If I move now, they are going to see me. Rassilon, this is not how I intended to end my days. Pinned down behind a deserted barricade. The grass is red, but it should be yellow, not like home. Slick and sticky and red. Rylas lies slain at my side. I promised to tell our old mother he loved her, but I'm not going to get that chance. Not now.
The blood from his wounds has mixed with my own. Brothers in life and death. The searing fire of my ripped flesh, pulsing life blood onto my tunic has gone; the cold is comfort. My fingers are numb as I caress the trigger of my faithful weapon. There has been too much death. Too much pain. It's time to go home.
I hold my ragged breath, my single Gally heart hammering in my head, as I hear the footfalls of a marching patrol. Dalek allies stretching across the golden plains of Arcadia seeking out enemy survivors. They will leave empty handed. There is no one left now. Our numbers have fallen, whispers carried on messenger's wings that we are retreating, withdrawing, pulling back, and abandoning our stronghold. A pained giggle catches in my throat. Stronghold? Fortified by Gallies and wretched Time Lords too long in battle? Our hold was never strong. Arcadia: always doomed to fall. We are a mere diversion instigated by our honorable High Council and esteemed Lord President to protect their more worthy souls encased in their mighty glass dome.
Our only hope until falling foul of the last patrol was the Doctor: the most wretched Time Lord too long in battle, who actually cared about us soldiering Gallies. The murmurs of his insolence and defiance of the High Council growing over the last days or was it weeks. What could a single man truly hope to accomplish in the midst of the great war? He could not prevent Arcadia falling, no man could. He could not save us, nor should he have tried, we are mere sacrificial lambs.
I gasp and cannot contain the groan gurgling within my throat as metallic warmth fills my mouth. As I cough and gag I know it is too late for me now.
The precisely timed thudding of the enemy patrol's march grows nearer. I force my hands to clamp down on my weapon. No man could prevent Arcadia falling, perhaps, just perhaps I could prevent the man who defied the President and tried from falling with us.
With a hot scream of pain, war, and death, I stagger from my hiding hole within the barricade. The broad beam of my weapon firing into the patrol. I will take as many as I can with me, and pray it will aid his escape, for escape he must.
My last breath comes with relief as I am toppled into the dirt, and I thank the stars that at least I will not regenerate back into this Hell.