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They had been hiking for days.
The undergrowth was swamped by mud, which clung to Minho and refused to let go. He would curse, mutter or scowl, but the energy to do so had long since left him. They were following the route another batallion before them had marched through, but Minho wasn't hopeful. The amount of discarded weapons and uniform he saw along the way informed him that they were more than likely heading towards certain death. A possible ambush.
Then again, he staggered and his own helmet slipped right off. He only sighed, blinking rapidly to keep himself awake. It had been too big for him anyways, so he didn't mourn the loss if it. A stroke of fortune suddenly hit him, however, when he saw a similar, stranded helmet nearby without much grime coating it. Looking around, he quickly snatched it and slipped it on, spending a second actually doing the buckle up this time.
He was distracted, so the small voice calling for his assistance didn't even phase him. "One second." He grumbled, the metal on the clip almost slicing his finger clean open. When he came to his senses, he glared tiredly at the person, "What-"
It was a child.
Minho's eyes widened in shock. The child was a boy, very small, with a mop of brunette curly locks on his head. He looked terrified and was fiddling with a small stuffed bunny in his arms. "I can't find daddy." The boy sniffled, lip wobbling.
Baffled, Minho didn't say anything for a moment, but didn't walk away either. He was just confused as to why a child this young was in such a dangerous place. Looking quickly at his troop, which had already surpassed him and were still marching, he decided it wouldn't hurt to at least maybe get this kid somewhere safer. He was aware of an occupied village not too far from him, could the child just be lost from there?
"Minho?"
Newt, one of Minho's closest friends, was frowning at him, trailing behind at the end of the group.
"Gimme a second." Minho shouted back, going into a crouch in front of the boy. Newt didn't appear pleased, but then Thomas, another friend to Minho, clapped him on the shoulder and gave him his classic reassuring smile. Newt relaxed instantly, leaning slightly into Thomas. Minho scoffed at the pair, then stared at the child again, "What's your name?"
"Chuck."
Putting on his nicest face, because Thomas always told him he looked unapproachable and angry all of the time, Minho titled his head, "My name's Minho. Now, Chuck, do you know where he went? Or what his name is?"
Chuck blinked, "He's called daddy?"
"..Okay, yeah, sorry." Minho exhaled and stood up, sitting his gun onto his belt so his hands were free, "Where did he go?"
"This way." Chuck pointed to the dense trees behind him, squeezing his bunny to his chest with his other hand.
Briefly flicking his eyes to the group he was potentially abandoning, Minho whispered, "Damn it." and stepped towards where Chuck was pointing, nodding to gesture for the child to follow him. Chuck reminded him too much of his little sister, whom he hadn't seen since he'd been deployed to France, over a year ago.
He just had to hope that neither Newt or Thomas were going to snitch on him for wandering off, as he didn't fancy being shot by the firing squad before he was old enough to drink alcohol.
The fact that Chuck wasn't speaking french only hit Minho after he'd walked alongside the boy for at least ten minutes. He watched Chuck from the corner of his eye, then threw the thought to the back of his mind with the shake of his head.
"Daddy?" Chuck called out, voice ringing through the trees. Minho only scanned their surroundings, one finger resting on his gun. He wasn't assisting Chuck in his cries, as yelling "Daddy" was probably another thing on the list of offences that could get the firing squad on his arse. A chuckle escaped his lips at the thought. But, he was keeping his eyes peeled for any unknown personnel who might approach them.
Chuck walked forwards under a low branch, face screwed up in fear and concentration. Minho grunted, having to push the thick foliage out of his face to see where he was going.
"D- daddy!"
And oh boy, was he glad he did.
When he looked ahead once more, he saw that he was now stood in a clearing, the mud that had been torturing him for the past few days almost completely nonexistent. Chuck ran forwards towards something, looking excited. Minho said something, because he wasn't actually sure whether he was looking at a person. Maybe they'd been hit with something nuclear? Because they were glowing in a warm light that reminded him of the radioactive material his father had taught him about when he himself was a boy.
They turned to look at Chuck. It was a person. He was tall, maybe six foot, and jumped when Chuck embraced his leg happily. Minho squinted, shielding his eyes. Was this man's light getting brighter? Where was it even coming from? When he managed to blink away some tears, his gaze only used to darkness by now being assaulted by something.. bright, he spent a few seconds just gawking at them.
