Christophe POV
The last thing he saw before it all went black was a tall blond man enraged rushing towards his seemingly lifeless corpse
And alas his jade green eyes fluttered closed.
Gregory POV
It happened in record time, whomever it was seemed to have been yielding for the two. Waiting for an opening, and Gregory had provided it with one simple gesture. With the two of them swimming through a whirlwind of confused stale emotions two opposing men, none of the likes he'd ever come across before from any ring had swooped in, their images blurred by the wind and rain.
First he only saw the other falter, thinking that perhaps his knees had given in as Gregory's felt his own may soon. Christophe had never let his emotions over run him like that, it wasn't something he could afford.
Before the boys knees ever fully touched ground he had already realized they were under a very poorly constructed ambush.
In time with each other, Christophe's attackers reached for their own weapons to continue beating the man at their feet, and as their palms made contact with whatever weapons they'd chosen to carry at the time Gregory's fingers found themselves curled back around the hilt of his sword, ripping it from the sheath on his hip.
Though it only took seconds for him to cross the few yards between them it felt ages, and in those precious few moments allowed the men to beat his former companion into unconsciousness.
Solemnity and reminisce were quickly replaced with an overflowing rage and everything seemed to be timed, their movements corresponding with one an others as if it were some horribly choreographed play;
The first attacker raised his body into an upright position, arms over his head, wielding his weapon, as the others was brought back down on an already out of commission Mole. As the first began to bear down again, this time aimed for the man rushing him, Gregory planted one heel firmly into the cracked tar road bringing the other leg up and landing a hard kick dead center on his chest.
This knocked him onto his back, angering him yes, but giving the Brit time to steady both feet back on the ground. Using the momentum to pivot his body and jam the tip of his sword through a very stunned cohort of the first man. The blade pierced jagged and with no technique, something he would surely scoff himself for later. But the blow was damn near fatal, ripping through just above his collar bone at where his neck and shoulder met sending a beautiful spray of red scattering through the rain and falling with it to the ground.
This man was easy to kick down, and left to bleed out rather than finished off. Not that his plan was to let the other suffer, his friend had simply taken it upon himself to finish what they were surely sent here to do.
Gregory found himself with trip wire wrapped securely around his throat, threatening to crush his trachea and suffocate the man.
Idiot!
How could you forget about the first man! You do not make mistakes like this, you are a bloody Sharpe!
No matter.
Even as he was forced to his knees over Christophe's limp body, staring his own fate in the back of the head stubborn young Sharpe would not let himself be taken down.
He couldn't fight back with a sword, at this range it was too long, the man was over his back practically frotting him to keep the struggling Brit on his knees. So he relinquished his grip and with his sight beginning to spot and go black felt around half blind for the knife Christophe had been clutching, ripping it from his hand so he could throw his fist back and clip his attacker in the side.
He fell away, cussing in Russian.
As quickly as he could, Gregory scrambled to his feet.
Knife still in hand and free hand clutching his throat, he wheezed, harsh blue eyes and brow furrowed dangerously. "Normally I would try to think some witty quip to throw your way."
He rasped angrily, flipping the knife in his palm before slamming the blade through the strangers eye.
The cussing stop, his body went limp and with a hollow thud he fell to the rain drenched ground leaving Gregory to frantically collect himself.
Mole.
Christophe.
If his throat didn't burn he would have choked out the others name, dropping back to his side.
For what felt like hours he tried to wake him, checking his vitals in every possible way he knew.
Breathing.
He's alive.
"Not for long if I don't get you out of this rain." He mused softly, voice barely above a whisper as he trace a gloved hand over the small of the boys back, checking the damage.
It would have to wait until they were some where dry. Preferably radioactive. Not the likely seeing as they were in the middle of Pripyat he couldn't cross the barricades with dead wait on his shoulders.
Shelter would have to be found within city limits.
Dreadful thought.
But not much choice.
Gently, with as much care as he could given the situation, he hoisted the other up into his arms noting that they must look rather silly; A frail blonde man carrying a much more shaped, rugged Mercenary.
Christophe would have a fit when he found out Gregory had carried him like this - probably shout at him about out it is he who is the needy little princess, not the esteemed Mole.
Oh Christophe, I only hope you wake up if only to yell at me for that.
An abandoned hotel rise. Abandoned just as everything else was; left undisturbed by man nor time. Everything in it's place and though decayed it was better than the fallen houses or rotting hospitals. Sure it was as disheveled as anything else. But it had beds. Beds that were in tact. Luckily on the first floor, and as Christophe lay resting after what must have been his dozenth check up Gregory busied himself. Walking along the crumbling halls, shuffling about in the small lobby, noting just how eerie it actually was.
How everything was so.
Untouched.
Christophe POV
He saw black
An ocean of nothing
"I'm dead"
"Surely there is no possibility of my survival".
It was not what he expected death to be though, not even close. He expected the fiery pits of hell, Dante's inferno, not a sea of ebony. And the worst was the throbbing, horrible pain throughout his, wait…throughout his body. Then he couldn't be dead. If he wasn't dead, then where the hell was he? "Think back Christophe, think where I was". Gregory, the beautiful blond man, icy blue eyes, the mission…and oh damn. He was ambushed…by Gregory? No non! I'm possible, Gregory would never do that to him, and he was his best friend. Non! What was he thinking…best friend?, what kind of sick lie is this. They weren't friends, and hadn't been for a very long time.
Nostalgia crept its way into his dream like state making everything slur.
And then his eyes fluttered open.
And he was awake
And he saw Gregory.