to live a long life [cowt11 | week 02 | m3]

[hannyakoma]

Prompt: Neve/Oscurità

Word count: 1405
Rating: sfw
Fandom: Originale
Note: Death Flags. Death Flags everywhere. (si parla di guerra e cose brutte, so what)

---

War had always been depicted as an awful happening, no matter the cause or the reasons behind it. And, truthfully, she couldn’t deny such affirmations.

Just looking at what is left of the soldiers that fought and died there; hundreds and hundreds of bodies, burnt from the explosions of the tanks’ cannons, to the point that most are no longer recognizable. Skeletons of buildings and destroyed roads, made into shambles by the dropping bombs and the heavy artillery, meet the watcher’s eyes left and right.

Weapons, unexploded mines, rests would be all scattered on the damaged ground. Fumes and dirt rising from it, due to the gelid wind howling on the battlefield.

The heavy atmosphere would only get worse after the cease-fire, while the sun slowly set behind the horizon.

Nightfall. Oh, that would be the worst time to be around, really. If the ruins of a city-battlefield, soaked in the smell of gunpowder and blood and death, looked menacing during daytime, with darkness falling over them they’d become a living nightmare.

Even a grown, bulky, full-armed man, if he was in his sane mind, would avoid going out there.

There are, however, exceptions.

Survivors, first. The poor souls who managed to find shelter behind the debris from fallen buildings, and thought they would be fine by moving towards a more secure place at night, when the armies retired and it all was quiet. Despite the common thinking, that would not be the best idea.

As to why, the second exception. Jackals. Armed people, mostly outsiders from the ruined city looking for the spoils of war. It is, after all, a common happening after (or during, in this case) catastrophes. And it’s not like anyone from the military forces could stop them either, with them being all too busy with planning a way to destroy the enemy. And another city. And many, many other lives.

Amalia feels sick of it, from head to toes. Feels sick of having to keep watch at night, of having to pray to see the next day -- even if it means more bombs and battles coming from the higher ups in that rotten country.

The smell of gunpowder and ashes clings to her form, clothes and hair alike, like an old, intimate friend and her eyes has long forgotten the kindness once reflected in them. Instead of graduating from high school, getting her driving licence, doing all the things teenagers were (once) supposed to do, she has to fight for her life against the nights, the cold of the winter days and the aggressiveness from the outsiders.

She is completely, utterly sick of it all.

Calloused hands hug the bag containing the supplies for the next few days, something she luckily has managed to get that afternoon, while one of them grips steadily the handle of her only mean of defense -- a gun she collected from a fallen soldier, together with some extra bullets. Its weight is a certainty, makes her grounded. No senseless hopes for tomorrow, no ideals (she has abandoned those long ago).

With the cover of the night, a blanket of darkness she’d come to appreciate while moving around the ruins of the city, Amalia moves. Stepping out of her hiding place, she throws her bag over her head, so that it’s secured on her front rather than her back, and fixes the scarf around her neck. Each and every breath creates a little cloud before her mouth.

“It’s going to snow”, she thinks, cursing mentally for that bad luck.

Honestly, she should have seen that coming. Temperatures have begun dropping a lot lately, especially at night. Moreover, the season is just right -- she remembers the time when she was younger and, together with her brother and sister, she’d been delighted to see it snow. It usually meant no school, if she was lucky enough, and most of all that her family would build a snowman in the garden, give it a name and dress it up with old clothes.

Now, Amalia despises it with all her heart.

Stepping on the snow means leaving a trail. And that usually means death for anyone who’s foolish enough to not be mindful of it.

Survivors usually have supplies on them. Supplies are what jackals and other survivors are after.

Such really, utterly bad luck.

*

 

A veil of white covers the city, lessening somehow the cover of the shadows fallen with the night.

The snowy evenings and after have always been more silent than the others, mostly because of the risks brought by the soft, candid flakes, and the survivors of the crisis and jackals alike are especially careful on those occasions. They have to be, because on their shoulders fell the responsibility of finding resources to survive and managing to keep them safe.

It still makes Abel’s mind wonder: why don't people just… try to leave that damned ruined city? That place, the crossroads chosen as a sacrifice by the armies at war, a sacrifice to be made -- and yet, each and every one of them keep sending resources with their planes, surely knowing that there are still people who strive to live.

And yet again, never has he seen one of those planes trying to actually save anyone of the survivors.

Because they might be enemies in disguise, spies, traitors. Ross told him so a few weeks ago, explaining the situation to his still naive mindset. We’re nothing more than sacrifices, but they have to keep the façade with other countries and their own people that they care, to have support and to instill doubts into the enemy.

Abel remembers he had felt utterly sick at the idea, but at the same time he was grateful in some small part. If the superpowers at war chose to not send supplies anymore, they’d be dead by the end of the week, if not earlier.

A low creaking sound, steps on snow, reaches his ears a moment later, tearing him from his fantasies. Alarm bells blare in his mind, tired but frantic irises looking around for the source of the noise while cold hands grip an even colder item -- a gun he took from the corpse of a fallen comrade.

His eyes cross with others.

They’re both surprised to see one another (he feels a little comforted by the thought, because it means they were not actively looking for him, so his hiding place was still safe). Neither moves for a solid second, one appeasing the other, taking in the respective appearances.

He feels the moment the other’s eyes fall on his weapon, body tensing up and glove-covered hands twitching slightly.

Abel moves first, faster -- he’s used to this. Throwing up his left arm, the gun gripped steadily, he points it at the nameless person’s face. Without a moment of hesitation, he pulls the trigger and watches with growing horror (he is not used to this, who is he trying to fool?!) as a red mark blooms on their chest.

Realization seems to hit the stranger a few seconds later, eyes slowly moving downwards as their body trembles uncontrollably. The moment pain registers in their mind, Abel is already standing up and moving over to check their soon lifeless body.

A shot to the chest. Simple, yet efficient. If he managed to hit a lung, they had somewhere around ten minutes left to breathe, probably less considering the hard environment.

A wave of dizziness, nausea and guilt almost forces him back on his knees a few moments later, as he watches the futile attempts of the person to wriggle away from him, back into the open and under the unforgiving weather. Their voice -- small, pained, feminine -- mutters something he doesn’t understand.

He waits, looking at them -- her? -- as snow keeps falling, now on the poor soon-to-be victim. Abel will make sure… he’ll make sure to survive through this, he won’t let all those sacrifices he made (people, friends and foes alike) go to waste. His will to live must not be extinguished, it must not.

 

Steeling his resolve once again, the man begins looking for any resource on the unmoving body he created. Somehow, despite the cold digging in his skin under the layers of clothes, doesn’t feel as freezing as the endless void he feels inside.