• The soldier fell, like so many of his brothers before him. Before he fell, he remembered, the machine gun roared, scarlet sprouted from his chest, and then the fall. He seemed to fall for eternity, as if life mocked him, gave him agonizing hours to live in pain, to fall into nothingness. The soldier fell. He remembered who he was, what he had done during his life, what he was supposed to do. As he fell, a grim smile crept across his face. In his mind, the soldier spit in the face of the uncaring life that tormented him, moved towards the warm embrace of death, an escape from pain. The soldier fell. He dimly felt the impact, his eyes flickered open for a brief second. Blinding pain ripped across his conscious, attempted to destroy what he was. The soldier refused to give in, watching the horror unfold in a world shattered by fire and grief. He watched as the machine gun spat fire and death, brothers and sisters in arms falling like he was, never to rise again. Crimson stained his vision, and on the edge of that bloody swath, darkness swept in its wake. The soldier used the last of his might to look down. His chest was a flower garden, sprouting with beautiful crimson flowers, running red with the life giving fluid that fed them. The soldier turned his head, casting his gaze behind him. A woman was being dragged away by several surviving brothers in arms. Darkness crept closer. The soldier rasped as he attempted to form words, the flower garden on his chest crushing the life from him. The pain faded as the darkness crept closer, and inky blackness promising a release from everything. He dimly felt the man approach him. "Mister Gregg." The man hissed, his voice like oiled glass. "You are a hero in the wrong time. Tell me, would you like to find the right time?" The soldiers head bobbed losely up, then came crashing down. The darkness closed in, forever claiming the soldier.