I hope you like this.
Took me a little to do.
A pic of Bios' 'swhat inspired me.
http://www.furaffinity.net/view/615747/

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This used to be a home.
Not a home like you think of.
Not a charming two story suburban home
A house of God.
A church.
War doesn't know that.
Fuck, what does war know other than pain, destruction, ecstacy, fire, and death?
My boots crunch over the piles of bricks and busted wood that used to hold up the roof above me.
Or, what was a roof above me.
Now just an endless gray sky, shrouded by colonnades of buttresses seeming to hold up the clouds above me.
I pop out the earbuds in my ear, stopping the endless flow of music from my MP3 player.
I'm taken aback by the sudden silence of everything. Everything but the sound of my boots.
I pull my AK close to my chest, and take a deep breath. Nothing comes in it seems. Sure, air, but I can't help but feel I have no need for it.
Whatever.
I look about to the piles of rubble about me.
I take a few steps, up to the altar.
My belt of grenades, pouches of ammunition, canteen, they all jostle and clink against themselves and me.
I step up to the altar, holes ripped through by the careless sprays of fragmentation bombs.
I put my gun on the table, where a priest may have put his chalice once.
Blood of Christ my ass. To a soldier, blood is blood. If blood were wine, we'd all be dead from alcohol poisoning.
I emit a cynical laugh and take my gloves off, submitting my fingers to the biting November cold.
I put my hands up to my face and cough.
They said I was good. Really good.
Able to pick off a man at 1700 yards, with the right gun.
Sharpest shot the brass has seen in 15 years.
Fuck 'em. I didn't want to. I was just good. Can't explain it.
I take a couple steps from the altar, my boots crunching the brick and mortar covered floor.
Wood splinters beneath my feet.
I look up as I reach the center of the collapsed hall.
Nothing but the pale gray of the clouds above.
I got nothing left. Mom died. Just couldn't stop smoking those damn cigarettes.
Never knew my dad. No siblings.
Whatever.
I slip my hand over to my holster, and pop out the magazine from my pistol.
Take out my knife and flick it open. I snap out one bullet. Two, four, ten, twelve.
Save the last.
I unsnap the button on the safety latch.
I flex my fingers and grip the worn wood handle on the gun.
I hold it in my hand and look over the worn blue steel.
I slip the magazine into the well and listen to it slide in, then the metallic pink when it catches.
Pull the slide back.
Locked and loaded.
I breathe out and watch the contrails in the air dance and mingle like cigar smoke as a last glance.
You can guess what comes next.
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Pop