The earliest memory Skies has of the Empyrean war against the Kartels, was also the day—not surprisingly—that he lost his childhood.
Because a child was not meant to see his neighbors beheaded by a group of maniacal men who then proceeded to rape their disembodied corpses. A child was not meant to huddle in the darkest corner of a ruined and smoking house, forced to keep quiet so he would not be discovered by the group of men gouging out the eyes of the nice store owners that had always given Skies free treats when he ran small errands for them. A child was not meant to see the backs of his father and mother as they headed into battle and then hear them scream as their bodies were ripped open by bullets. A child was not meant to be running through corpse-filled streets surrounded by burning buildings that were filled with howling, trigger-happy men straight out of Hell.
Skies cried. He cried and cried until he felt sure his lungs would shrivel from all the air he had taken out of them. He cried until he was choking on the smoke from all the burnt buildings around him. He cried because everything that had defined who he was—his home, his parents, his life—were now gone.
But just when the nightmarish reality of war was ready to destroy Skies, a pair of tiny, chubby hands reached out to him.
He looked down, almost dumbfounded, at the pair of innocent, sparkling green eyes that watched him with concern. Those small baby hands that would often wrap themselves around Skies' finger were now patting away the tears that had begun to stream down Skies' face.
And then Skies remembered that he hadn't lost everything. His parents had entrusted him with one last wish before they had gone off.
"Protect your little brother Skies," His mother's words.
He looked at the cooing, little baby bundled in white blankets and still held protectively in his arms. Even in the midst of madness that was war, Skies had never let go of him.
"Vicious," he murmured. "My little brother."
In the distance, the burning city of Ghent continued to fill with the sound of war. Skies sat in the desert outside the outskirts of the city, sheltered by a decrepit brick wall and let Vicious pat away all the tears that fell from his face.
AN: Something I wrote a couple days ago, and wanted to add to the DFO community (cause there's almost nothing on this site *sadface*)
I have no idea if I'm ever going to continue this. Anybody think it's worth continuing?