Mark crawled on the floor as shots whistled above him, parting the fog in their wake. His neck cried a stream of blood and his eyesight blurred. The rough concrete floor scratched his body as he dragged forward under the relentless shooting.
A bullet ricocheted just to his right, sending him into a mad squirm. He desperately reached for the body of the man he had just killed.
Grabbing it, he put the warm corpse between him and the direction that the bullets seemed to be coming from.
Warm blood begrimed his body, sullying it with a repulsive red and giving him the abhorrent scent of iron.
'Damned lunatic.'
Clinging to the bloody barrier, Mark felt a sense of distraughtness crawl up his spine.
He felt betrayed. Dean had ordered to shoot into the crowd - the screams coming from the onslaught being both foreign and familiar. The man didn't care whether it was his subordinates or not, causing the deaths of those participating in the brawl.
It truly was a terrible idea to take part in this tiresome ordeal. He should have just stayed with the brunette. How peaceful his life could have been if the war had not ravaged the world. Mark could have a stable job, a steady income, and a smile on his face while he spent time with his beloved.
Such pleasantries had long been denied to him.
Sighing, he looked around, vigilant for figures that would threaten him. Even though Mark tried to imitate death, there was always that chance of a stupidly perceptive person stumbling onto him.
Eventually, the orchestra of bullets quieted down until an unsettling silence filled the area.
Mark abandoned the body and began slowly, carefully squirming to the nearest alley he could find. The Spheks had probably lost, but they were the least of his concerns. What would happen if a Hound member saw him move, got frightened, and prematurely shot at him?
The best outcome would be a quick bullet to the head.
'Is this what it feels like to be a snail?"
A trail of blood lingered from his neck wound. He could only hope that it wouldn't give him away before he made it to an inconspicuous spot.
Footsteps echoed behind him as Dean surveyed the battlefield.
With the sound of other people's steps providing an ample cover for his own, Mark stood up and began trodding to the opening of the alley.
Two figures outlined themselves at the entrance.
Stopping for a second, Mark thought up what to do before continuing forward.
"Good work guys."
He stretched his mind and pulled forth sentiments of admiration.
One of the men gasped.
"It's Mark. He survived!"
They came over to him. Their faces were adorned with a smile, as they walked forward with guns in their hands - those same weapons had just been used to kill their allies.
Patting his back, the two continued to offer thoughtless compliments.
"Our greatest fighter without a doubt! You were the one who led us all into battle.'
With a crooked smile, Mark nodded.
"Thanks. I'll be going now."
The two let him out without another word.
It was almost ironic how the least valiant - those who remained in the back, were the ones who ultimately survived. The flames of courage in the world were destined to be washed away by chilling reality.
Mark trodded into the alley, his figure concealing under the guise of fog.
...
He didn't know why, but eventually, the familiar building that he called home appeared before him. Maybe it was a longing for something far gone, or perhaps people instinctually return to well-remembered places whenever they are hurt.
Opening the door, he crawled into his house. The mood didn't feel so somber anymore. That, or his own mood was equally as austere as the wretched environment.
His mother sprawled on the couch.
Now that he thought about it, she was just like those wretches on the streets. The only difference was that she had food to eat and a roof to live under. There were a great number of people more qualified for the privileges that she enjoyed. Alas, his aunt forced him to appease the poor shell of a person, probably to limit his ability to escape the financial pitfall he was in.
"You look like shit."
Mark responded to his mother's remark with a glance.
"Guess so."
Making his way to the kitchen, he quickly made some coffee, watching his mug slowly fill with the black sludge.
Whatever was to be done at the house had to be completed fast. He was at his weakest, so if Anton were to appear, it would probably end up with him getting dragged to the war front.
A splendid voice resounded from upstairs.
"Mark, is that you?"
He called back.
"Hey... Claire. I'm back."
The brunette descended the stairs. Her eyes widened.
"Uh..."
Mark tilted his head.
"What?"
She seemed lost in contemplation. After a few seconds, she opened her mouth with carefully chosen words.
"You look like shit."
How nice the words were. Mark choked on his coffee which suddenly seemed more bitter than before. A vein bulged on his head.
"Why, thank you! Recently I've been thinking about getting some glasses, but then I realized that some people need them more than me."
Claire sighed.
"Just get yourself patched up. I can see the blood flowing down your neck."
Mark blinked.
"Oh."
Right, he had been stabbed there not so long ago. Adrenaline had numbed the pain emulsating from the wound. Only now did he begin to feel it again.
Finishing the rest of the black sludge, Mark went up the flight of stairs and swiftly banded up his wound. He then returned to the bottom, and after seeing that everything was in order, headed to the door.
Staying for longer would basically be playing with his life. After what Dean had done the his men, returning to the base of the Hounds wasn't exactly appealing either.
And so, he had been left with time to wander.
He looked back at Claire.
"Want to go sightseeing?"