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bunni-writing-desk · 1 year

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Killjoy.

chapter one: Saved

(no specified relationship yet, use of (y/k/n) [your killjoy name], mentions of fire/flames)

before we start here is the dictionary of words/killjoy slang used in this chapter, I will be posting a comprehensive dictionary that will cover everything and will be under this fic's tag: #killjoy. fic

Chapter Dictionary:

Drac(s): Draculoids, mindless killing machines made from human bodies. The mask over their faces looks like a vampire and brainwashes them to follow whatever mission BL/ind has given them.

Blaster: ray gun, a gun that shoots a ray beam instead of a bullet to be “more humane”. Made by BL/ind but stolen by Killjoys and painted in different colors.

“Holes punched in the garbage bag hung around the world”: stars or the night sky.

‘joy: a shortened version of the word Killjoy.

The Zones: the area around Battery City, populated by Killjoys and Neutrals.

Batt City: shortened version of Battery City, controlled by Better Living Industries.

BLind or BL/ind: a shortened version of Better Living Industries company name, often printed on everything made by Better Living Industries such as pill bottles and blasters.

City Born: people, usually Killjoys, that were born inside of Battery City but escaped.

Firefight: A fight between one or more Killjoys and one or more Dracs.

Pig(s): another word for Drac(s).

Trans Am: The car that the Fab 4 killjoys drive.

please let me know if there is any other slang I did not put in the dictionary or if there's any big mistakes, thank you so much for reading :]

A blaster raised to the sky, the beam set to go straight up to the holes punched in the garbage bag hung around the world. The safety was set to flare, a finger hung from the trigger just waiting to be pulled down toward the sand on the ground. Suddenly it was pulled, sending a red spark straight into the sky to be seen for miles and miles out in the empty desert.

A burning sound could be heard over the sound of the flare going up in the stars. A fire had engulfed the motorbike that they had ridden out here on, causing the road and sand around him to light up. The flames had started to grow bigger than him, giving a horrible smell as the metal and rubber burning. (y/k/n) hoped that his flare hadn’t caught the attention of any dracs or crows, nearly praying to the phoenix witch that another ‘joy had seen it and was going to help.

It’s not often that a ‘joy uses a flare since they often have radios to ask for help, but his only radio went up in flames with his motorcycle. He looked back over at the giant fire, wanting to sob at losing his only transport around this hellscape but he couldn’t. He couldn’t let down his guard so soon, crying and being upset will have to wait. A slight rumbling noise could be heard, at first, he mistook it for the fire growing bigger but it stayed the same. He turned around as the sound got louder and realized it was a car heading toward him. (y/k/n) squinted to try and see if it was a killjoy car or a plain bright white BLind car. He could just barely see designs hand painted onto it, a giant black blob on the front that started to form into a spider the closer it got was most noticeable. He breathed a quick sigh of slight relief but still didn’t let his guard down, sure he was safer with killjoys but that didn’t mean they couldn’t hurt him. For all, he knew it might be one of the violent gangs that steal from the more unfortunate and would kill him when they realize he had nothing left.

When the car finally pulled up in front of him he still had his blaster in his hand, the safety now turned completely off and able to kill. An artificial redhead stepped out of the car, gently closing the door behind them so as to not startle (y/k/n). Immediately he could tell that this ‘joy was here to help, not to harm. The other killjoy walked up to him, holding out their hands to show that they were not holding anything and were not going to harm him. (y/k/n) still held his blaster at his side, never really giving up the walls that he put up.

The dyed redhead gently spoke to him, asking a simple but complex question; “Are you okay?” (y/k/n) really didn’t know how to answer it, realistically he knew, yes he was fine at least physically and that’s probably what ‘joy meant, but really he couldn’t say he was okay. He had just had an encounter with the Phoenix Witch, nearly getting dusted and being a part of the traffic report from Dr. D. No person could be okay after that, even if they had been living in the Zones since they could remember, not that he knew what that was like. (y/k/n) had been city born but left during his teenage years. He left his entire life behind, he tried to convince his friends to join him but they refused. He still never figured out if they escaped or not and it haunts him every night. While his mind had gotten sidetracked another killjoy had stepped out of the painted car, the sound of the door closing bringing him back to the present.

