bits of my mind

polen (ww2 accurate)

can't believe i have to say this but after thinking about past experiences i will remind y'all once again that if you glaze nazis you should take a shower and seek professional help. "oh but he's just fictional and did nothing in my au-" no. this also goes to soviet union glazers especially in the time of stalin's rule because the sheer amount of atrocities they committed is genuinely insane and i'm saying this as a leftist who recognises both the good and impacts of communism left the world

suicide jokes not appreciated if you're not my friend thanks

ok so anyway here it is. 13.1k words, 31 pages (docs). i rawdogged this shit and wrote like 11.6k words in 9 days and completed this at 2am after work so if you think i proofread this think again. no beta we die like john soap mactavish

tw for: war obviously, death, mentions of suicide (and suicidal ideation), mentions of abuse

edit: finally had some time to skim through and fix a few grammar errors, also forgot to say that there are a few historical errors in this fic for story purposes/because i couldn't find good sources for certain events while researching so don't take my writing for fact. i know "sicko" was not a term until the 1970s but i wrote the first 1.5k words in feb of 2023 and for some weird reason didn't think to research etymology. everything after that should be 90% accurate

--

His hands shook as raw adrenaline pumped through his blood. As he tried to steady them to take another shot, he gulped, tasting grit and sweat through his chapped lips. One of his wings was mangled and twisted, bone cutting through flesh. He could barely feel anything except sudden, random jolts of pain. But still he forced himself to take a deep breath and stay composed, before ducking out from the crumbled wall he was hiding behind and making a run for it.

He didn't know where the other boy had gone, they had been separated when the barrage of gunfire had begun, causing them to be caught in the crossfire. They were on his tail, he knew they were. They had lost one of their prisoners — him — and they wanted him back, locked up in their prisons until they decided to kill him.

In any case, if they caught him, he had a gun — he would shoot himself, knowing he would not be able to take on several grown men at a time. Death was better than being placed back in the hands of the Third Reich. His mind wandered again, and he caught himself thinking about the German boy who had helped him make his escape. He knew he was defecting, having witnessed the horrors his father was committing against his friend.

He then recalled the bandages he had seen around the German's torso, peeking out from behind his shirt. He remembered how, with a sinking feeling of horror, he had seen blood staining the linen, and hoped that he was still alive.

The German forces would not hurt his friend intentionally, he knew that for sure, as he was their leader's son, and the Allies would not shoot him either, on the grounds of him being a child, and therefore a civilian. There was no way they would know he was once a child soldier, he was in his casual clothes, with no insignia that could give him away to have once been aligned to the fascist state. He was, however, worried about the stray bullets intended for both sides and not the boy, but he knew that with or without the survival of his friend, he had to get behind the lines of the Allies so he could be rescued.

Survival came first. Grief could come later, if ever.

So he continued running, avoiding bullets, hearing the ones meant for either him or the soldiers on the other front whizzing past his head, missing him by mere centimetres. He could see the uniforms of the Americans and British as he got closer. As he started to slow down, gasping for air and coughing due to the arid smoke, he felt more aware of the weight of the gun slowing down.