Realistic or Modern Are we That Different?

[Juliette]

in which a civilian stumbles upon an enemy soldier.

a one on one roleplay between myself and S Stardreamer ​

 

[Stardreamer]

It was dark when he stumbled, gasping, upon the tiny shed. The moon was barely there, a sliver of light against the darkened sky, and behind him the quiet tension of battle, paused, hung like a waiting noose. If he’d been lucid enough to see it, he might have written it down, a description for the novel he’d write someday. Or, at least, would have written, if there hadn’t been a war, if he wasn’t dying tonight. Blearily, he slumped against the door, and it swung open with a creak. Moonlight reflected on the metal tools, illuminating the hard-packed dirt floor. Clinging to consciousness, he fell against an empty wooden wall and slid to the ground.

His side had been burning for so long he’d almost grown numb to the pain, until he tried to lift his hand away from the caked blood and had to bite back a scream. It was a miracle he’d managed to stay awake through it. But somewhere in this place had to be a blade- there. He reached out, grabbed it, and began to cut away a strip from his uniform. It wouldn’t be a nice bandage, and it would barely be a functional one, but it would keep him alive. Hopefully. Clenching his teeth, he wrapped the cloth around his wound and tied it as tight as he could bear. He didn’t realize he’d been biting his tongue until he tasted blood. Bitterly, he swallowed, copper in his throat, lead weights on his eyes. Sick, exhausted, and aching, he let the darkness have him.

 

[Juliette]

Alana sighed as she watched the TV, the news speaking of the same damn thing, the war. America versus America, North versus South, The Second Civil War. All were names used to describe the current crisis of her home country. The government was divided over a sensitive and critically important topic, but instead of working together, they had split, the country following them. Alana had been working extra lately, hospitals full of people wounded from the battlefield, or civilians hurt by collateral damage. She lived on Long Island, part of the North Division, her home spacious and lovely.

She turned the TV down as she heard creaking outside, not from the gunshots or trees. She sat up, slowly walking to her closet and pulling out her pistol. She had gotten a license soon after the war broke out, purchasing a few guns and ammo just incase she needed it one day. She knew it had been a good decision as she pulled open her sliding door, a clear view of her backyard. Her dog stayed close, protective of his owner. She had trained Cody, her german shepherd puppy at a young age, similar to a police dog, though he wasn't as perfect, she loved him dearly. His ears perked up as he picked up a faint noise, his nose following a trail. He sauntered up to the shed, and she followed, pulling the door open. Her fingers came in contact with something sticky, and she pulled her hand away and saw blood. She gasped, and her bright green eyes falling on the shape of a man, bloodied and unconscious. Wearing the insignia of the South.

She knew leaving him to die was awful, so she pulled out an old sled and rolled him on top, dragging him inside and situating him on her rug, shoving a pillow underneath his neck. She looked over his wounds, and covered him with a blanket as she went to grab her kit.

 

[Stardreamer]

Something in the motion shook him back to consciousness. He blinked open his eyes, blearily- his vision was still blurry, but whether that was blood loss or a concussion was anybody's guess. Still, even through the haze, he realized it was much, much brighter. Had there been lights? Where . . . where . . . something below his head, and carpet under him and- oh god. He glanced around, once, twice, to confirm that he was in someone's home. Slowly, in flashes, he pieced it together: the battle, Long Island, the explosion, the shrapnel buried in his side, stumbling away from the battlefield desperate, half there and- and- and then nothing. Except now he was in someone's home, and. No. No, why would anyone take him in? This wasn't the South, these weren't his allies, they should have shot him on sight. Why hadn't they?

What were they going to do to him? He was just another recruit of thousands, he didn't know anything, but what if they thought he did? Would they turn him in, make him a spy, torture him- he couldn't. He couldn't let that happen, he couldn't stay here, and so he swallowed down the pain, wrapped a hand against his side, and tried to stand.

The shock hit him hard, and it was only by sheer force of will that he didn't black out again. His vision fuzzed like a vignette, and it took everything he had not to fall over, but he couldn't stay. He had to get out, had to get anywhere but here, and so he forced himself to keep his eyes. Stumbling, he let the wall take his weight and pushed himself forward. He couldn't see where he was going, didn't know where he was, but he kept trying, even as his side began to burn and he felt fresh blood pour out of the wound.

 

[Juliette]

Alana gave a quick noise of surprise as she walked back into her dining room. The man had stood up. "Hey, hey, it's alright," she said soothingly, sounding like a mother speaking with her injured child. "I'm not going to hurt you, but you've gotta lay back down."

She was aware the man was from the south, and he was disoriented and most likely terrified. She kept her distance, not fully trusting the man. She held out a bottle of water, her hand steady despite the fear grasping her insides.

"I'm Alana, Alana Emery. I'm a surgeon from New York City, I can help you. Please, lay back down." Her voice held a small tone of pleading, as she didn't want the soldier to suffer more than he had.