He backed up and almost brought his blaster up to point at the poor ‘joy. The redhead noticed the anxious and alert attitude surrounding him. “Hey, Hey, it’s okay, I promise we’re not here to hurt you. I’m Party Poison and that’s Jet Star.” The red-haired ‘joy, Party Poison, gestured to the other one that had curly brown hair that fell around their face, now known as Jet Star. (y/k/n) recognized the two killjoys but couldn’t figure out from where since he had seen a lot of faces in his life outside of Batt City. He stumbled over his words before managing out a mumble of his name. "(y/k/n). I’m (y/k/n).” Party Poison nodded, taking a step closer.

“Hi (y/k/n), we’re here to help. We’re the Fabulous Killjoys, Dr. D sent us after a flare that got sent up." (y/k/n) nodded at that, “yeah, that was me. Got ambushed by buncha pigs, won the firefight but lost my ride.” He pointed his thumb back at the now-dying fire behind him and continued to mumble out some sort of explanation of his situation. “Don’t wanna be stuck out here in the night, thought it would be best.” Jet hummed and put his metal medical kit onto the hood of the car. He turned back to look at him, scanning over for any obvious injuries.

Jet took a breath before asking, “Did any harm to ya?” (y/k/n) shook his head at the question, “No, just a few bruises and scratches.” Jet pulled out a few bandaids and some antibacterial spray. “Oh no, I’m okay, those aren’t really necessary.” (y/k/n) hated to have wasted another group’s supplies. Instead of stopping and putting the things away, Jet just walked up to him.

“Where are the scratches, better have them clean and protected than get worse with infection.” (y/k/n) sighed and pulled his sleeves all the way up, scratches on his elbows and on the palms of his hands. “This is it, there might be scratches on my knees but judging by the lack of blood on my pants they’re not bleeding.” Jet acknowledged his words and started to apply the spray onto (y/k/n)’s hands and elbows, little hissing noises coming from him when it hit his skin. Party stood to the side, occasionally looking over at the now burnt motorcycle on the side of the road. The BLind car stood, mostly unharmed, but with a few ray blast holes on the side and into the hood. Party guessed that the ray blasts had killed part of the engine, making it impossible to work without replacement parts.

Suddenly another ‘joy hopped out of the car, slamming the door behind him and making (y/k/n) jump a little. This new killjoy had long black hair and a scar on the left side of his face from the edge of his lips up the side of his cheek.

“What’s taking so long? We gotta get moving before more dracs show up.” The ‘joy grumbled out at Party who sighed at the now shaken look (y/k/n) held.

“Jet is just patching them up, then we'll get going. If you’re so worried about dracs how about you keep watch.” Party then turned to (y/k/n) who was still being patched up by Jet, having his hands wrapped up in bandages. “That’s Fun Ghoul, don’t worry.” They set a hand on his shoulder to try to calm him down. (y/k/n) nodded then looked back at Jet, watching his hair swish in the slight wind rushing through the desert air.

After a few more minutes of Jet wrapping up his hands, they were set to go. “Alright, Ghoul, time to go. Get in the ‘Am”, Party called out to the ‘joy that was standing further down the road, staring down the path in look out. Ghoul turned around, still holding his blaster in hand just in case. When he started to make his way to the car Jet gently tugged on (y/k/n)’s hand, urging him to follow. Jet walked him to the Trans Am, opening the door for him to get in. Party Poison was already sitting in the driver’s seat, hands on the steering wheel and practically itching to press their foot down on the gas pedal, (y/k/n) could see their leg bouncing in anticipation.

