My first TF2 fic.
Disclaimer: Team Fortress 2 belongs to Valve. They are amazing.
Blood was everywhere.
Soaking through the mud and grime and he was covered in it. Maybe it was soaking through him too. That was a funny thought, but he didn't have the breath to laugh. He just had the energy to think. Not to move, not to talk, not to do anything that could possibly be of some use. Nothing... but freaking... think.
He thought about his mom, his brothers, his bastard father who had walked out on them when he was three and the girlfriend he had left behind when he came to this freakin' war.
His promise that he would be back in a year...
He suddenly realized that he was letting everyone down. Not just his team, but his family and friends as well.
He recounted fondly the times he and his brothers had gallivanted away from the cops, easily outstripping the out-of-shape morons who patrolled the streets with their cars. Their cars that couldn't run down the narrow alleys or scale a chain-link fence in three seconds flat or use a Dumpster like a step and soar over a brick wall like Flipper.
God, he was using dolphin movies as metaphors? How did he even remember what a metaphor was? English class sucked!
His muscles spasmed in a shudder and the body laying on top of his shifted and pressed down on his broken ribcage. The steady pain that he had begun to tune out returned with the pressure.
He licked his lips and tasted blood, mud and tears.
What wouldn't he do for a Gatorade?
Nothing.
He was dying and he wanted fucking Gatorade.
The delicious array of flavors and their patented rehydrating abilities made his dry tongue scream in protest as he stared up at the darkening sky.
Wait, wasn't it still daytime? He thought with confusion as his mind recognized a bright circle in the graying sky above. Maybe it was the moon... how long how long had he been out there? What fuckin' time was it? It was the first legitimate thought he had had in a while; between dolphins and literary psychobabble. The passage of time was beginning to constrict his throat as his abused lungs and diaphragm attempted to pull in oxygen.
Schlorp.
He heard the gentle sucking of a foot pulling itself out of the mud and his heart jumped. Despite the roar of angry, oxygen-deprived blood in his ears, his sense of hearing was keen and he was definitely sure that he had heard it. That someone was coming to move the damn RED Demo off of him and take him back to the freakin' Doc and make him as good as freakin' new so that he could freakin' live.
His mental tirade stopped suddenly when he saw a blue balaclava'd face looking down at him. He slowly blinked to let the Spy know he was alive and needed help. The lump that rose in the place of tears made his already shallow breathing even harder, he wasn't about to cry in front of the bastard.
The face drew closer and he wanted to frown, but his facial muscles weren't moving. Not enough energy to do anything but freaking blink and think.
He felt a warm hand slide into the pocket and remove a box of some sort. What the fuck was it? He felt something at the back of his mind prodding to get to the surface, but he pushed it back, trying to think. What had the Spy taken from him?
And why the fuck was he walking away?! He wanted to scream at that little rat to get his ass back there, to help his teammate and not slink off like the little pussy-foot mother fucking fancy cigarette smoking... oh. The thought attempting to make itself known finally broke through and he remembered snatching Spy's cigarettes earlier that morning; assuming it was still the same day.
Well... fuck. He felt a small pressure in his diaphragm give way and his breathing stopped altogether. Panic flooded his mind as he realized that he was dying. He was actually going to die, Spy had left and all because he had played a little joke on the snob, he was going to die.
He finally allowed his eyes to close as the thought hit him. He felt warm liquid leak from the corners of his eyes but didn't give a shit. After all... no one cares if you cry when you're about to die.