You lay in a pile of barbed wire, blood cakes you, part of your leg is just mangled. You can barely manage to move your hand. The thick dust and smoke coats the air, coats everything around it, as the charred grounds are continuously splattered in the blood of your comrades. The noise is so loud, grenades, explosions, fire, gunshots, slashes. War-cries. Just cries. Pain.

Fire blasts far away in the smoke, just small lights in the smoke, as if a visualization of hope, but they aren't. They're the opposite.

Hopelessness.

As you sit there, gas mask on, stuck in the large clump of barbed wire, your unhealthy, bony, gloved hands caked in your own, and Xenos' blood, the sun just a small light in the thick dust and smoke.