(y/k/n) guessed that he took too long to get in because Party spoke up suddenly, “Don’t worry, we’re just taking you back to our base so you can heal up. You seem safe enough for us to do so, besides you’re not much of a threat as your battery is low on your blaster.” They smiled into the rearview mirror at him who sighed and shifted into the middle seat. He looked around the car, admiring the beautiful upkeep and cleaning done on the leather seats. To his surprise another ‘joy was in the car besides him, Party, and Jet. The killjoy had blond hair that was smoothed back and was wearing a red leather jacket, only a bit brighter than the color of the seats. He was sitting in the passenger’s seat next to Party who caught his confused stare through the mirror. “That’s Kobra Kid.” They pointed over at the blond ‘joy that (y/k/n) was staring at. Kobra just nodded and went back to staring at Ghoul making his way to the car.

“Ghoul hurry up, you’re taking too long!” Party shouted out the side of the car at Ghoul who was now walking even slower than before with a grin to match. The redhead groaned and leaned their head back against the seat, tapping the steering wheel impatiently. When Ghoul finally got into the car, nearly falling on top of (y/k/n) as he climbed through the open window, Party set off. They made a sharp U turn in the middle of the empty road, making (y/k/n) fall into Jet. The rest of the group seemed unfazed though, holding onto handles or seats to keep themselves upright. The Trans Am was racing down the pavement, kicking up sand behind as it went. (y/k/n) was sure he was going to get dusted at this rate, hitting another car or swerving off of the road, but Party had a surprising amount of control over the speeding car. The speed only increased as they all sped past the sign for Zone 5, heading towards where the Fab Four supposedly lived.

End of Chapter One

#killjoy. fic #fanfic #fanfic writing #mcr #my chemical romance #the true lives of the fabulous killjoys #ttlotfk #male reader #mcr fanfiction #danger day fanfic #danger days #mcr danger days

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gastricpierrot · 4 years

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Title: Breathe fire into me

Series: Promare

Pairing: GaloLio

Rating: T

Summary:

Lio might have a little crush on the cute barista from the boba shop he visited recently.

Only there's a catch: there's much more to Galo Thymos than what he seems.

Note: role reversal AU, boba barista Galo, archer main Lio

Also on AO3

[Chapter 1]

Lio Fotia isn’t fearless by any means.

After all, firefighting is a dangerous job. Fire burns. Fire consumes. Fires do not care. They're destructive, unpredictable. And in the case of Burnish flares, they’re alive.

It takes courage to put out flames, it takes strategy. It takes many things Lio still doesn’t have and hasn’t learnt.

It’s been about a year since Lio’s joined the FDPP, immediately assigned to the 3rd unit the moment he’d graduated from the Academy due to them being severely shorthanded at the time. He's braved through countless blazes since then, yet he still finds a slight tremor in his hands whenever he’s on the way to a scene. The sirens of the Rescue Mobile never seemed to stop sounding too loud, too piercing.

Lio Fotia is afraid of fire. Afraid of what else they might take from him, because he knows they could never take enough.

“Lio? Lio, are you listening?”

He takes a sharp breath, pulled out of the lulling haze of siren wails by the Captain’s voice over the intercom. Don’t think. Don't let it register.

“There’s people trapped in the fiftieth floor with flammable chemicals. Got it,” Lio affirms as he does a brief, habitual last-minute routine check on his Rescue Gear's controls. “I’ll get it over with quick.”

“Be careful,” he hears Ignis say, and he grits his teeth just in time before he’s launched into the air, shot out and up at a speed that sends his stomach plunging all the way down to his feet.

Lio crashes through the windows of the building’s fiftieth floor, immediately surrounded by a hellscape of Burnish flames. They're hostile as always the moment they sense his presence, forming into massive serpents of purple and turquoise fire –honestly too beautiful to be so destructive—and diving towards him with obvious malice.

Lio doesn’t have the time to deal with them; the fire could reach the chemicals and cause an explosion any moment. He freezes the serpents barely batting an eye, barreling his way towards where the projection on his Gear’s windshield indicates. He's not too far now. Sweat trickles down his jaw. Five minutes. Give him five minutes.

He tears off the door of the room where the group of researchers have been taking shelter, not even sparing the breath to yell assurances before he’s ushering them into the rescue container. His pulse pounds in his ears as he waits for the last of them to climb on, fingers gripping his handles tight enough to burn against his palms.

