A/N: Warning: Very slight implication of certain violent themes, self-injurious behavior, darker themes.
It's cold. And it's almost quiet, ignoring the sound of an occasional explosion, or a little gunfire.
All he knew (mainly because of the slight glow from the evening sky above him) was that he was stuck in what was basically a cold makeshift prison, constructed by a bunch of rocks, probably surrounded by the same gang of guys with guns who got him trapped in here in the first place.
And if he was honest he is probably gonna die in this rock prison, starved, in a puddle of his own urine, stiff with growing mold on his soon to be rotting flesh.
That's gonna suck.
He's passed the point of searching for a way out, too, at least at the moment, since he's too damn tired and weak. It had been a day and a half or so by now..probably. He tried to guess. He had no idea exactly what time it was. Once the sun went down, that should be around 5, because it's winter, but after that, he has a only a very vague idea of the time.
He recalled exactly just how trapped he was, as the assholes of the week here blasting enough dynamite around the place that it caused an avalanche of boulders to crush the perimeter, probably planning on the boulders crushing him too. No such luck, of course. Nate briefly wondered if a slow death like he's moving towards is gonna be worse than an instant death upon impact sort of thing.
But then, he realized he could have just been a little crushed, like with a completely destroyed leg or arms or finger or something, but still be alive enough to die slowly for another few hours or so.
He assured himself this was better.
Nate was fairly sure that the goons weren't aware he was alive either, and unintentional deception was usually a nice plus for him. They were all still alive of course, he could kind of hear them. Mumbled sounds, really, but, it sounded like people talking.
That or the dehydration is really messing with him at this point. His body is the only thing he figured he could depend on to help him keep track of the days that pass by. You could go quite a while without food, but dehydration, as he's learned in the past few years, is a quick killer. You can't go a few days without a drink.
Reminds me of dad.
Oh boy. There he goes. He's gonna die in the rock jail thinking of his dad.
God, that's depressing.
Not that his dad was an alcoholic or anything, not really, at least. He wouldn't drink much, only when his mom was freaking out, and he would sip on some wine until it was enough to drown her out.
Anyways, that's not a fun topic. In what is probably close to his last moments, he tried to consider something a bit more pleasant.
Sully. Sully was cool. Of course, he might be dead at this point. All Nate remembers is a lot of shouting and guns firing and then he fell and so did some boulders and then one thing led to another and bam. Here he was.
And Sully was left outside to face the herd of the armed and psychotic. Goons belonging to a man named Hector Ferazizzorzerrozizzoinianoi?
He couldn't remember.
Once again, Nate blamed the dehydration.
Dehydration. Oh right, he was dying.
Sully's not a fun topic dead, either.
Maybe he's not dead, though. After all, he took down all of Marlowe's henchmen of sorts, and there were a bunch of those guys.
Hoping wasn't bad. He could hope.
And if Sully wasn't dead then Sam would find out about him quick enough. He wouldn't have to worry about Sam not having a clue where he was, searching forever until he found that his brother who totally ditched him turned up dead.
Ah, jeez.
It's at this point, Nate let himself slowly plummet to the hard ground beneath him.
He turns to lay on his side, trying to efficiently exhale the hypothetical grief of his own death.
Everything aches, his throat, his stomach, he tried to disregard the bruises he'd gotten from fighting and running from bullets before he even got stuck in the rock prison.
He licked his lips, ready to speak.
"This is some major bullshit." He spat.
It was barely a whisper, a crack in his voice, because of how dry his throat had become.
He rolled his eyes at his body, being so terribly plainly and pathetically human in its needs.
Ahem, he breathed.
"This is some major bullshit!" He tried to shout.
A little more than a whisper, but still pathetic.
He huffed, sitting up, and elected to risk shouting as loud as he can.
"This is some major BULLSHIT!"
He then erupted into a million horrible coughs, the kind where you sound like your choking, or maybe coughing up black goop or a worm bug thing .
God, Sister Carrie would've killed him for watching that movie. Or shouting "bullshit" for that matter.
She was so strict.
Oh lord, not the orphanage. His final thoughts are gonna be remembering the orphanage?
Maybe he should just die already, this was painful.
He couldn't stop though, his brain was in overdrive and it wanted to think about the orphanage.
Years of assholes, lectures, loneliness, a bitter, bitter child staring at crosses, and bibles, praying for a bunch of little things.
God save me, help me, sorry to ask, but can you give me the blue crayons? I only have red and green.
God if you give me the red hot wheelz car I'll donate all my quarters to charity.
God can you save me a slice of the sausage pizza? Please, please.
God have Sam play Monopoly with me?
God, I really really need to pass this spelling test.
God, this one isn't for me okay? Just make Sam stop being sad, he won't leave his bed.
God, are you getting my messages?
God… Is mom okay?
