Flames of Passion

Chapter 1: Lit candle

It is a normal day in some unnamed battlefield, rockets are flying through the sky, Boston douchebags are running over rooftops, and somewhere, in a cramped tunnel, a short texan man is fighting for his life. Clutching his gut as blood pours from beneath his drenched overalls, he makes his way down the tunnel in a panic, frantically loading his last rounds into his trusty pistol. He would not be going down without a fight. His pursuers were not far behind, an American bombardier and the doctor that followed him. They had torn through his mechanical defences with that "god damned uber charge" as he liked to say to his comrades in the after hours of the battle. He feared though, he may not be sharing such pleasantries with the boys tonight. He sat on the wooden floor, his loss of blood finally getting to him. Deep breaths. The pounding of the enemy boots on the steel stairs. Funny how time slows down when you may not have much left. He lowered his pistol, removed his helmet to wipe the grime and sweat off his smooth head. As he began to drift into unconsciousness, he thought he saw something in the darkness of the tunnel. A single flame, illuminating a gas mask and the crazed eyes behind it. He had no idea if what he was looking at was even real, nor did he have time to contemplate it, for he slumped over, more of his blood on the outside of his body rather than in.

Just as well, they thought. It may be better if he doesn't see this.