This is a fic I wrote for a friend who loves WSS. I started it a while ago and just recently finished it. You'll probably notice that the writing quality improves near the end. It's a crack fic; I've never actually seen the movie (and all my info came from google and my friend), but it was still fun to write.

"Not another," sighed Jerome, waving over the disposal officer. They dashed over and lifted the body onto a stretcher.

"There's one here too," his partner, Harris, said. Another stretcher, another bloodstain on the pavement.

"I wonder what happened," Jerome said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Who cares," Harris snapped, flicking the end of his cigarette at the evidence of another fatal street fight. "These losers burn out like my wife's cheap candles. Early, and smelling nasty."

Jerome rolled his eyes.

The hearse arrived soon after. The bodies were placed in the back, and the vehicle drove off, leaving the two officers to be joined by reinforcements as they started taping off the scene.

The morgue was a horrible place. It was dark, and dusty, and smelled horrible. The occupants didn't care, though. Being on their way to the afterlife, they had more immediate concerns than where their bodies ended up.

Living people didn't come down very often. They only visited to collect the bodies for disposal. As such, they didn't know how prolonged exposure in the cold room slowed blood flow.

Riff found out when he opened his eyes and saw where he was. With a curse, he tried to move, but only found searing pain in his stomach that was only somewhat soothed by the cold.

There was a groan to his immediate left. Riff turned his head agonizingly slowly to see that Shark guy clutching his chest. Bernardo.

"You killed me!" Riff rasped.

Bernardo looked over, and his eyes widened. "I thought I did-"

"Oh, good job, ya messed that up too…" Riff winced as his stomach reminded him that a knife had been implanted in it not too long ago.

Bernardo said something in response, but Riff couldn't hear him. There was a ringing in his ears, and his vision seemed to go sporadically dark. He grimaced and let his hand fall back to his side, biting his lip to keep himself from making a sound and showing weakness.

He started to drift away; while he might not be dead yet, he was still dying. Riff knew it. He felt it in the way the strength seemed to sap out of his bones, in the way everything seemed to tunnel before his eyes, in how his limbs felt heavy and light at the same time.

Bernardo had stopped making that noise or whatever he was doing. Riff was glad. He didn't want to spare energy tuning out his murderer while he tried to die peacefully.

A slamming sound. Footsteps, but they faded behind the ringing for a time. Riff let his eyes shut.

Dying was kind of boring. He wished it was over.

Then a voice, closer to him than he'd expected. He'd forgotten someone had come into the room. Wait, when did that happen? His memory seemed kind of fuzzy.

"Rotation's in half an hour." It was an unfamiliar voice, with a lilt.

"This… fresh… matches records…" Another voice. Why was he cutting out like a broken record?

"...too…"

Riff smelled formaldehyde. Riff didn't want to die smelling formaldehyde.

"Let's go."

After the increasingly disrupted dialogue, the last two words came clear as a bell before all awareness fled him.

Bernardo was not having a good day. First, he killed a guy. He hadn't really meant for it to go that far, even if the bastard had totally deserved it. Second, some random kid stabbed him in the chest. Not Bernardo's fault the idiot had pulled out the knife and let his friend bleed out. Come on, it's the 20th century. There was a hospital not five minutes away. Third, the guy he stabbed- Riff?- didn't even have the decency to die properly, so they had to lay there awkwardly in the morgue until they both started to fade out from blood loss anyways.

So, all in all, he had ceased to expect good things from this de mierda day. That's probably why he was surprised that he even opened his eyes again at all, much less to find himself in a moderately comfortable bed.

I guess this is heaven.

Then he heard a groan to his right. Looking over, he saw that Riff bigot laying on his own bed.

Nevermind.

No way any benevolent deity would make him spend eternity with that guy.

Lifting his head slightly (and frowning at the effort it took), Bernardo looked around at his surroundings.

It hit him that they were in a hospital, and that he and Riff weren't the only people in the room. It was a longish, rectangular space with multiple beds laid out on both sides. It appeared to be some kind of open ward. Judging by the blood stains, it was for injuries. Judging from the patients it was for injuries resulting from a certain source.

Streetfights.

A nurse entered the room, saw him awake, and hurried over.

"Hey miss," he managed with a shaky smile, "I think I'm in the wrong room. I've got some class." The attempt at a joke fell flat.

She leveled him a stare. "And a classy knife wound." She shook her head and lifted the medical records hanging from his bed railing. "You're just lucky the surgeon was able to repair your lung." She stepped over and reached for the bandage around his chest.

When did that get there? And what did she mean, repair his lung? He'd been stabbed just to the right of his sternum, hadn't he?

She frowned as she removed it. "This is a terrible dressing. I swear, the shift before us could hardly be described as basically trained." He didn't react as she rebandanged it, cleaning the wound and rubbing some kind of salve on it before using a fresh wrap.

She moved on to someone else, but Bernardo remained staring at the ceiling above him. There was a swirling sense of unease; as though he were swimming in the ocean, but the waves were calm, calmer than they ever had a right to be.

No surgeon could have "repaired" his right lung. Bernardo didn't have a right lung. It'd been removed when he was only a teenager, after a bad accident left it scarred and prone to infection.

Something was terribly wrong, and nobody knew it.