“Retrieval successful, Captain,” Lio says as he hoists the container up. “Proceeding to retreat.”

“Better hurry up, Lio,” Lucia warns just after Ignis acknowledges his update. “Things aren’t looking too good.”

Lio knows better than to jinx it by wondering what could be worse. He charges right back into the inferno, this time not bothering to even ward off the flame serpents. His Gear can withstand at least this much heat, he’s sure. There's no choice but for it to be so.

He makes his escape not a second too soon, barely climbing ten floors down when the fiftieth finally erupts, sending entire building quaking violently and in palpable danger of collapsing altogether. Lio near loses his grip for a moment, thrown off balance by the shockwave and the ringing in his ears. He bites his lip hard to reel himself back, using the staticky, frantic voices of his teammates as an anchor.

“I’m fine,” he assures into his communicator, though he’s yet to be able to properly hear his own voice again. “I’m coming down now.”

And by the universe’s mercy he does manage to eventually make the rest of the way down. He proceeds to transport the researchers a safe distance away where paramedics are on stand-by, hurrying back to the scene right after setting down the container. Lucia’s mentioning about picking up some unusual heat readings over the intercom, then as if on cue, Lio hears more explosions from the distance.

Static. His other teammates frantically asking if everything’s alright. Ignis coming back online, his sentences choppy from interference.

Then Lio hears what could only be described as the laughter of hooligans in the background.

Lio heaves an exhausted sigh. Of course they’d have to be there. Mad Burnish has a reputation for loving to gloat as much as they have one for setting random fires, after all. Lio really has his job cut out for him this time.

“Lucia?” Lio waits until he gets a solid response from her before continuing, “Is Detroit good to go today?”

“I haven’t had the time to finish fixing the bow’s mechanism,” Lucia says, her words peppered with the rapid clicks of her controls. “You’ll probably have ten shots, max.”

“Apart from that?” Lio arrives and assesses the situation. Mad Burnish are circling around the Rescue Mobiles on their bikes, hooting and jeering and generally making a ruckus and obstructing extinguishing efforts while outnumbering Lio’s teammates three to one. They’re too fast for Lucia to handle with the Mobile’s artillery and for Ignis to land effective shots with his gun. Varys, Remi and Aina are nowhere to be seen on ground; they’re still occupied with trying to control the fire above.

“Shouldn’t have a problem,” Lucia affirms, and Lio’s cranking the lever to shift his Gear into Detroit mode.

Mechanisms slide and click into place with flawless transition upon activation of the suit’s alternate form, shifting its center of gravity and losing redundant pieces as it takes a sleeker, lighter appearance more suitable for combat. Lio then reaches behind the back of his Gear, detaching the rod there which he then flips a switch to have it morph into the form of a large bow.

Lio gets into position, and draws.

It's stiffer than usual, he notices at once as the built-in arrows respond to his motion and take shape. Lucia’s estimates are rarely ever wrong; he’s going to need to make every shot here count.

He takes aim, and releases the first arrow.

It soars through the air and instantly encases a Mad Burnish member in a large bloom of ice upon contact. Lio’s notching the next one while the rest are still trying to process what’s happened, successfully freezing another in place before the finally spot him.

Lio braces himself, seeing them exchanging signs to rally.

Then all at once, they’re charging straight towards him.

Lio manages to pick off one more Burnish before he decides they’re getting too close. He presses another button and changes his grip on his bow, moving into another stance as his weapon shifts to next resemble a sword. He spends a second to analyze their positions and movements, then with a sharp breath, he rushes to engage them.

He enters a daze as he always does when close combat, letting his body and instincts take over as he maneuvers through and around his opponents. Slash, duck, parry. Lio’s received a number of questions and comments about the way he fights over his months on duty, but truthfully, he’s never really figured out how to respond to them. He just does what feels right, what feels the most effective.

When he comes to this time, all six Mad Burnish members are encased in blocks of ice. Lio’s slightly out of breath as he checks his Gear’s condition out of habit, hoping he hadn’t accidentally overdone it again. There are some gashes on the armor plating, the usual singed spots from Burnish fire—but everything else seems good enough. His weapon is still holding up as well.