Nate takes a breath, sits up and clears his throat best he can.
He looked around in the darkness, huddled into himself, as if he would see her ghost.
As if she would be able to look at him.
About to die, stuffed in what was basically a hellhole.
He continued to sit up.
Mom was… well, mom. You know.
From what he could remember, she was huddled in a dark room a lot too. Kinda like himself.
He didn't look, but he let his fingers gingerly trace his scars, and he closed his eyes when he remembered hers.
His eyes began to burn, and he clenched his aching teeth.
"God," he breathed, exasperated,
"Please don't make me think of mom," he mumbled to himself.
But his words may as well have been left in his thoughts, you couldn't hear him at all, and he certainly couldn't hear himself.
A very sharp twinge of guilt struck him. And he leaned against the sedimentary walls.
Images of tears running down her tired face, snot spilling, it was all so silent, and yet.
In the middle of the night there was screaming and shouting… It's all he did was scream and shout at her. For how sad she was.
Of course Nate's own methods weren't exactly helpful.
"Mom why are you crying?"
"Mom please be happy, please."
Nate shrank, he cringed, turning his head to the side, and shutting his eyes tightly.
...And after he said all that, you know, she would smile. To tell him she was okay. You know?
All he could see was that smile she gave him, and he imagined it up in heaven, and it killed him because.
Is she still faking it up in heaven?
He shook his head.
He slumped back.
And he rest for a few minutes.
Was it all fake? Everything? it couldn't all have just been… Fake.
Then he let himself slouch, sitting atop his legs, his knees on the rocks beneath him.
He pulled his hands together, like magnets.
"Um… Hey, God. How uh. How ya doing up there?" he nealy scoffed at himself, "I..ah," he cleared his throat, and swallowed and looked down,
"If mom's hanging out with you. If she's up there, and she's you know. Partying and stuff. Um. Help keep her happy, okay? She… she needs someone you know? Tell her I'm sorry. I'm so sorry… God, tell her I'm sorry. I'm so… I'm so so sorry."
He looked down, no tears, but the same sting in his burning eyes.
He clenched his teeth. For a few seconds.
He choked out,
"And if you don't kid throwing in a glass of like, water. Or like OJ. I mean jeez, I'll take a sip of banana milk. Banana milk, God. Anything…"
Once again, it was inaudible words, just the ends of his words were sounded.
He sloppily let a little, pitiful curve find his lips, just a tad.
"Ah… Thanks. Thank you. God."
He sat back to his original position. Leaning against the floor.
Eventually he slept.
Then he didn't.
He coughed, his eyes fluttering open, and then squeezing closed once again.
"Jesus Christ, kid."
Ohmygodyou'realivethat'sgreatIthoughtyouweredeadhowdidyousurvive?
A lot of thoughts littered his brain, at the same time, but he couldn't effectively communicate to, or even really see Sully. But he knew his voice.
He could tell there was a bright light, though, shining at him.
OhmygodamIdead?Ohmygodarewedead?Didwebothdieohmygodthatsucks.
"Kid, Nate. Nate." He snapped his fingers.
"Yeah?" Nate tried. It didn't do any good, no sound came out, but it looked like Sully had caught the movement of his lips.
Nate couldn't exactly keep his head upright at this point, either. He was slumped against what he imagined to be a shoulder, most likely Sully's.
And then they were home! And everything worked out, the end.
Well. It's a little tiny bit more complicated than that, yeah. But from what he could actually remember, Nate would prefer to forget it, being dragged up a rope and such, then what he imagined to be a drive to the hospital from wherever the hell they were, that was probably awful, gladly he wasn't awake, and then who knew what story Sully came up with as to why he was in the ER with a kid suffering severe dehydration.
"Camping with friends, stuck, hot outside, that's the gist of what I told 'em."
"Oh. That's pretty good."
They're still in a hospital room, and his head still hurts, and all he can think about is how thankful he is as he has a cup of water to his side, and for the fact that he isn't drinking banana milk from the heavens.
He could do without the strings and needles in him but, he was glad to be alive.
"Welp. Never going there again. That Funeibozzii guy can have whatever he finds."
"I'm guessing we walked out with nothing, then."
"Nothing but another set of near death experiences," he sighed, "but I guess it's hard to put a price on that."
Nate nodded,
"Yeah. Unless you're talking about the price of hospital food. I'm sure it's higher."
"Well, while you enjoy bread and slime, I'm headed back to the vending machine. Oh, wait."
Sully suddenly put on a slight smile.
Reaching into his pocket, he mentioned,
"Well I accidentally tore off a shirt pocket. We actually made $2.50."
Nate smirked,
"Totally worth it."
Sully rolled his eyes.
He handed two quarters to Nate.
He leaned back, into his bed. He mumbled,
"I gotta find a charity box."