Pestilence and War

The scent of pepper filled the air as a pale yellow-green fog rolled in under cover of night. It began with a cough or two, the sound of pestilence growing louder as more and more voices were added to the grim cacophony. Many remained asleep against the wood-and-mud walls of their deathly homes until an alarm, deep and wailing, began to blare and echo through the trenches. Men from all over began to shout, "Gas! Gas!" and those not already drowning in the fluid filling their lungs or blinded by the mixture of toxin and tears and screaming in agony scrambled to affix their masks. Through the haze, corporal Paelor Montia could make out the faces of his comrades, some wearing that expressionless, almost alien visage he had grown so accustomed to in these times, and others with skin tinted purples and blues, eyes bleeding and staring.

Then came the flashing, bright lights followed by crackling and hissing and other mechanical sounds. Pop, pop, pop, bullets whizzed by his head and struck the mud around him as he peered over the edge of his trench at the enemy lines while groping for his rifle. One could almost swear they could make out the faces of the enemy, long and grimacing with glinting teeth and shining eyes, some covered by metal plates and leather masks, others showing brown and black fur. Their bodies made twisted, hunched silhouettes as they moved back and forth along the firing stations of their superior fortifications, the long barrels of their Deathlock rifles poking through the slits. The white flashes were almost blinding to look at head-on, but were dampened by the lethal fog and the smoke from their own shots.

Men from his own trench began to return fire, lead flying one way and the other, the occasional shadow falling on either side. The Corporal's hand was finally greeted with the wood grain of his weapon's underside, which he grabbed and quickly raised for a shot. One, two, three, clink, the signature sound of a Khynrosi gun having expended its last shot. His fingers quickly and nimbly made their way into his satchel to retrieve another clip, eight rounds held in line by a flimsy tin frame. He slid back the action on his rifle, jammed the new clip into place, and slammed the action back home, locking it into place before taking aim again. Slowly his finger squeezed the trigger, and he was greeted not by the kick of the weapon into his shoulder, but a swift kick to the forehead and the deafening clang of metal on metal, the sound ringing loudly in his ears as he fell ass-first back into the mud...