A battle field splattered in an array of colors. As if a clumsy painter spilled his buckets over the bodies. With tired muscles he pulls himself up by nothing. His efforts changed nothing as he was sent back to his knees by a gaping pain in his right leg. He clasps his hand over the wound, drenching his dark skin in golden blood. The sight jumpstarts his pulse that works against him to push the blood out faster. With his body draining like an hourglass, he must act quickly.
His claws tear at the threads of his uniform, ripping away the already torn pant leg. The drenched fabric squelches in his fist. It’s good for nothing, only further exposing the depth of his wound. He rips off the other leg, finding it clean enough for a wrap. Using as much strength as he can muster, he pulls it tight around the wound. For now, the bleeding has stopped, but he knows this is only a grace period.
A dryness in his throat threatens him. He must find water, shelter, and another soldier. Treating his leg as delicate as he can, he rises once more. Hobbling through the field his eyes skate over bodies. He’s tracing over everyone, hoping to find some connection through his Clock-work, but it’s all static. He is stuck with his own mind, hobbling through the field colors.
The air on Zolkite is not suited for Alternians. Ventia knew that when he was shipped. They didn’t anticipate this though. They were told it would be a “small voyage” with “little resistance”. Clearly it was not. Now he is coughing, dry dust scaring his throat. There is distance between him and the field, but the night is coming on.
Cold air wisps around his body, freezing the skin of his exposed legs. The top of his tattered uniform is the only thing keeping him warm. His will keeps him marching on, but his draining body wants to force him to the ground. His boots drag through the patchy land, their tracks growing longer and longer until he no longer lifts his legs.
Staring up into the sky, he lets himself collapse into the dirt. In limp movements he undoes the clasps of his overcoat. Curling himself into a ball, he pulls the stiff material over his shivering body. As he does, something falls from the pocket. It’s a small paper, wrinkled from its long journey.
He unfolds it, pulling it close to his tired eyes. Then he remembers, of course, how he could forget. The man in the headshot stares back at him, his painted face is as smug as ever. It’s an expression Ventia would growl at in person. But now, alone on the hard ground, a faint smile pulls at his lips.
His trembling fingers trace over the indent of the signature. “Alkine…” His voice cracks, the rumble of his own vocals assaulting his throat. With his last bit of strength he tightens his fist, holding the image close as his conscientious drifts off…
Wake up