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Chapter Text

{ JAMES/WHITE IDENTITARIAN POV }

They say “war itself is the enemy of the human race” yet to James it felt like a game. Exhilarating even. A young soul aged just 17 so ready to give up his life - his future. “For his country” the government would tell him and his fellow soldiers. “For the good of the people, the women and children” those older than him claimed, and he blindly believed every word.

Adrenaline ran through his veins, and his ears rang in a high pitch from the constant loud bangs of the battlefield. 

This is what he was made for. This was his place in the world. 

Bullets would fly past him, hitting his fellow soldiers. Yet none would hit him. He felt invincible, protected even. Like he was CHOSEN by some higher being to be the ‘’Hero of Germany!", to rise the ranks, to be well known and to be somebody. 

Somebody. 

Something he never was. 

As a child - no. he still IS a child. When he was younger his family saw him as “Lesser”. The runt of the group. 

He was a mistake to them. 

He did not know the warm love of his father nor the gentle touch of his mother. He didn't experience the banter between siblings or even that sickly sweet care of a grandparent. All he felt was cold. Love never reached him, and he never reached for it. His family was like a group of dolls - flawless smiles painted on porcelain faces, but inside that dollhouse was a story cracked at its seams. Almost like it was written from the sick fantasies of a little girl just figuring out stories aren't all sunshine and rainbows. 

But on the battlefield, here in the warzone he was at least someone. A soldier and a fighter. 

These men respected him - he was one of them. A young boy whisked away to fight for a country who didn't particularly care for him. He was a puppet and those a higher rank than he was the masters. 

He would shoot who they wanted. Do what they say when they say, he will go to the front and be their servant. 

Bred to kill, not to care. 

Sweat drenched the boy's uniform as he focused on his gun. He held a gewhr 98 bolt-action rifle in his grubby and dirtied hands as he fiddled with the ammo, attempting to reload, when suddenly - BANG! 

The man beside him fell to his knees and his breath hitched before stopping. 

Blood began to pool against James’ boots as he peeked at his fellow - now fallen - soldier. The bullet had struck right in the head. His eyes peered into the other man's now more lifeless, almost doll-like eyes. It was oddly fascinating. How someone looks when they die. They appear almost perfect...

That is if you remove the blood seeping out of his forehead. 

James lifted his foot off the ground - blood stuck to his boot and he grimaced. He’d now have to waste his ‘’precious time’’ cleaning that off. As if he had any free time to start with. 

He felt just a bit sorry for the man. He had a pretty face - James will give him that. Shame it was ruined by a massive hole in his forehead. Bet he had a pretty gal waiting for him at home. 

Not that he cared all that much. Wasn't his life, wasn't his problem. 

It was only then, in that brief moment of fragility did he notice the sharp sting in his lungs from all the gunpowder and smoke surrounding him and the thud of explosions reverberating through his bones. 

It was only then that sickly feeling of tiredness kicked in. 

Yet he pushed through. 

Despite his grand fantasies of being a hero, of being well known throughout his homeland and to be someone of importance to his country - he frankly didn't care if he died right here and now. If a bullet pierced his heart, then so it be. That will be his fate and at least he will die a man of war. He will die doing something ‘important’ 

He pushed forward, rifle in hand and pistol in pocket. Wading through the mud and smoke and trying to spot men in a uniform different to his own. 

The barking of bullets surrounded him as the men around him pulled their triggers seemingly at nothing. Barely anything could be seen through the deep and heavy fog - they were wasting time. Time and bullets they couldn't be sparing. 

Stupid. 

These men were absolutely stupid. They acted like what James imagined a woman would be like when given divorce papers. 

Scared, defenseless and stupid. 

He exhaled as his fellow men did absolutely nothing for their cause but get shot and die like livestock on a farm. 

The fog made it hard to see almost anything far around him. Hard to see the enemy. So despite his order of not getting too close to the opposition, he begins his journey forward into the fog. 