The man had short, buzzed hair, likely blonde? He was also wearing a uniform that was similar to his own.
"Huh?" Minho swallowed, making himself known.
Ruffling Chuck's hair, the silent man smiled, then met Minho's eyes with a jump.
They stared at each other for, what, minutes? Hours? Days? He couldn't tell. The man had kind eyes, which took him in, and made him feel partly exposed, for some reason. Minho shifted, his hand falling off of his gun completely.
A loud bang shattered the moment.
Minho flinched, chest heaving, and whipped his body towards the sound. It was nothing like a gunshot. More like an entire bomb.
When he looked back to the glowing man, Minho saw how his hand had stilled in Chuck's hair. Then, all at once, Chuck slowly dissolved into an array of golden sparks, dissipating into the air around them. The man looked from where the sound came from, to Minho, then back to the sound.
He whispered a singular word, but Minho heard it all too clearly.
"Go."
Staggering backwards, Minho sucked in a shaky breath. "What the hell?"
Had he been drugged?
Was he dreaming?
He scrambled back at last and pulled out his gun, running away from the clearing as fast as his legs would take him. He tripped, mud soaking him once more, but didn't slow down. When he got to the path he'd just been on, there was smoke, and a few trees were on fire. "No.." he panted, hands shaking.
There were bodies. Bodies. Just lying there in the mud. Shouts, echoes, cries, crackling flames-
Falling to his knees, Minho let out one, long breath and collapsed onto his side.
He'd been awake for half an hour at most. Groaning, Minho sat up cautiously, ignoring the nurse when she tried to usher him back down. "I'm fine, back off." he hissed, rubbing his head with his hand. Blonde hair caught his eye and he glanced to the side, seeing someone curled up on a bed beside him.
He almost cried with joy when he saw it was Newt. Anxiety bubbling up within him, he went on to scan the rest of the ward with his eyes, searching, praying to see another familiar face. But Thomas wasn't there.
"Miss?" he said weakly, looking at the nurse who was now fussing with Newt's bedcovers. She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. Minho felt nausea prickle within him, "Is there a guy called Thomas here?"
The girl's face- Teresa, as he later found out- hardened in thought, then softened once more, "No, I don't think so, sorry. But we have the dog tags of three Thomas's that were picked up on the battlefield, if that's any help."
Minho nodded in acceptance, his insides feeling numb. "Yeah, yeah. Edison. That was his surname." He looked to Newt, heart twisting, "Give Isaacs his dog tag, if you have it."
Teresa smiled sadly and hurried away, and Minho was left to his own devices again. Not quite processing his grief yet, he glanced around at things to try and somehow stimulate his mind. The helmet he'd picked up was on his sidetable, still dirty, but there. He turned and picked it up, brushing away some dried mud with his hand. For the first time, he turned it over to see its identity number, just out of bored curiosity.
A small picture was tucked into it, that was the first thing he noticed. With care, he freed it and pulled it into the light, trying to see what exactly was on it. There was a house, vines up the side, and a dainty little garden. A boy was stood in front of it, showing the camera a toothy grin. The name Chuck was written in the corner of the photo in pen.
Emotionless, Minho inspected it with his eyes. The boy was identical to the one he had seen that night, with the same brown curls, and a rabbit toy tucked under his arm. Even though he felt both nothing and everything, Minho managed to smile. A name was etched on to the inside of the helmet, so he held it up to read it.
Gally.
Minho wondered if that was the man he'd seen. Whether he was still out there, or was as well as Thomas. It was likely not the former. Unfortunately, Minho's imagination enjoyed running wild whenever it could. There he laid, in a measly medical bed surrounded by dead and dying men, transporting himself back to London in his head. He saw himself stood outside of Gally's house, holding Chuck on his shoulders as they all laughed.
He missed England. He missed having a home, and a family.
What wasn't helping was the fact that Gally's eyes were permanently burnt into his mind. Every time he closed his eyelids, even when he was only blinking, sent him straight back to that forest clearing. He may not of known who this man, or his son, were, but their memory alone gave him the passion he needed to continue living. He had someone to fight for. Someone to avenge.