Red
His eyes open wider, as he forces the air from his lungs.
But he's pretty sure his are broken- because he coughs harshly a moment later- and blood comes from his throat as a result.
He tries to move, he tries to free himself from whatever he's stuck in, but yelps as he begins- startled by a sharp, abrupt pain.
Where is he, anyway?
It was a mission, yes, that was it…but no one was with him.
No one was around.
He didn't know why, but they weren't there. How could they have been separated?
He knew he didn't have time to think it over.
He felt around with his finger tips, ignoring the pain in his abdomen.
It's a wall.
He feels his way towards his chest, winces immediately.
There's a sword- he's almost sure- a sword pinning him there, piercing from his chest to his spine.
How can he free himself? How is he even surviving?
He can barely calculate his surroundings, his mind blurred in agony.
He has to get out.
And now, if he wants to live.
He holds what breath is left in him, and lets his hands take hold of the sword. He knows what its result will be, having seen it performed many times in training.
Braces- knowing what will happen.
Yanks. But nothing happens to the sword itself.
Except it greatens his pain, and knocks the breath out of him- much expected.
He breathes through his mouth, but coughs up blood again.
He wonders how much longer he can take, but without falter he pulls at the sword again.
He screams this time, hoping it will distract him enough to pull it free.
But it barely moves. He can't muster enough strength to make it move.
He pants, feeling his head go limp against the wall. Agony and weariness threaten to overcome him; and for a brief second it is the only thing he can manage. His eyes force themselves shut, unable to focus on any outer surroundings. His mind seems to break under the weight of the agony; tearing apart his awareness until he questions if his heart is still beating.
But he won't let himself stay there.
He forces himself back, eyes nearly rolling into his head, as he brought his head back upwards.
He shouts this time. For someone. But no one's around. For once he wishes someone was.
He again questions survival. He questions how long he will suffer.
But he knows that he will try if it literally kills him. It may as well.
He wishes it would , because he can barely breathe; oxygen too painful for his lungs to handle.
He refocuses. In. Out. In. Out.
He tries to calm himself with the rhythm of the pain.
It's there- strong, sharp, unbearable. In the moment, he wants to lie back against the wall and enter death. Wants to let himself free of this pain. Wants to cry out one last time and end it there. At least it would be honourable to die on an assignment.
But then it's gone- too quick to kill him. But too brief to take comfort in. At least if he lived it would be another strength for him.
It disappears. It reappears.
Like him, he realizes.
But that's as much as he can comfort himself with. He breathes sharper, and screams again.
But this time he's getting free- he knows. He knows he has to. It doesn't matter where the others have gone, it doesn't matter who pinned him there.
All that matters is the escape.
He bends himself, slightly, to give him a better angle. He takes hold of the hilt of the sword.
He feels a moan resonate in his chest, as he thrusts it out in force.
He falls to the ground, finally free, and the sword clambers to the ground as well.
For a moment, he shuts his eyes and breathes heavily, trying to gain strength. He stares blankly at the floor, no sign of sanity remaining. Some kind of substance like tears come from his eyes, but he doesn't notice. He only allows them to fall to the flooring, silent.
His blood pours out onto the floor; staining it a dark crimson- almost black.
His chest is torn badly, and his spine is nearly broken, he's certain.
The pain calls for his defeat, and is unsatisfied when he forces himself to his feet.
He walks, painfully, slowly, into the next room.
A living impossibility.
"So, you are tougher than your little comrades, I see?"
He can't see the owner of the voice, the room too dark to view fully.
But as he walks in, breathing raggedly, he nearly trips over a mass on the floor; so he steps back cautiously.
Gradually, he realizes there are two masses- one larger than the other. Both are lying in a puddle of some type of liquid.
They are organic, Espio realizes. And that liquid is…blood.
Anger rises abruptly within him- incontrollable despite his training.
He can hardly mutter words, disoriented from the world around. It's too much. Way too much. All he knows is rage towards this villain, and nothing else drives him.
He charges forward unseeing, ignoring every blinding pain it causes him.
The rest is blood and bone.
END (Cuz I'm evil).
Actually, I wrote this for my sister a long time ago. She liked really violent stuff (still does, even though she's younger than me) and Espio (now she doesn't). So…This was the result.