Hello, Deathicated! It's been a while c: I was having my exams in April, so I disappeared for such a long time. I wrote this drabble when I was revising for an exam - probably the Math one - and it's based on a wrong choice made in V15C8, when Reed has to choose between kicking the security guard's temple or stomach — or other body parts, I forgot — which makes the security guard shoot Reed, causing him to die.
Disclaimer: I do not own Cause of Death
He had made similar choices before he was recruited to the newly-formed Special Crimes Task Force. And every time before, he had elected to hit the nearest assailant in the temple — it was a quick, swift attack that was sure to send the attacker unconscious, sprawling on the ground.
Why, then, did he hesitate; why did he decide to elbow the security guard's sternum?
It was too late, though. As he realized the extent of his mistake — though Redbird, Fallon and the others wouldn't register the gravity of it — he was already backhanded. He found himself staring down the barrel of a Marushin Wather P.38 handgun, and another gun was pressed against his back.
From his peripheral vision he saw Redbird's eye widen, his mouth contorted in an expression of shock and horror. Fallon, though backhanded by another two guards, was mentally calculating his odds against knocking out those two guards. Williams and Corso were about to stab the nearest guards with their high-heeled shoes, temporarily distracting them, then proceed to pistol whip the two gunslingers that held him in this position.
Inspector Booker was looking at him with an emotionless face, yet Reed knew that he was also contemplating the situation — to punch Dunn, or to save a deserving member of the SCT?
Reed was no fool. He knew the rest of the SCT was willing to save him. Yet at the same time, he also knew there was no escape. He had had his fair share of fights against gunslingers, against assaults, and against death itself; but he knew this wasn't like any other scenarios.
No.
It pained him to register the fact that he, Reed Harrow, the only one who ever survived an encounter with the Firstborn, was losing.
He held his arms up, slowly, attempting futilely to diffuse the situation. He saw the guard's finger press the trigger. His shotgun slightly kick back, and fumes slowly escaped from the nuzzle —
Hrrrk!
A bullet lodged itself in his back in between two ribs. He felt the bullet inside him, rather than feeling the pain accompanying the shot.
"Reed!" He registered someone gasp in shock. He tried standing up, but his knees gave way, causing him to fall back from the one inch he managed to elevate his body onto the ground. Darkness swam in front of his eyes, tugging him, dragging him; at last pulling him in with one fierce pull.
Redbird, he thought in realization as the voice registered in his head. No.
He had been shot many time in the past, and his body was like a rag doll, matted with scars and skin patches and unhealed cuts. But he knew, this time, nobody could stitch and patch this rag doll up.
As he waited for blackness to enter his lungs, a myriad of faces splashed in front of his eyes. Jonathan. Singh. Elizabeth. Sutherland. Norton. Holden. Norbury. Tian. Skylar. Jones. Aven. Inspector Lapointe. Boone. Agent Abraham. The colleagues involved in the Brixton Bloodbath. Jeremy. Kai. Fallon. Williams. Corso. Commander Yeong. Booker. He had to bid adieu to a few, so as to join the others.
It wasn't fair the SCT had to lose another member. It wasn't fair his ex-teammates, Inspector Lapointe, and Boone died and he lived. But what was ever fair in his life?
This was the only combat in his life he wouldn't win. This was the only fight he couldn't fight.
At last the blackness reached his heart, and cocooned it with the black reed of death.