Chapter Summary:

Trigger finds himself stranded on a beach. Can things get any worse?
(Yes. The answer is yes.)


Trigger's world was a messy haze of colors—yellow, blue, and a lot of red seemed to be wherever he looked.

Too much red, a part of him noted, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why that was a problem. The world seemed to spin whenever he moved even slightly, and he felt…disconnected from everything. He knew he was supposed to be in pain (but why?), but the actual pain seemingly wouldn't register in his brain. His hearing seemed to be working alright, at least—he could hear the sound of…waves? Was he near water?

This question was answered when one of said waves actually slammed into him, soaking him up to his waist before finally retreating to…wherever it had come from. Directions weren't coming to him easily right now.

Disorientation aside, Trigger didn't much like the idea of being dragged off to sea and drowning. He wasn't sure he could really walk right now, but crawling a few meters couldn't be too hard. He tried to get to his knees, but fell back down when his legs suddenly gave out on him.

Okay, so he needed a plan that didn't involve using his legs. Or getting wet, he added as another wave splashed over him, leaving him totally drenched.

With some trouble, he was able to eventually drag himself a few feet—not as far from the water as he'd like, but at least he wasn't going to drown. He eventually stopped when his hand hit something other than sand (or was it dirt? Trigger wasn't really sure.) The object was flat and smooth, but cold to the touch. Squinting, he could make out a metallic gray, interspersed with a few other colors…

…Wait, wasn't that a wing? An F-22's wing, if he was judging by the shape. Why was it—

…Oh.

Oh, shit.

Reality sunk in: he'd crashed, hadn't he? He didn't remember how, exactly, or even what he'd been doing when it happened, but he'd crashed. And he'd…washed up here, somehow.

How bad had the crash been? Ignoring the dizziness that plagued him whenever he tried to move, Trigger managed to flip himself over and actually look at himself. He couldn't really see the fine details, but the sheer prominence of the color red alone made him start to feel ill.

His nerves had apparently chosen now to start waking up, too—he doubled over as a lance of pain shot through his chest…was that a piece of metal sticking out of his side? W-what was that white thing sticking out of his arm?

Panic rose in Trigger's chest.

Am I really going to die like this? He was already starting to feel lightheaded; how much longer did he have before he finally bled out?

No, no, there had to be something he could do. He was the motherfucking Three Strikes, he always had something up his sleeve.

He tried to calm himself, to open his senses the way he did in flight…

…There.

He could hear muffled movement in the distance—a ways away, but not so far that he wouldn't be heard if he screamed.

Finally, salvation, Trigger thought to himself.

He tried to scream, to call for help, to say something, anything, but…

…nothing.

His mouth wouldn't move. The words wouldn't form.

Not now. Please, don't do this now. Not the one time I actually need to be heard. Don't freeze up.

He could hear whoever was out there getting further and further away. They were going to leave, they would never find him, he was going to die alone and cold and it'll be just like before, when I barely existed, nobody will ever find my body—

-CONNECTED-

Trigger's whole body jerked for a moment in the sort of violent, sudden movement one only heard about in descriptions of seizures or tales of demonic possession.

There was a pause, and then his arms started moving. Yes! But…something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong, he realized. The movements definitely weren't his own—they were too stiff, too…unpracticed. They were almost…inhuman, as if someone that had only ever read about humans in books was now trying to imitate one.

It was as if he wasn't even in control of his own body anymore.

More than ever, Trigger wanted to scream. He felt his mouth finally move, the words forming but it wasn't him screaming, it was somebody else, it wasn't him, it wasn't him-

The footsteps were getting closer.

"…telling you nobody could've survived that, Prez, that fireball was…"

Trigger could hear voices now. They were close! As if to say "my job here is done," whatever was causing him to move abruptly vanished, and he was catapulted back into control (for a given value of "control.")

"…it definitely came from over…"

His vision was long gone, but help was coming.

He just had to hold on a little longer…

"…if it matters that much to you, I guess it wouldn't hurt…"

A little…

"…Holy shit, that's a lot of…oh, god, is that bone?"

…longer…

He couldn't make out words anymore, but he could feel somebody standing over him, draping something over him, talking to him, asking him something but he didn't know the question he didn't have the words to answer, he couldn't hold on, he was

s

l

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p

p

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g

-CONNECTION LOST-


Author's Notes:

Hello! For the uninitiated, this fic was ported over from Archive Of Our Own, which has a much more robust tagging system than FFN. As such, some of the context that was originally in the tags for this fic (including pairings) is...kind of lost in the transition to FFN.

So, to clarify the basic premise of this story: this is an AC/PW fusion fic, set in 2040-around the time of Electrosphere, but in the "real" world instead of Simon's simulation. As such, expect to see many characters and plot elements from 7, 3, and PW combined!

The primary pairing in this fic is Trigger and Prez. Secondary pairings include Comic/Diplomat, as well as Transfem!Cipher and Pixy. Take 'em or leave 'em. Other pairings are possible in the future, but are as of yet undetermined.

Regardless, thank you for reading! I encourage criticism of this fic as it's constructive and polite, so if you notice something wrong with this fic, please alert me and I'll try to fix it as soon as possible.