2042_POST-WW3 - GIRLS' FRONTLINE FANFICTION.

THE_PROLOGUE_.

After the Southern Border Incident of 2061

The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the war-torn battlefield. The air was thick with the scent of blood and dust, the metallic tang of violence lingering as the wind barely stirred. Nick Blake sat against the rubble of a collapsed wall, his M16A4 resting beside him, barrel caked with the grime of battle. His right leg throbbed with each heartbeat, the loosely tied bandage doing little to stem the flow of blood. Nearby, the body of Sergeant Travis Harley lay still, face-up, his eyes forever locked in the silent shock of death. For a brief moment, the world seemed to still, save for the soft patter of blood dripping from his leg onto the concrete beneath him. Nick's mind wandered as he fumbled through the remnants of his medical kit, the adrenaline fading and leaving behind a gnawing emptiness. He had killed today-again. The six men who once stood as soldiers of FREMILO, guerillas sworn to fight in the chaos of this bitter conflict, now lay dead, victims of his precise three-round bursts.

"Six shots... six lives..." the words echoed in his head, heavy and hollow. He didn't feel victorious. He didn't feel relief. He felt... empty. Just hours ago, Sergeant Travis had been laughing, recounting stories of his family back in Missouri. Nick had half-listened, grinning beneath his helmet, thinking that there would be time later to truly catch up. There had always been time, until now. "Sergeant..." Nick whispered, his voice cracking as he stared at the body. It wasn't the first time he had seen death, nor would it be the last. The war between Alostoka and Mozambique had taken its toll on him, shaping him into a hardened soldier at just 21 years of age. But seeing Travis, the man who had guided him, and protected him, now lying lifeless, struck something deeper within him. A familiar, suffocating rage built up in his chest, only to be drowned by the overwhelming fatigue that had settled into his bones. Nick's hands trembled as he reached into his pack, pulling out a small flask of water. He splashed some on his face, trying to shake the haze of exhaustion and despair clouding his mind. The psychological scars were deeper than the physical ones. Since the start of the war, he had become haunted by images of death-vivid, brutal, and recurring. He had lost count of the number of bodies he had dug up-the soldiers who had fallen by his side or at his hand.

The sound of distant gunfire snapped Nick back to the present. Faint cracks and pops echoed over the ridge to the north, signaling the continuation of the endless cycle of violence. But for now, he was alone. "One magazine," he muttered to himself. "Six lives..." Dr. Elvis Penley had warned him of the toll this war was taking. The psychologist had noted the change in Nick during his last evaluation, comparing him to a "bloodied sheet," no longer the innocent man who had once signed up for service, full of hope and idealism. Nick could still remember the man he had been before all of this-eager, naive, ready to serve his country and protect those he loved. Now, the face staring back at him from the reflective surface of his scope was unrecognizable, hollow, and broken.

War changes men.

Nick didn't hate the people he fought; he didn't even hate the enemy snipers who had taken Travis from him. What he hated was the war itself-the senseless brutality, the politics that churned out broken lives like factories churning out products. He had once believed that war had meaning and that there was a purpose to it all. Now, he wasn't so sure. Each firefight, each ambush, chipped away at his sense of humanity, leaving behind something far more primal. As the shadows grew longer, Nick reached for his radio, but the static on the other end told him what he already knew-he was cut off from command. The FREMILO marksman who had wounded him had also hit their communications setup. Nick cursed under his breath, knowing that it might be hours before anyone realized they were missing. Hours... alone with Travis's body. The sound of a pebble skitting across the pavement caught Nick's attention. His instincts kicked in, and despite the pain shooting through his leg, he reached for his rifle, bringing it up in a swift, practiced motion. His finger hovered over the trigger, his eyes scanning the perimeter for movement. He had to remain vigilant; the FREMILO forces wouldn't hesitate to finish the job if they found him vulnerable.

But nothing came. Just the wind, howling softly through the skeletal remains of the buildings around him. Nick's grip on the rifle loosened, and he let it rest back against his shoulder. He wasn't sure if it was his exhaustion playing tricks on him or if there really had been something-or someone-out there. Either way, it didn't matter now. He was too tired to care. Leaning back against the crumbling wall, Nick closed his eyes for just a moment. The sounds of the battlefield faded into the distance, replaced by memories of home. He could almost smell the fresh-cut grass of his family's yard and hear the laughter of his younger siblings as they played outside. It was a simpler time, a time before war had claimed his soul.

But there was no going back now.

"Lords have mercy..." He mutters to himself, hoping no one would hear it.