It was a sunny day in Lexington, Massachusetts. Five hundred american militia soldiers stood in perfect formation. The sky had a few clouds, but other than that, it was empty. A few low mountains lay around. The grass was uneven, and rocks, rivers, and trees were scattered all over the land. There were many stone bridges. The soldiers waited, their blue and black uniforms wavering slightly in the soft breeze.
They saw red on the horizon.
The sound of marching. Soft, practiced, footsteps sounding in unison. The beating of boots, on the grass and dirt. The British redcoats had arrived.
Gray Carson crept along the hill. He was a teenager of thirteen years old only. But he had the skill of a twenty-five year old. He had black hair. He was a heavily armed, specially trained, soldier of the world 3080 Gax Lon. He had a 100 caliber, Powerbolt sniper, a Mocktrack pistol, an army knife, a couple of frag grenades, a plasma vest, pants, shirt, sunglasses, and helmet, and binoculars. He lay down at the farthest edge of the hill and set his sniper ready. He put his eye to the scope and his right index finger to the trigger. Scoping in on the British soldiers, he spotted seven hundred men in total. the scope could calculate how many, how far, and how heavily armed. The scope showed 500 meters, 700 men. Under those words and numbers: Rifle, red coat, knife, sword. They weren't very heavily armed. The army stopped at one hundred meters away. He could hear the faint words of the general, commander, and captain ordering their men not to shoot until being fired upon. Gray waited for the battle to start, but both armies were waiting for the other team to fire first.
Gray was getting impatient.
He zoomed in with the scope and studied the British men. They were sweating, obviously from walking so long and so far. Gray wanted the battle to start, and then pick off the men while they were too busy fighting. Gray clicked his tongue while waiting. He saw one of the British men spot him.
Hastily, Gray jumped back, but landed badly. His right elbow bumped against the ground, and he shot a bullet. As he crashed and rolled down the hill, he heard a cry and the yelling of men. He heard the clashing of swords and knives. He heard gunshots ring. He heard screams of pain. Gray fell down the hill and landed on the grass. His left leg was in a bad, awkward position, and so was his right arm. His right index finger was bent and broken. The sniper fell hard on him. Knocking the wind out of him, he lost consciousness.
Later, he would be found, adopted, and named William Clark.