Jean Kirschtein (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bluntality) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
robodicking2013-08-13 07:59 pm
bluntality) wrote in robodicking2013-08-13 07:59 pm
Entry tags:
this au is horrible
[Weeks ago, if you'd asked Jean, living in a barn wouldn't exactly strike him as an ideal situation. It's musty and dirty and not at all glorious, not outfitted with modern amenities or a perfect shelter from the elements. Not fitting for a soldier, though a soldier could make do. But a soldier who had been taught and trained and turned out amongst the best and had taken firm hold of the opportunity for a better life with both hands shouldn't have to just make do.
A soldier also shouldn't have to claw his way out of the hell, choking and sputtering on the fumes and ashes of a burning city and struggling not to collapse among the suddenly crushing weight of the only person he had managed to save in the end, out of the hundreds of thousands he'd sworn to protect. No human should, no matter what they've been trained for. Nothing could prepare someone for that.
A lot has changed since then.
Jean's barely listening to the conversation at this point as he peers around the loft. It's still dusty in the corners, housing crates and straw, but he pays it no mind. It's the smell of horses, the memory that comes with it in his mind. Of his home city, of the military stables. Of better times.
He's quiet as he finds a propped hatch to the roof, and slips out. And sits.]
A soldier also shouldn't have to claw his way out of the hell, choking and sputtering on the fumes and ashes of a burning city and struggling not to collapse among the suddenly crushing weight of the only person he had managed to save in the end, out of the hundreds of thousands he'd sworn to protect. No human should, no matter what they've been trained for. Nothing could prepare someone for that.
A lot has changed since then.
Jean's barely listening to the conversation at this point as he peers around the loft. It's still dusty in the corners, housing crates and straw, but he pays it no mind. It's the smell of horses, the memory that comes with it in his mind. Of his home city, of the military stables. Of better times.
He's quiet as he finds a propped hatch to the roof, and slips out. And sits.]