Disclaimer: The show and its characters belong to its creator. I own nothing.
Note: A stream-of-consciousness one-shot, protagonist can be whomever you wish (masculine pronouns notwithstanding). A little something to keep me writing.
"She took a step and didn't want
to take any more, but she did."
-Markus Zuzak, The Book Thief
Silence
He tried to disappear into himself, pulling in tighter as it all rained down upon him. Everywhere, just everywhere, they kept coming. Something crashed from somewhere in front of him, and he jerked his head up, skittering backward. There was nothing that could be done. The blood had already been spilt, oozing still, and lying hot upon the floor.
He stared. Drones, flooding the room. So many, enough for a dozen armies. Their metallic bodies moved forward, propelled only by orders and their brainless mechanisms. Guns were raised, practically drooling to cut through his body once again. The team was too far to help him - he had been foolish enough to get cut off from them. A closing automatic door, and it had been over. They might not even be alive anymore. Who knew?
He pressed a hand against his side, the red covering the flesh almost instantly. He couldn't look down. He would hit the ground again if he saw all that he had lost and he would never get back up. He knew this much.
Boxes were piled to his left and he scuttled behind him. His weapon had been lost during the first swarm. He had unloaded its contents into god-only-knew how many of the robots. There were far more oil and metal scraps lying about him that there was blood, and he took that to be a good sign. He was winning.
Though there was only one of him and hundreds of them. Mathematically, not so much.
Footsteps neared, thump thumping against the surface. He arched against the wooden crate, the dull pain echoing through him, matching his heartbeat. His vision was darkening and he cursed. If he could hold out a big longer, the team would find him and he'd be fine. He could make it.
The footsteps halted and he held his breath. Could drones hear? Did they sense him by sight only or could they feel him, feel the life he possessed that they did not and was that how they would find him? His throat tightened against the air in his lungs. He did not want the answer, not that way.
Eyes squeezed shut, senses blocked off, he heard it. His name, coming from beyond the thick metal walls. At least one of them was alive, looking for him. He almost yelped in joy, but the metallic taste in his mouth reminded him to keep quiet.
The footsteps retreated, and maybe they had heard his name being called as well. They could hear, then. Lucky for him. Who'd have thought it?
Silence followed. He craned his head around the crate, looking at the empty chamber. He let go of the breath he had forgotten that he had been holding, attempting to stagger to his feet. The wound shouted at him, a gaggle of obscenities, forcing him to double over. He walked, had to, angled at the waist, until he reached the door that had sealed him in. It was open, now, welcoming him forth: Sorry about before, business, you know, but go right ahead. We're done with you now.
He spat, crimson specks coating the ground, and walked. He could hear his name, still, and it was getting louder. He wanted to call back, but had neither the energy nor the bravery. The drones were still nearby, somewhere, firearms itching with need for more. They had tasted blood and were surely not satiated. So many of them, and they had had to share.
At a fork in the hallway, he crumbled, falling against the wall. He cursed again, willing his wound to clot damn you just stop coming out. Looking at the trail he had left, he wondered for a moment if he was not dead already. No one had that much blood, after all.
His eyes slipped closed. Was this admitting defeat? So close? He never would have before, what the hell was wrong with him. He forced his burning lids open, staring up, up, up at the ceiling. Then, suddenly, something was there, a mix of white and blue and gentle hands and a loud voice, much too loud, and he mumbled something in reply, stop they'll find me, ridiculous stuff, because they already had found him, quite a bit ago, and what else could be done?
Something pressed roughly against the wound and he hissed, eyes flying open, if they had ever been closed, arms whipping about in reflex. Someone snapped at him, the voice cracking, to stop it, dammit, you idiot.
He obeyed, out of necessity rather than want, arms toppling, puppet-like, to the floor. Bad, went all the way through. He wanted to quip, tell me something I don't know, but the words came out all backwards and upside-down. The blurry figures above somehow seemed to smile, colors arching upward.
He was lifted into some arms, strong and firm and kind. He floated, then, for a while, trapped in a fuzzy, off-kilter dimension, and everything was still much too loud. He wanted sleep, deserved it, he felt, but the voices kept shouting and there was a beeping was right against his skull, sometimes fast, sometimes one long tone, and always three clicks too loud.
Finally, he slept. He dreamt of silence and no pain and that godforsaken door that had closed right in front of him. Dreamt of the rush of air that hit his face and the sound of footsteps, metal against metal, that careened toward him. Finally, he dreamt of the red puddle that had drenched him and the kind hands that had found him.
He awoke, hours days weeks later, to an array of smiling, relieved faces, a fresh, curved, smiling scar, and the embracing silence of home.
END