Asmoday Killgore started this day like any other. He rolled from his makeshift sleeping area and ran his fingers through his dirty jet black hair. He groaned and rubbed his sore muscles, his fingers brushing over a still bleeding wound on his bicep. The smell from the smoldering ruins filled his nose. He stood and searched for his armor and coat, finding his armor and tattered, ratty green overcoat he threw them over his muscular torso.
His ears perked and he reached for his rifle, hearing the heavy footfalls of the troopers outside, with a gasp he pressed himself against a wall. Peeking through a hole, he spotted the black clad soldiers, their red eyes cutting through the smoke in the streets. He bit his lip and slid down the wall. The young Corporal hadn't seen any Resistance fighters in nearly two weeks. His stomach growled as the troops marched off. He looked into the streets and sprinted in the opposite direction of the marching soldiers, desperate for a familiar face.
He slowed his pace and walked, holding his weapon at his side, he saw a flash of gunfire but it was too late. A high-impact round slammed into his torso, knocking him onto his back. He gasped and grasped at the wound, kicking his legs. He cried out in pain, pushing himself off of the street, leaving a crimson trail. He coughed and blood leaked from his mouth. Killgore closed his eyes and whimpered softly, his rifle falling from his grip. He slipped out of consciousness and slumped onto the ground, his hand still grasped against the wound in his chest.
Coyote Master Brutus · Tue Nov 30, 2010 @ 05:42am · 0 Comments |