The Red Zephyr — Roleplayer Guild

As Weston Meyer crawled through the rubble, rock, and concrete piled and scattered along what was once a back-alley of the city of Sovereign, he couldn't help but blame himself for his current predicament. His breath was becoming shorter with every passing moment and his vision was beginning to blur. Regardless of how hard he tried to slow the bleeding from his left side, his hand was not enough for the job. At this rate, he wasn't going to make it much further before passing out, and eventually dying, from blood loss. He could feel his legs starting to falter and go numb, moving only through sheer will. Despite the impending failure, Weston kept pushing onward, climbing every stack of steel and concrete just trying to get away.

They're probably not even following anymore, he thought. I'm done for and they know it. No point in running any further. Despite himself however, Weston's legs kept moving and his hand continued clutching his side through a bloody uniform. At this point, running made no sense, even for survival since it just expedited the loss of blood. The dark alley became the infamous tunnel with the shining light of death on the other side. However, the beacon never seemed to get any closer, like Weston was running in place. Perhaps this was his punishment for failing to fulfil his uncle's wish: Denial of the light's eternal warmth. This death had no honor to it--bleeding to death in some apocalyptic pile of garbage.

As if finally succumbing to his faltering mind, Weston's legs stopped moving. Surprised by the sudden halting, he tumbled forward into a small hill of brick. The fall would have hurt a lot more if his body weren't in shock from the bullet hole in his side. However, it didn't do much to return his consciousness. The world was blurry, and seemed to be viewed through another person's eyes. The lack of pain made everything surreal, as if he wasn't really there.

"You've fallen far, Weston Meyer," a cold feminine voice called from the other side of the light. "There was a time when I was impressed with you, but now I'm beginning to regret my choice." It was true: Weston was dying a mere shell of the man he had worked to become. Perhaps that's how all death is. Laying there, waiting for the end, he wondered just how he had gotten here. What had gone wrong?

"That's an easy one," the voice answered. "You tried to be the hero. You put those before yourself who wouldn't return the favor, given the chance. You tried to do right in a world of wrong. You were the minority."

Four months earlier...

"Sir, I beg you to reconsider. These 'Void Hosts' aren't only the thugs and terrorists we've seen, but also men, women, and children who are confused and scared, living every day in fear of those thugs. If we go through with this, we become the ones they fear. If they fear us, the thugs become the new hope. This shithole will become a warzone, no, the site of a massacre once we start killing the ones we've sworn to protect."

"That is enough, Captain! These orders are directly from General Dunverre: There is no 'reconsidering'." Despite Colonel Gremer's rising voice, his posture remained unchanged, contrasting his obviously livid mood. The aging man tired of the continued resistance and disrespect shown by his subordinate officer, and was nearing his limit.

"You are asking me to commit and condone murder, sir!" Captain Weston Meyer very clearly displayed his discontent. Ever since the rest of the military emerged from behind the massive walls encasing Sovereign, he had done nothing but hear of "acceptable loss", "the greater good", and other excuses for injustice. The council would have never allowed the actions the Leginian Army now carried out daily.

"No, your country is asking you to save its people from monsters, as it always has!"

"Last I heard, sir, my country's people are more worried about being saved from us than by us!" Even though Weston hadn't been outside the wall since the quarantine began, rumors had spread like wildfire stemming from the supply platoons that traveled beyond the wall. From what Weston had heard, Sovereign wasn't the only neck the military had their boot on.

"Captain, you will follow orders or be detained for insubordination! Now leave my office!"

The captain fell silent, glaring into his superior officer's eyes, filled to the brim with rage. Without uttering another word, Weston turned and exited the office, slamming the door behind him. Marching angrily, he went straight for his own makeshift office, converted from a cheap two-bed hotel room. He slammed the door behind him again before flipping the one twin bed remaning in the room over, knocking the bedside table next to it over as well. "Dammit!" he yelled furiously, kicking the bed for good measure and snapping it's wooden frame.

"I hate that guy. Colonel Reyborn was an asshole, but Gremer defines prick. The military putting him in charge should have been a huge red flag."

"But that was far from the last straw. You were angry, but still wouldn't think of betraying your country."

"No, I wouldn't. Maybe I should have then. Maybe I waited too long?"

"Maybes won't do you much good now."

"I guess not, but there isn't much to lose now, is there?"

The Red Zephyr Member

The Fractured Mind of a Broken Soul

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