Lio turns toward the blaze in the building; it seems that his teammates have also been making good progress with that. Ignis tells him good work, and Lio’s just about to take his hands off his controls to work the knots out of his shoulders when he feels an impact against his Gear.

Whatever hit him detonates a split second after contact, sending him staggering sideways and almost toppling onto the pavement.

Lio grits his teeth, finding his footing again by almost the sheer force of will. Red warnings blink across his windshield, and Lio sprains to see a part of his suit’s left shoulder burnt and falling into pieces.

And then flame serpents, even larger than those Lio had faced earlier, dive in out of seemingly nowhere to collect the frozen Burnish into their jaws. A series of slow claps follows, and Lio’s turning and notching an arrow the second he overcomes his surprise, gaze following the length of the flames until he reaches their source.

Another Burnish seems to have just exited the building, waltzing out casually as his serpents retrieved his brethren. Lio squints, barely making out details from the distance between them, only seeing that he dons a ragged black vest unbuttoned, black pants, and the horned visor helmet signifying a Mad Burnish leader.

Not again, Lio nearly groans because Burning Rescue had just apprehended the previous leaders some months back and the stress and exhaustion from that alone had taken probably a few years off his lifespan.

In contrast, the Burnish sure sounds like he’s having fun.

“Whewwww, you sure made that seem easy!” he whistles, voice distorted by his helmet yet somehow carrying enough for Lio to hear him clearly. “But sorry, hotshot, looks like it’s time for us to—hey!”

He's interrupted by a sudden bloom of ice near his feet. Lio clicks his tongue. His trajectory was just a little off—it must be the unusual stiffness of his bow that’s messing with him.

“At least let people finish talking!” the Burnish protests, to which Lio doesn’t even bother answering. He notches another arrow, pulling taut as he recalibrates him aim with the help of Lucia’s adjustments. This time, he will not miss.

He doesn’t. It would’ve once again landed right on target, if only it wasn’t intercepted by a wall of fire, far hotter than what their ice are designed to handle. Lio barely has the chance to think when the Burnish bursts out from behind the flames riding a bike he manifested, cranking it to obnoxious levels of noise as he charges towards Lio.

Lio prepares to intercept, prepares to be out-sped and still somehow deal with it because what else is he supposed to do —until the entire left arm of his Gear falls apart, and he flinches.

The Burnish speed right past him in a blazing trail of fire, hollering victory cheers as he makes his escape.

Lio fumes, immediately moving to give chase.

“Lio, stop!”

And he’s halted in his tracks upon a stern order from Ignis. Let them be, the fire has priority, he’s told in a tone leaving no room for arguments. And Lio knows the Captain’s right. He's getting too worked up, he's losing rationality. He clenches his fists, forces the roar of blood in his ears to subside.

He glares toward the direction where Mad Burnish had disappeared to for just a moment more, then spitting a curse, he turns around and heads to help finish up their job for the day.

xXx

“How’s that feeling?”

Lio draws an arrow from his bow, trying to gauge the extent of improvement Lucia’s service had made on it. It feels much easier to use than the last time even in its down-sized mode; the string fiber more flexible, the overall weight of the bow more stable in his hands.

“Like it’s new,” Lio marvels, eternally impressed by Lucia’s mechanical skills. Lucia smiles wryly and crosses her arms.

“Good. You’re gonna have to be relying only on that for a while,” she says, then gesturing to Lio’s Gear behind her in the garage. “We won’t be able to do much with Detroit until the new parts arrive.”

“It’ll do,” Lio assures; his specialty has always been the bow and arrow from the start, anyway. “Thanks, Lucia.”

“Anytime,” Lucia says, slipping her goggles back over her eyes before turning to saunter off. “Now back to work!”

“Aina’s asked me to go with her to get some bubble tea later,” Lio calls after her, remembering at the nick of time. “What would you like?”

Lucia responds to just get her whatever, and knowing she’s now already too distracted to pay him attention any longer, Lio hurries off in search for Aina.

