❝ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴏʀ ᴘᴀʀᴀᴅɪꜱᴇ?
ɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ'ʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴄʀʏ
ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɴᴏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴇ❞
'April 6th 1917'
"Down to Gehenna or up to the
Throne.
He travels the fastest who travels
alone."
Where two young men and a woman during the first world war, are...
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"Fuck me. They really have gone." Blake said, as he looked down into the empty dugout.
The three of them slid down the side of the damp earth, down the sand bags used to support the walls, into the abandoned trench.
Alena walked through the trench, admiring the structure, these trenches were far more fortified than the British trenches.
She turns to see Schofield, leaning against the side of the trench, pouring water over her wounded hand, she makes her way over to him, taking hold of it.
She lifted his hand closer to her face, examining the damage, "Your hand alright?" She heard the younger man ask Schofield.
"Put it through an effing German."
"Have Alena patch it up, you'll be back to wanking in no time." Blake chuckled, pleased with himself. Alena, however, felt awkward.
"Wrong hand." This made Blake laugh, and Alena let out a sigh of relief. She brought a bandage and the ointment from her med kit. Pouring the solution over the injury, she heard a hiss from the man, "Fuck." He whispered.
"What? Can't handle a little antiseptic ointment?" Alena asked, jokingly. She then gently wrapped the gash with the white cloth.
She watched as Schofield flexed his fingers, forming a fist, "How's that?" She questioned.
"Much better. Thank you, Alena." He sent her a smile, showing that he really did mean it.
"Come on, lovebirds, we've got to get going." Blake said.
"Fuck off, Tom." Alena spoke, fed up with the boy interrupting them.
In response, Blake simply stuck up two fingers, flipping her off.
Blake moves off, lifting his rifle. Schofield follows suit, motioning for Alena to follow.
Just ahead of then is a small whit bucket, filled with burnt coal. As they approach it, Balke kicks it over, the white coal on top crumbles as it makes impact with the ground. Below that are embers, still glowing, wisps of smoke rising.
Blake and Schofield look to each, panic evident in their eyes, "They're not long gone."
They continue through the trench, Blake leads them down a narrow trench, walking quickly, eyes darting, keeping an eye out for the enemy.
Alena notices the trench opening up to a wider one. They approach the mouth of the trench, Blake hovers at the end, peering out, "No good. Dead end."
Schofield peers out into the abandoned trench, scanning for any sign of the enemy, not finding any. They push on, their footsteps echoing over the wooden duckboards lining the floor of the trench.
They take a sharp turn, the men rasing their rifles, checking for any stragglers. Just ahead of them, the trench is destroyed, possibly from a direct shell hit.
