#warsounds

Send me accents! I’m halfway to victory | 5/10

〖✯〗-- - Sitting, staring out at the foggy snow laden landscape towards the German line, inside the dug out foxhole ( the term ranger grave had melted away after the second week spent in this damnable forest ) of the OP. It's cover doing well to keep out the falling snow flurries but nothing of the cold, bitter wind chill. Nor the sloshy, encrusting mud that coated the bottom of the 'hole. ❝My feet are gonna be fucking frozen to the ground before morning.❞ Biting back the desire to bust it in a mock rendition of a Frozen song; probably ❛Let it go❜ or that one with the girl & guy duet. Though none of the guys would catch the reference & most likely he'd be visited by a medic asking if he wanted to head back to battalion to be a runner for a few days. Nope he wasn't crazy... Or well, as crazy as suddenly being in the Ardennes Forest during fucking World War II made him. Shaking his head minutely to keep from focusing on that train of thought, Person flashed his best shit eating grin to his foxhole partner, Luz being the lucky candidate this night, as he slapped at his arm to gain his attention. Perhaps a few laughs, however quieted by their position as OP guards, would warm them up a little. & brighten the other's spirits a bit. For its a god damn full-time job being the funny man 24/7! ❝You know, I may not be good with impressions like you George. Sing is a different story there. Anyway, but I bet I'd make a better fucking impression of a snowman come morning then you.❞

〖✯〗– -He’s QUICK to raise his Thompson, PEAKING over his cover to level the Kraut with the DIRT that he is. A SPRAY of MISTED red signalling his hit. Easy’s first sergeant is SPARED from a GRIEVOUS wound. & Easy’s SPARED from losing their GLUE, their LIFELINE in this war. A SMALL stroke of fortune for his NEW company. PING! The sky is WHITE, overcast so SEVERELY no grey is seen. A helmet lays a FEW feet away, it’s HIS & a NEWLY acquired dent CLUES him in on what happened. It’s the FIRERY pain LACING up his stomach &  SETTLING in his chest that CLUES him in on what’s GOING to happen. ❝MEDIC! MEDIC!❞Shouting reaches his ears. CLOSE & URGENT. If it’s FOR him or ANOTHER, he doesn’t KNOW. He can’t turn his head to look. The energy it TAKES to draw in each breath now FEELS exhausting, HITCHING & INCOMPLETE. A hand PRESSES against his midsection. ELICITING a groan from his mouth, his body SPASMING inward in instinctual NEED to EASE the escalating pain. Seemingly INCOHERENT words spoken in a FAMILIAR voice & mild tone. Though now it was STREAKED with a DEGREE of PANIC. Something Speirs had NEVER heard before from THIS man. SUMMONING the will to open his eyes to STARE up at his First Sergeant. Brown eyes MEETING brown; hazy dullness in one & BARLEY suppressed fear in the other. Encouraging, gentle assurances slipped FORTH from the Sergeant’s mouth, INTERMIXED with REPEATED shouts for a medic. NEVER breaking eye contact. Maybe it was in FEAR that once he turned away, Speirs would disappear. Maybe it was to KEEP the fallen captain’s attention, KEEP him focused on something. Despite the other’s effort, an ominous fatigue begins to pull at his consciousness. A expanding CHILL extending from his abdomen OUTWARD, consuming any & all FEELING as it went. Grey haziness ENCROACHING in time with the COLD along his vision & mind. Blinking sluggishly, having to FORCE his tongue to cooperate. It feeling LADEN with a sticky weight. ❝Sergeant.❞He’s ignored. MORE words run over the top of his. MORE assurances. MORE false promises. A single ANGRY shout of don’t die on me. If only Speirs COULD obey that, he’d GLADLY let Lipton order him to do so. But KIDDING oneself wouldn’t help him NOR Lipton. Drawing a S T U N T E D breath, the Captain tries again. Gaining HARDLY any sternness or steel to his voice, unable to RAISE his voice, whispers. ❝Carwood.❞Whether it was his TONE or USE of the Sergeant’s first name that caused Lipton to PAUSE & QUIET, Speirs didn’t ask or come to FIND out. He knew Speirs’ VIEWPOINT of this war & how he HAD to view it. Though his next words, RASPED yet STRONG for so MUCH blood loss, were the HARDEST he’d ever had to voice.❝Let go.❞INADEQUATE compared to ALL he wished to say, yet FILLED with an ACCEPTANCE of an inevitable fate, an until NEXT time WHEN they’d meet again, & a farewell WRAPPED in upmost affection. REGRET flickers through his mind, OUTWARD expression unchanged, until a hand SLIDES into his. Grasping TIGHTLY to numbing fingers. He wouldn’t go while alone. & he didn’t.

LOST. Bryan had COME to find WAS something WORTH being once AND awhile. ESPECIALLY when CAPTIVATED by CHOCOLATE brown eyes; deep, impossibly CURIOUS for one so YOUNG, and TINY curling fingers REFLEXIVELY grasping at the upturned BOTTLE. Freshly STIRED and WARMED, resting GINGERLY yet FIRMLY in his hand for her EASY access. EAGERLY she took to it. Head craned DOWNWARDS. KEEN blue eyes TRAINED to sleepy brown. A BAREST upturn of HIS lips; SEEPING amusement and LOVE of the INCREDIBLY small infant HELD within his arms. A NOTABLE crinkle to the EDGES of his USUALLY furrowed eyes, DISPLAYING fondness and DEVOTION to the LITTLE one wrapped in PINK. MINUTES. HOURS passed, the doctor DIDN'T know. Nor CARED to check. Attention ENRAPTURED, mind ENSNARED and heart STOLEN by one that ISN'T his. A door CLICK, a SQUEAK of OVERUSED hinges INTERRUPTS the spell. Though NOTHING can dispel the CALM, the PEACE Bryan feels at THIS moment. THINKING it's merely the charge NURSE come to CHECK on Ellie, the misplaced ER physician DOESN'T glance back NOR attempt to CONCEAL his OBVIOUS reasons for tending THIS particular baby so closely.

〖✯〗-- - COWARDLY or GENIUSLY remaining on the bed; covers FIRMLY grasped with a WHITE knuckled grip. Feet CURLED up, UNDERNEATH his form. A READINESS to LEAP up from the PSYCHOLOGICAL only comfort of keeping OFF the floor and NEAREST a blanket. Either to SNATCH Gene back or to FLEE alongside him. Hair PRICKLING along the STRETCH of his neck, sending an EERILY cliché shiver down his back. SENSE of FORBIDDING washed over, TIDAL WAVES against his INSTINCTS to COWER and RUN away from a POTENTIAL danger. ❝Gene?!❞ FLASHING back to his prepubescent years, Heffron's voice SQUEAKED his boyfriend's name. CHOKED, RASPED, and the HEIGHT of PITCH. Throat CONSTRICTINGLY dry. OWLISH eyes dart about the BLACKNESS; never stilling LONG enough to FOCUS nor try to SEE what was IN the room. PRIMAL instinct to PROTECT warring with innate SELF-PRESERVATION. The latter LOSING to the former at the UNKNOWN harming his other in anyway. DESPERATE now, Heffron jumped FORWARD along the mattress to OUT stretch his hand. EXTENDED fingers BLINDLY searching for any part of Gene to grab onto. OUT of FEAR; for HIS partner and for HIMSELF.

[ txt 2112 :: SNAF ] If you don’t answer me, I’ll assume the worst. …

[ txt 0805 :: Lieb ] But “shit” is a relative term. After all one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. [ txt 0806 :: Lieb ] or so Dick says.