wretched looks are about as
teeth grit at the broken sight with
lips caked in crimson and baked
with grime. the soldier hadn’t the
patience nor the time to satisfy
such basic needs, they needed
to fight.⟨ Get up. ⟩
Metal whines and the very marrow of battered bones protests the forcing of leaden limbs to support her weight. Crimson rivulets mark their path down gore-ridden visage, a breathless rasp to spill forth, clumsy and bloody past parted lips. Spent in nearly all capacities, sinew straining with effort, she still finds the will to stand, the command weighing heavy upon her conscience.
Get up.
Grating hiss of hydraulics signals her rise, an emptied clip falling to the ground, gaze wandering swiftly to so meet the ever expressionless veneer so donned by the Chief. Furtive intake of breath, then a curt nod of the head. Despite the wounds that littered the soldier’s physique and coaxed copious amounts of fervid ichor to ooze, she still OBEYS the order, ready to FIGHT.
A fresh clip is set into her weapon, and all at once she is ready to follow him into battle once more.