All This and for What

A blaze of fire burst through the panel singeing the co-pilot to a charcoal crisp, the red sirens went off in a loud blare of ear piercing noise. The main pilot grabs onto the radio speaker.

"Mayday, mayday! I repeat mayday! Our Angel Craft has taken maximum damage! Clear any ground troops at mark 3.02-".

The burly pilot cut short by another blast of fire and shrapnel tearing him to shreds nearly gouging the young man behind him.

No older than 18, clad in the Crusaders Motherland garb with a finned copper helm and black visor just as his comrades before him. The only man not smoldering to a crisp.

The young man with his back to the wall holding onto anything and everything. As the craft swirled down to an inevitable crash of hell fire and desert sand. His teeth grit tight, he braced for an impact to occur at any moment now.

The young man looked side to side upon his fallen comrades strapped in their seats and thought to himself:

"How? How did it come to this?"

The radio com-system still barely functioning with a thick Russian accent could hardly be made out.

"Angelcraft 7?! Co- in! Do y- read A- 7?"

The Angel Craft reaching closer and closer to the inevitable. Tears ran down the young mans' face.

"All I wanted was a little more food, that wasn't so much to ask for was it? I suppose it was, wasn't it?"

The Angel Craft crashed into the desert mounds outside the walls of a ruined desert city. Surrounded by Russian infantry, tanks, jeeps, and the mighty Angel Crafts in the sky.

Laying in the hot desert sand next to the ruined aircraft and chard corpses was the same boy half awake. His copper helm in shambles next to him, exposing his dirty blond hair with hazel eyes, his face no longer pure and white like the snow of Mother Russia now covered with black soot and not just his own blood.

Standing up slowly to ensure no broken bones, the handsome young man looks to his surroundings, soldiers off in the distance firing some form of crackling electricity towards other soldiers. In what could be made out as green camouflage uniforms. The young man takes another look around his feet and surrounding for anything that could aid him from here on out. Nothing to scavenge from the crash.

With his military issued sword to his hip, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and a limp in his step the rugged lad sets off towards the city; of Jerusalem.

Each limp and a gasp for air the tattered young man repeated to himself. "He might be in the city, he might be in the city, he might be in the city".