The Reasons Why

Chapter 1 ~ Who I Was

(damion gladstone)

63 years before Scarlett Winters. 9 September, 1945. Dawn.

Landfill scatters across the minefield, creating a scent of mould and blood to marinate an inhuman smell in the air. A stirring hurricane southwest brushes up bodies and scraps towards the land of the doomed, furthering the odour like a virus. There is no forgiveness in the blistering cold, as all vision becomes blinded by dust, and all sound becomes deafened by screams and detonations. Not the best of days.

Zeppelins reign far above the madness and "scout" for survivors, through the fog and red-tainted mist. Or are they? In mere moments, the zeppelins change with the wind, heading for the greenery southbound. Abandoning their post in the wake of their slaughter.

The outlasters of the massacre are secreting puss and blood across the tanbarks of ash. Some clinging onto their mines for dear life; counting the seconds they have until a sudden movement sets it off. Others drag themselves along towards the never-ending haze, getting caught up in the hurricane's pull. Some of the ravagers dead before they even reach their destination. Hope has relinquished its hold on the orphans of the battlefield.

Amid the ruination, a black-etiquette soldier lays bare atop a landmine, silently chewing down on his tongue. Burdened with blisters and cuts across his body as the wind scurries into his bleeding battle scars, gnawing and pricking at his wounds. His hazel brown hair is saturated in slime and grit, stapling the strands together that fall to his shoulders; drenched in his and others gore. All a testimony to the conflict prior.

He stares down at the silver-dusted mine in which his chest is pressed against, having fallen onto it some time ago. The ballistic kevlar plate pressed against the trigger with animosity, patterned with a ruby red symmetrical emblem - the emblem of his military that has just deserted him. His arms are held out in front of him, buried in the grim soil, stopping himself from sliding downhill. As he looks up to the hurricane oncoming, the ash and grime that is glued to his pale face begins to unstick. The soldier waits for the mine to inevitably blow up in his face, and meet his untimely demise.

And that soldier is me.

I shuffle ever-so-slightly down towards the slope of the hill, my chest still squeezing the trigger into its slot. I am weary not to apply any more pressure than I already am; just the slightest weight change could end in travesty. My breaths are becoming heavy now, my chest anchored as I dread what comes next. For the pin to shoot up through my chest, followed by an explosive shockwave, jumbled with fierce, sharp fragments to send me ricocheting into a million pieces. There's no escaping my fate.

I turn my gaze back towards the hurricane, perceiving the silhouettes of three unfamiliar anthropomorphic figures, shielding themselves from the glazing chaos. They appear to be running towards me. My gloved hand steadily reaches for my loaded gun, tugging at its handle as the firearm escapes its prison. I cock the gun twice over, my hands somewhat shaky. Must be the wind. I aim my gun out. 

The Society takes no prisoners, so why should I...? I'll kill my enemies, even if it's the last thing I do...

I tilt to my left ever-so-slightly and- BOOM. The landmine erupts beneath me, the soil parting from the ground and the wind scurrying away. All that remains in my wake is a black and bloody cloud, showering clots of blood onto the surrounding area. Yet, I still hear. I hear the constant irritating ringing. I still smell it. I smell my own blood and guts mixed with the still-warm gunpowder. And... I see. It's blurry, but I can see the fragments of what remains of me. I view the broken hilt of my pistol beside my leg, both blazing with fire and smoke.