It’s Aina’s idea to check out the new shop that’s recently opened just down the block from the station, thinking it could be a nice treat for the team after that hell of a fire they had to put out two days ago. The higher-ups had a lot to say about them failing to capture the new Mad Burnish boss as well, and while none of them has outwardly voiced their complaints about it, Lio knows everyone’s high-strung. Arsonist Burnish always pose more danger when they’re in groups; they become more daring, fearless. Even more so if they have a charismatic leader to head the way. It'll be the start of another manhunt for the new Boss.

Lio has never quite understood the point of Mad Burnish setting all those whimsical fires. They’re only giving the rest of the Burnish people a bad reputation, further feeding the stereotype that they are inherently dangerous just because they have the ability to control flames while the majority do not. Sure, perhaps setting things aflame does create a sense of unexplainable satisfaction, but is doing it at such a destructive scale really worth possibly endangering the rest of your people in the long run?

“What did Lucia say she’d want?” Aina asks once Lio’s caught up to her and they’re setting out on their way to the shop. Lio shrugs as he trudges on, taking a moment to enjoy the mundane tranquility around him; the feel of the late morning sunlight on his skin, the sounds of traffic along the road. It’s not every day that he gets to talk casual strolls in the middle of a shift like this.

“She says anything’s fine.” Lio tears his gaze away from the puppy going out on a walk with its owner just passing them to look at Aina while he speaks. “We could just get her one of their signatures?”

“Can’t go wrong with that, she likes anything as long as they’re sweet anyways,” Aina agrees with a little snicker. “What about you, Lio? Any preference in mind?”

“I’m not really in the mood for anything too rich so maybe I'll just get some fruit tea,” Lio says, then halting in his steps at the sight that greets him. “That’s, uh, if we even get to order at all..?”

Aina follows his gaze towards the line of people spanning three shop lots from their targeted bubble tea place, and lets out a groan. Lio understands her disappointment; he was really looking forward to sipping on something cold and sweet and refreshing, too. Still, they should’ve expected this, the craze never really had signs of going away even after all this while. The place is probably also having some sort of opening promotion, so of course people would be scrambling to have a try for themselves over the weekend.

“Maybe we should just go to another place,” Aina suggests, already looking around to see what alternatives they have. Lio agrees, not quite wanting to return empty handed after all their anticipation. He fishes out his phone and does a quick search, knowing there’s sure to be some other shop nearby. They seem to be everywhere regardless of competition.

He eventually finds one with decent reviews located just a little further down the street, past the first junction. Aina, with no better ideas in mind, easily goes along with it.

So they make their way there, and to their relief, finds it with a more reasonable queue despite most of the tables inside being occupied. Lio goes over the menu with Aina as they get in line, trying to decide on what to get. Lio’s going for the peach tea, Aina’s getting the matcha latte, and since the rest of the team can’t really be bothered as long as it’s Aina’s treat, they’ll just get them each the signature brown sugar milk tea.

Aina receives a call while they’re later waiting for their order to be prepared, and Lio soon finds himself scrolling through his phone alone while she leaves to answer it outside where it’s a little quieter. With just a couple of other customers with singular orders ahead of theirs, it doesn’t take long until Lio’s number is beeped through the prompter and he’s stepping out to collect the drinks.

“Oh, you’re part of the FDPP?”

Lio glances up at the crew member, not even sure if he’d actually been spoken to because it’s so unexpected. His attention is immediately drawn to the blue hair first, shaved on the sides and spiked in a way that’s almost comical yet strangely suiting the person it belongs to. Lio’s gaze then travels a little further down to see the staff’s face and um.

Okay. He's kind of...

Cute.

“I’m sorry?” Lio manages, just in case he really hadn’t heard right or something. Get it together, Lio Fotia.

“Your jacket,” the guy repeats with a vague indicative motion, eyes bright with curiosity, “you’re part of the FDPP?”

“Ah,” Lio’s suddenly a little too aware that he might’ve been staring and almost frantically averts his gaze. “Yeah, our HQ’s just down the block.”

Wait, did he really need to say that, though? Oof.