The mud squelched under his boots with every step he took. The further into the fog he got the more distant from reality he felt. Emptiness filled him. He  could see nothing and nobody could see him. 

For just a moment there was silence. Almost nothing around him. Until a loud BANG erupted through the air- making the young boy almost jump out of his skin in surprise. Back in reality, he seemed to have found a group of German soldiers just like him fighting their opponent. Something the men further back were doing but in a less cool nor logical way. The men up here amazed James. Their determination, their strong stance, the way they held their guns - wait no that sounds fucking gay. That's degenerate. He’d never. 

Fuck gay people am I right lads? Or something. 

Whatever. Moving on. James held up his gun and grinned. This was his place. Fighting for his honour and his country surrounded by like-minded men - or he assumed like-minded. But anyway, what a thrill. 

He’d shoot his gun with care and focus. Aiming for the enemy as best as he could with the foggy vision.

BANG!!
One down.
BANG! BANG!
Down goes another. 

He went through this process over and over. Shot a few, ran outta bullets, reloaded and repeated. 

That was until he went to grab more bullets for his rifle and what he found was nothing. Just a few empty shells he had picked up as ‘tokens' and a couple pistol bullets. So, he had to abandon the rifle. 

His rifle hit the floor with a sloppy and gross thud - resulting with the mud he stood upon splashing up against his shins. 

James had grabbed his Luger P08 pistol and checked it was loaded. He had 8 rounds in the gun and 8 in his pocket. This was all he had left - after this he was screwed. And yet he was oddly okay with that. 

With his pistol and a few rounds - he decided to at least attempt to make his way back. However he had a lot of distance to cover and it appeared the other men around him were beginning to falter and lose their fighting will as they each got picked off one by one. 

As he tried to make his way back to their trench - he ended out losing 8 rounds before he even made it halfway. He was down to his last half. What the fuck. This was NOT how he wanted this to go. 

James felt uneasy at this. He had no rifle and barely any ammo. 

At this point he just accepted this was his fate. 

He whipped any blood or mud- fuck if he knows -  off of his face. If he was going out he wanted to look semi-decent. He can die both hot and a ‘’hero’ in battle. Doesn't have to be one or the other. 

As he took each step he lost that feeling of uneasiness and dread. He was almost happy to die. If he had to die he wanted it to be in a war anyway. That's when something or better guess - someone - grabbed his ankle.  He turned back and saw a man in the same uniform as him. Unable to walk and bleeding out in the middle of nowhere. He couldn't save this man. Nobody here could. 

So he pulled the trigger. 

Once, twice, three times. Just to make sure. 

Put him outta his misery. 

6 rounds left. That's all James had.  

He honestly felt sort of bad actually. It appeared there were a few German soldiers dying around him. He felt some sort of pity - and like he was obligated to put them out of their misery. Like they were sickly dogs needing to be put down. And so with each man he served one of his remaining bullets. He had mercy for others but chose to let himself die a more painful death - if it came down to it. 

No bullets, no German man alive around him. All he had was some cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket. He found a sort of rock-like mound and sat against it. He had decided this was his final resting place, and that he will have one last smoke before he goes.

and hey if he feels like being optimistic maybe just MAYBE someone will come to his rescue. 

Chapter Text

{ IVAN/COMMUNIST POV }

Young men standing on the top of their own graves - that's all Ivan could imagine as he stood on the battlefield. Blood pooled around his feet, mixing in with the mud and stones. War. Disgusting war. Selfish war. Sometimes designed by capitalists for their own personal gain - at least that's what he thought.

It was greed. War is greed.

It is not heroic. It is not humane. It is not for the better of the people. 

Ivan himself wasn't young. He was 38 to be exact. He could easily accept his own death in this blood bath, but his comrades? These young boys? He could never. They were his people. Well not his - he was no man of importance. But they were from his motherland. His brothers really. Not by blood but by connection. 

