it towards Gabriel’s hands. His voice was raspy, fading. The effort of speaking made Patrick close his eyes for a moment, then they were open again.

“I--” Gabriel was frozen, couldn’t move, couldn’t hardly breathe. His arms trembled slightly, but stayed frozen.

“Take it.” The voice was more insistent, held the ghost of an order. Wordlessly, he took the canteen, and met Patrick’s eyes. He tried to talk, but, again, the words wouldn’t come.

“Keats--” Patrick stopped mid-sentence, and his outstretched hand grew slack. The hand that was holding the medal became limp and relaxed, allowing the chain to fall loose across his chest.

Gabriel clutched the canteen. A great void opened up in his chest, and as he drew breath, it filled with air, sending a silent sob from his lips and across the field, echoing against the bodies and fading into night.