“Cool, cool!” Then as Lio dares to risk one final glance at him, he sees him offering him an encouraging grin. “Thanks for all your hard work!”

Lio can’t help but offer a slight smile in return, a little touched by the sudden appreciation. “Thank you.”

And as they’re on the way back to the station, Lio catches himself lowkey hoping that the drinks would taste good enough for him to have an excuse to return.

#promare #lio fotia #galo thymos #galolio #liogalo #its been a while since i worked on a multichapter lets gO madlads #man i miss spamming in the tags like this #this fic will also be more lighthearted than a lot of my past works so i hope we'll have a good time!!#speaking of which i should get around to posting the rest of my drabs here too hmm #fanfiction

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alchemisland · 6 years

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Valhalla's Exiles

Valhalla's doors open to the brave and virtuous, made whole again in their unlife to revel in mead and mirth, fighting and fornicating until the wolf age dawns, when horns summon ranks forth to line the opposite side of the final battlefield. But where do the reluctant heroes go? The warriors brave by duty or by temperament, who never thirst'd for the blood of another. Those that die on the field, far from where or who they love. I hope there is a place for them.

https://www.wattpad.com/632017293-valhalla%27s-exiles-a-hall-for-the-reluctant-dead

I. A hall for the reluctant dead

Over the parapet is the world of death. Gas fills abandoned trenches to the lip, appearing as they must to passing birds as rivers of molten gold filling a smith's mold, veering sharply down mazelike channels, down stairs to an empty dugout. A flimsy line of sandbags heaped at ground level is the only barrier between us and oblivion, and over it, a Miltonian hellscape stretching ruined to the furthest horizon, seen only by those who offered their head for a sniper's target.

Bullets whizz through the air like leaden butterflies, moving directionless, raining death where they go. Great plumes of green smoke rise from disused artillery cannons and machine guns, the last remnants of our furthest advance; a winding network of hastily-constructed communication trenches abandoned when the initial fugue of German shells hit its mark with grim ease, as if guided by the reaper's hand. Gas canisters leak venom in pooling craters, the surface shimmering like slicked oil. Bloated Tommies bob on the surface. When at last the stretchers arrive, if ever, their putrefied forms are slung on wagons, robbed of their boots and baccy.

The campaign was a disaster. HQ knew from the start something was up. Even their grimmest speculations never imagined thousands dead at a push, tens of thousands in a week. One morning the order came through; suit up, report to ladders and await further instructions from your immediate sub-altern. Many regiments left ragged and thinly-numbered subsumed or were subsumed into existing ranks; a rag-tag squadron of veterans made nihilists through carnage. Whichever ranking officer was closest would do. I have never been over and god-willing we will not be sufficiently spent to send the next would-be Galen to his death. When the doctors charge, the war will be truly lost. Many men I know and have grown close to, men who live by my tinctures and poultices will go over, some for a second or even third time. With survival odds so low, who dares imagine cheating Mort a third time?

We knew months in advance of its coming, but still it felt surreal; seasons of cautious treading, stooping low to the duckboards where the trench walls sagged, measured in every duty, never chancing even a peek in the name of survival, and now to abandon all subterfuge to clumsily tumble across the top, whistles announcing the charge, boldly strolling into the waiting death of German gunner nests.

The army dispensed pamphlets with a hundred reasons to keep your toes clean at the front, or three new ways to smoke without having your brains shot out, but their officially-sanctioned literature, affectionately referred to as Jingo Lingo, spoke little of what to do when your entire squadron died within five seconds and the firestorm sends you reeling one way or another, unable to discern direction. The lucky ones returned unscathed, their wounds to manifest internally only later; the unlucky ones died either by enemy fire or the confused bullets of their terrified comrades, blindly firing at any humanoid shape.

Britannia promised much and more to her colonial subjects daring enough to join his majesty's forces, and I being one such mongrel greedily signed the dotted line. My trade is flesh, and the mending of it, though lately little remains of the men brought back. Far from the frontline, the opening months of the war with all her terrible slaughters left prepared the unprepared and made steely the anxious. Casualties on a scale hitherto unseen, marching lines of soldiers lame and blinded by hissing ochre venom, like a column of wretched sinners made myopic for their worldly transgressions, stumbling across the arid plains about the base of Mount Erebus, forced to trust only the shoulder of the man ahead, equally treacherous as himself.