He felt the gentle winds blow against his grubby and dry skin. A moment of silence in it all. No screams, no shouts, no loud bangs of grenades or even a gunshot. It was like he had blocked it all out.

Peace.

Something he and his comrades would not experience. Not today. 

A loud explosion violently shook Ivan's body to the core - as if he could feel it in his bones. His ears rang from the sound as he looked towards where the sound had come from, only to see an amalgamation of body parts and organs. It was a strong blow. A strong, disgusting, brutal blow. 

He felt nauseous at the sight, his stomach twisting in horror. 

He did not belong in such violence. 

He should be at home - working for his motherland, providing for his hometown, being a true man of honor. He did not have a wife, nor kids, but he had brothers and neighbors. People who still valued his work. Most of which were possibly now stationed in other battlefields around the world.

Ivan found himself looking at the bodies around him for a little longer than he should - almost like he was memorizing their faces. Many were young. Too young. However - they looked delicate in their death. These boys carried the innocence of a deer during hunting season "

Bullets ripped through the air, breaking any silence he had regained after the explosion. The sharp crack of gunfire surrounded him, each projective cutting through the thick haze of smoke and dust. His heart began to pound in his chest. 

Ivan tightly gripped his Mosin-Nagant rifle. He was a hunter - strong at heart. 

Ivan was a bear, and his enemy were wolves.

He was a bear.

They were wolves. 

He could do what was necessary for his life and for his comrades. This was defence, not murder. 

He tried to be a good man. He really did. 

Ivan aimed his rifle, right across the battlefield, pointed right at a man's forehead. He steadied his hands as he slowly placed his hand on the trigger. He hesitated just a second before pulling the trigger. A loud bang erupted from his rifle and the bullet hit right on the target - causing the man's body to collapse. Another body for this muddy land to claim for its own.

Ivan continued to advance forwards, keeping a sharp eye for movement around him. Yet he spotted nothing, not at all. It wasn't the easiest to see. The air was smokey and almost foggy, yet surely, he would have still seen something, someone, anything?

But all there was, was an empty, muddy, bloody field. 

He heard voices and gunshots from most angles, but they were distant. It was like he was lost. 

He felt like a little boy again, on his first ever hunting trip with his father - but he was alone out here. He was with no other man, and he was in no forest. But the sense of unfamiliarity felt almost identical. Sure, nothing here was familiar, he was far from home. But he never was alone. Not like this. 

He chose to pick a direction and stick to it. 

East. 

As he made his way east, he found himself passing body after body after body. Yet none wearing his own uniform. These uniforms appeared greyer in contrast to the khaki he wore. 

They seemed less like adult wolves like the ones he wished to hunt but more like little cubs - still trying to find their place. 

This was a waste of human life. Maybe these boys could have been in their home country providing for their motherland! But instead, they found their sad and lonely fate out in the middle of practically nowhere. 

As Ivan looked at them, he heard the bang of a pistol. It was nearby. 

He turned to where the sound had echoed from, and in the fog, he spotted the silhouette of a man. Gun outheld and pointed towards a body limp on the floor. A body in a grey uniform. 

He watched as the man pocketed the pistol and looked around, before walking off continuing east. 

For a while the fog seemed so thick he lost vision of the other man. The only other living man he had seen in a little while now. How the actual FUCK did he get this lost?? How did he just walk off the battlefield unscathed and get this far out??? Actually, what the hell. 

Eventually he heard the Chk! Chk! Chk! of a lighter being flicked in an attempt to light it, and then a shaky exhale. Ivan then heard a soft, metallic click, signifying the lighter had been put out. 

He squinted his eyes to look around, to see if that would help in any way. As he looked around himself, the smell of cigarette smoke filled the air. The smell came from the northern east? Or something. He couldn't tell at this time of day. 

He turned to where he thought the smell was coming from and saw a rock-like mound. 

On the other side of the rock, just over the top, Ivan could see just the top of someone's head. Greasy brown curls. 

He had found his man.