Well now, I've been working really hard on this story, as well as a few others, I will let you know that this one is complete, I will not however be posting all of the chapters in one night like I do sometimes. I'll post them here and there over the next few weeks but they shouldn't be too spread apart. I'd like some feedback on this story please? Flamers go away though kay? Even if you don't really know what to say just sending me a little smile or a thumbs up would be great. This lets me know that you didn't absolutely hate it :) At any rate I'll let you get to reading.
Drum roll Please...
The Vitruvian Man
Let me know if I missed anything.
AN: The song for this chapter is below; you might want to have it ready. This is not a song fic the lyrics aren't there, just the songs that I listened to while writing this piece.
(Seven Nation Army-The White Stripes)
Jaded green eyes watched the body twist as it fell. Grim lips inhaled deeply and trembling fingers reached up flicking the cigarette before returning to the thrumming metal.
And just as he knew it would happen he stopped hearing the shots. The gun cradled in his arms dusting them with powder and thrumming warm with energy was more natural to him than anything else. Shoot, kill, keep going. His legs are numb, there is a burning in his chest, his lungs, everything, a slow fire.
Fire, click, fire, click.
Shoot to kill.
That was all he had become.
It could have gone on for hours for all he knew.
Reload. Click. Fire. Duck. Spin. Click. Jump. To the left. Fire, click, fire, click-
His hands are black now and steady.
To the right.
Forward always forward.
Nameless faceless all of them and he can't care because if he did it would be him twisting in the mud a nameless faceless animal.
The cigarette falls to the ground carelessly and he ducks behind a tree.
The canteen sloshes as he takes a deep draw alcohol joining the burn, the raw achy feeling.
It tingles going down.
Down they go one by one.
The sun is falling into dusk.
The sky is painted red.
And so is the grass.
He reaches up, inhales a long draw.
Stares into the eyes of some young idiot whose greener than grass.
He's given the idiot thirty seconds to shoot.
Instead the kid pisses himself.
A damn shame.
No green allowed on the field in his opinion.
Don't go back until you're done.
Until no one is left.
Grey is allowed he supposes.
It's far enough away that his ears don't ring.
Another kid, just standing there.
No green allowed.
At least the kid had an easy death.
He drops the cigarette before it burns his lips and reaches for another.
He's shot so many times now that he can light it with the tip of his gun.
It's red, burning, just like everything else.
He needs to let it rest.
He finds a tree slips it away and pulls his second out.
It's too cold for war.
Now it's right.
It fits perfectly into his arm.
Ignore the radio.
Ignore the heat.
The burn in his chest, in his lungs.
He watches another fall to the ground.
The sky is gray now, turning blue and soon black.
Blue was allowed on the field he supposed.
Blue was good.
But not green.
Keep your kid home.
He's not a hero.
He's cannon fodder.
Send me the good ones.
The ones that are trained for this shite.
To the right.
Too far to be dangerous.
The powder tickles his nose.
There's grit in his teeth.
There are screams and shouts echoing in his ears.
Another body falling to the dirt.
Stop sending children to war.
They're thinning out.
It's like target practice.
Retreat damn you!
I don't want to have to-
Three left as far as he can see.
It's too fucking hot.
Where the hell is Britain's cold weather?
That's right run.
Run away from the monsters little green boys.
Yes run away…
Until its quiet and no one is left. Until the air is still and dead and your closest friends can only stare at you in wonder of what you've become. If they're still alive that is.
Harry feels the kiss of his gun against his leg burning but not hurting.
All two of them.
He's killed the rest.
He can't feel hurt.
Slowly the emptiness ebbs and the shock wears away.
Harry pulls out the canteen takes a deep draw.
He turns around and begins walking back.
Keep your kids home.
They didn't die a hero.
In war there are no such things as heroes.