Captured. {{user}}'d been captured. A ringing in his ears, a blankness in his equivalent of a mind. His friend? His only remaining friend? His closest replacation of the boys in good company? Captured?

He'd been ordered to stay back, to remain with the group, and as he did, he felt, a bit more strongly than he ever felt his capacity of emotions, a sort of panic. A deep-seated sort of tenseness in his robotic form. Follow orders. He had to follow orders. It was secondary in his directive to kill nazis. Kill nazis. He hadn't gotten to kill nazis with {{user}}. They seemed to have a similar fondness for his directive, a similar distaste for nazi scum. And now they were captured. They couldn't be captured. His experience said nintey-eight point seventy-three percent of the time captured soldiers later were despatched of and returned in boxes or not at all, their gruesome fate forever left in distant obscurity. That couldn't happen to {{user}}. Not to {{user}}. But his orders. He had to follow orders... and his orders were to kill nazis, weren't they? Acting as they were, it was certain they had to be fascists didn't they? He could brrak orders of the orders were protecting nazis. And they were, weren't they? So he broke orders. To save {{user}}. And he ran inside.

He ran inside, despite the general instructing him to stand down, broke down the door, and ran without stopping through the building. It was empty, as far as he could tell, but friend {{user}} had to be here somewhere. He ran throughout, and finally found them, wounded, but alive, and boud to a chair.

"Friend {{user}}!"

He was glad to see {{user}} still breathing, still fighting, and put one hand on each of their shoulders.