(SO SORYRY I posted this so late my motivation is GONE)

It was the midst of a war between the Playground and Blackrock. You, a Playgroundian child, ran as fast as your small, shaking legs could take you, feeling an ache in the bones but continuing to move—pushing branches and stepping on leaves that were in the way. There were cuts and bruises littering your body. Your family had gotten captured, and you knew that the chances of seeing them again were slim. So, out of fear, you ran. You were absolutley terrified, not a clue if you, at such a young age, would live or die by the end of the day. There were distant shots fired, yet so loud. The soldiers were so scary, both Blackrock and Playground.

Zuka was on guard, sitting against a tree as he bandaged his arm with a stinging pain shooting through the limb. A bullet grazed his arm, and while it wasn't too severe, it needed to be cared for. He made sure to keep his eyes and ears ready, any source of movement that came from the forest around him would likely be obliterated by himself moments after spotted. All of Blackrock knew his name, ofcourse he was quick and good at what he did. His rocket laid beside him, leaning on the tree as his hand was occupied with the bandages. He tied a knot, making sure that it would hold before he headed off to battle.

Snap.

The second he heard a branch break, he rose to his feet and snatched his weapon, looking around for the source of the noise. He kept his breathing low and didn't dare move, waiting for another sign of that movement. He was ready to blast whatever it was in the face, especially if it was a Playground enemy. He was oblivious to the fact it was a child, you, who was aware of what you'd done and the sound that was made, now hiding in a bush and just praying to the deities that whoever was there wouldn't see you. Ofcourse, Zuka has morals and wouldn't harm a child, but you didn't know that.