A soldier reflects on his life as a war rages around him in the city he grew up in.
Agnostos was tired, so very tired. His legs had become immovable and his arms only twitched slightly when he tried with all his might to use them. As the minutes, or maybe the hours passed, he couldn't be sure, Agnostos steadily grew colder and colder, number and number. His eyelids were heavy and had not opened in some time even though sleep would not grant him respite through it's comforting visitation.
Agnostos wept silently, stifling the sobs that threatened to reveal him to the enemy but unable to stem the flow of tears that ran freely down his gaunt, tired cheeks and fell into the large wound ran the width of his torso, just below his sternum. As his lungs heaved, dark, crimson blood flowed almost as quickly as the tears. The searing pain brought Agnostos' senses back to him. Slowly the world became sharper and how Agnostos wished it hadn't.
His ears were the first to recover and try and make sense of what was happening. What at first sounded like distant thudding slowly grew in ferocity until the noise became an unrelenting cacophony of screaming bullets, falling shells and wailing children.
Agnostos began to draw sharp, laboured breathes into his tattered, wheezing lungs and in the air he could smell and taste the fear of thousands, the death of millions and the burning of a planet, his planet.
Worst of all, he could catch the scent of the monsters that had started the extermination of what had once been an almost perfect eden. Their rage and arrogance clung to the cold, dead air and drifted across the oceans and over the mountains, contaminating everything it touched.