This wasn't actually supposed to be a Loser's story, or a death fic, but the prompt "trail" kind of got a mind of its own the moment I connected "trail" to "time trial" and "time trial" to "bomb". So yeah, kind of depressing.

Warning: A death fic for anyone who isn't stubbornly optimistic/waiting for a continuation, so don't like, don't read. Also has some strong language.

Out of Time, Out of Luck

He was running out of time. He hadn't expected any kind of security system here—in the middle of a residential area for god's sakes—and he certainly wasn't looking for any traps. He didn't realize to what extent these people would go—Max would go—to keep his information out of their hands. Who would have thought that they would have anything here, ready for him—let alone a bomb?

So when he ran gung-ho into the room that he had thought would contain the company's main computer, and the door had swung automatically behind him, he was sort of confused. It wasn't until the tumblers clicked closed and the red light of the timer blinked on that Jensen realized his mistake.

He'd underestimated them, and had gotten a kick in the ass for it. And the problem was, he didn't have any way to fix this—he was helpless. His eyes flicked over the timer, followed the wires across the ceiling and into the plaster wall, and he knew that there was no way that he would be able to disarm the weapon. The timer glowed menacingly as it kept ticking slowly onward and all he could do was watch, accepting, as the numbers dropped second by second toward zero.

And he wasn't worried, either—which struck him as odd. Hell, he should be freaking out, begging for his life and calling for one of the team to come and try to save him, even though he knew that they wouldn't make it in time. It was amazing how easily he came to terms with dying because, although he'd done it plenty of times before, this was the first time he'd ever done it alone. He'd struggled with the door for a moment, and then quickly realized that there was no way to open them without access to the computer that controlled their locking mechanism. Despite this, he didn't immediately call for backup.

Still, he felt little concern for his own well-being, despite his best judgment. Maybe it was just because his situation was glaringly bleak, but all he could think about was the rest of his team. He was on the top floor of the building; they were waiting on ground level, keeping an eye out for trouble. So when the bomb went off, all eight floors of the building would come crashing down on top of them—especially if they didn't run as soon as the bomb exploded.

Jensen knew, as he pulled his radio from its case and turned it on, that if he told his team what was happening, they wouldn't run—they'd all die, trying to save his stupid ass. So, there wasn't much he could do, really. He'd gotten a little rusty, sure—he said so himself, that he used to be better—but Jensen also knew that this would be, beyond a doubt, the best performance of his life.

He pressed down the button, drew in a breath, and screamed.

The timer flashed: one minute.

"Fuck, what is it?!" he heard Clay through the radio—he sounded somewhat irritated— and wasted no time in responding.

Fifty-seven seconds.

"I need backup!" Jensen shouted, and he had to admit, it did sound convincing. There was confirmation from Clay's end—he assured Jensen that they were coming up. "No!" Jensen said, cutting him off, a bit too quickly, he noted "different building—roof-hopped, I'm a quarter of a click North." He held his breath, hoping—praying—that they would believe him.

"We're on our way. Give us forty seconds."

Jensen glanced at the clock again. Forty-five seconds left.

Jensen didn't respond, sliding down by the door to sit on the ground. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the door. What he wouldn't give to watch one more of his niece's soccer games. He'd sell his soul for a chance to say good bye… good luck.

Jensen watched the timer go down, with each passing moment feeling like an eternity. He felt a pang of guilt for leaving his friends behind, until finally, when the timer hit five seconds, the radio came on again. Like clockwork.

"Where the hell are you, Jensen?" That was Pooch.

Three seconds.

Jensen couldn't bring himself to lie again. Then again, it didn't really matter anymore. He smiled sadly and pressed the button on his radio.

"I never left the building…" He mumbled, "Sorry." And he let the radio slide from his fingers. It clattered loudly to the floor between his knees, where it lay, broadcasting Clay's protests as he demanded an explanation.

One second.

That's right, this is a death fic. Probably. I may consider writing some kind of conclusion/alternate happy ending but… I'm kind of fond of the angst. Then again, my sister is definitely rooting for a happy ending, sooo... if we do make one, it'll pick up right where we left off! Thoughts? Please review!