Others came like jigsaws in pieces, howling on stetchers, grizzly stumps for legs where shrapnel sliced clean through the bone. Little could be done by that stage; a morphine dose, a mumbled novena if time permits, and then the long sleep comes for the warrior. In the Norse traditions, warriors slain in battle retire to Valhalla, where in gilded halls of mirth and mead aplenty to fight and fornicate until Ragnarok. Doubtless each and every wide-eyed schoolboy howling under my care is a brave and pure warrior to match any of antiquity, though I wonder where does the reluctant warrior go? He who tires quickly of battle, or who never desires it, whose bayonet thirsts not for blood and whose rifle always tilts above the heads of approaching foes. Those who do what they do for duty, obligation, national pride, for their father's lies, and the lies of their father's before. The warrior feathered by a thousand bolts and a hundred sabre cuts besides, only perishing to exhaustion, his vitality leaking in crimson rivulets down his medal-laden coats. The warrior poet who sees the brutality of what he does yet persists. Understanding the futility, seeing the intricate deceptions of the higher-castes and the destruction their rhetoric wrought, but still feigning steeliness for his men. What of this archetype? Ironically he is the greatest warrior, the most selfless and thusly most fearless. I can think of none more deserving yet less-inclined to enter Valhalla.

I wondered how the vikings reconciled that in their twilight years, when the bear's strength faded and only his dusty hide remained to soothe old bones from winter's kiss; grey, hump-backed, unable to squeeze into their raiding armour, dented and vermilion with rust, watching the youngers of the village by the dockside, painted for conquest. And he knowing his time for glorious death in battle is come and gone, and that no such glory exists wrought of steel. All that he's permitted to keep is memory. Memories of plunder, of sacked churches and monks corpses strewn across the beachhead like stringless marionettes, of hoarded gold and weregild paid, of babes torn from mothers breasts and dashed against the stones to raise the bloodtide that bore our ships homeward. Strange, in a moment those fading reveries turn from scenes of youthful valor to nightmares. When his dreams are sufficiently vivid to recollect, he scarcely recognizes the man on the sand, drenched in the blood of many foes, swinging a spiraled axe with a loglike handle in wide arks, separating limb from torso; was it really him? Truly the warriors of our sacred texts and cultural memory die young to live forever, as befits the romantic ideal of the soldier, and those who should survive will live to regret their foolhardy bloodthirst. Is there a place then for him, and those like him? The warrior appalled, tossing and stomping his surcoat into the mud, stripped but for his glory in the eyes of God and man, wizened and weakened of constitution. I hope there is a place for him and his. By the sea, a quiet home for restless souls made unlikely heroes.

And where will I go? There's bravery in stitching and sawing, the almighty knows that well as I do. Perhaps in wars of old, before whatever purposefully-prolonged hell this is, our Hippocratic oathsayers plied trades far behind the line, but now the line was just a word. Zeppelins and whistling shells drop closer everyday, and flares scatter midnight like shattering stars, and mortars drop as bolts cast from heaven churning the soil to chalk.

I wonder though; in healing these men to fight another day, am I preventing their passage to Valhalla? Not mine to ponder, I suppose. I hope I will go to this proposed lakeside idyll if such a space exists, and there by the lapping shore watch the waves fold upon themselves against the shale, and every sound that now knells the deaths of twice-ten youths will pass and leave only birdsong, or the wind swaying Elysian stalks, golden and numerous. Though each denizen will recognize the next man's warrior status, little will they speak of old glory, instead sharing the tender moments of their corporeal existences, their recollection of which grows fainter by the day, like a painting left beneath the sun. And I hope there to reacquaint with many fine boys I knew and know, those fallen now outside my knowing, far from my care, and there discuss that forgotten time before all of this. Eulogizing the world we lost.

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