I hoped this worked out ok. I wanted to try a different style, except I'm not really sure about this. Sometimes I read it and think it's pretty good, but sometimes I read it and think it's a bit stupid.
I'm Still Free
The first week of battle, and it's all going well. A sergeant is the perfect position for him to have. Enough men to lead, but still plenty to follow.
The Alliance thinks it can just waltz through this little valley here on Hera and win the war, simple like.
They'll prove those Purplebellies wrong. Every last one of them.
The Browncoats have an ace up their sleeve. Air squadrons, ready to join the fray at a moments notice. Purplebellies won't know what's hit 'em.
Those grown up on the rim know what real independence feels like.
They won't give up being free that easy.
Second week of battle, and it occurs to him that he just isn't cut out to lead the now two thousand soldiers that follow him.
He doesn't have this sort of training; he's not an officer.
Too many dead so soon in the battle.
He's failing them, already.
But he can't dwell on that, 'cause he's got hundreds more wanting to live another day.
Third week of battle, and he holds onto his faith as tightly as he can.
One hundred more dead.
He has to believe they've reached someplace better.
He has to believe that that someone had a bigger plan for them.
He has to believe that he's doing something right in this battle.
He needs to believe that his God thinks the same.
Fourth week of battle, and he decides the worst thing he's ever smelt is burning flesh.
Two hundred thrown in the fire.
The living don't have the time or energy for grave digging.
He sees a man take a laser to the face.
Skin sears to bone; eyes, nose and mouth melt shut.
Dies screaming, but nobody can hear.
Nobody ever hears.
Fifth week of battle, and there's rumours of surrender. The Independence officials have given up, people say.
He feels equal parts betrayal and relief, until he realises the war's not over yet.
No one's coming for them. No one's told them to leave.
The Alliance don't stop shooting, so neither do they.
The fighting must continue down to the last man standing.
Six weeks into battle, and his patience is wearing thin.
Of the three hundred more lost, he's sure that some could have been saved, if the gorram air squadrons had ever shown.
Excuse after excuse was all they could offer.
The sky belongs to the Alliance now.
They can't ever hide from the sky.
The final week of battle, and everybody's dying.
But the Alliance aren't the ones killing them.
Their help isn't coming. The rumours were true.
There's no one left to blame, so he turns to the one he trusted to help.
Except if He caused this to happen, then the Browncoats are fighting on the wrong side.
He can't believe that, so he denounces all belief.
Except that they'll never be free again.