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No. 2856
Firt actual posting on "the chan"...
Blood was everywhere.
Soaking through the mud and grime and he was covered in it. Maybe it was soaking through him too. That was a funny thought, but he didn't have the breath to laugh. He just had the energy to think. Not to move, not to talk, not to do anything that could possibly be of some use. Nothing... but freaking... think.
He thought about his mom, his brothers, his bastard father who had walked out on them when he was three and the girlfriend he had left behind when he came to this freakin' war.
His promise that he would be back in a year...
He suddenly realized that he was letting everyone down. Not just his team, but his family and friends as well.
He recounted fondly the times he and his brothers had gallivanted away from the cops, easily outstripping the out-of-shape morons who patrolled the streets with their cars. Their cars that couldn't run down the narrow alleys or scale a chain-link fence in three seconds flat or use a Dumpster like a step and soar over a brick wall like Flipper.
God, he was using dolphin movies as metaphors? How did he even remember what a metaphor was? English class sucked!
His muscles spasmed in a shudder and the body laying on top of his shifted and pressed down on his broken ribcage. The steady pain that he had begun to tune out returned with the pressure.
He licked his lips and tasted blood, mud and tears.
What wouldn't he do for a Gatorade?
He was dying and he wanted fucking Gatorade.
The delicious array of flavors and their patented rehydrating abilities made his dry tongue scream in protest as he stared up at the darkening sky.
Wait, wasn't it still daytime? He thought with confusion as his mind recognized a bright circle in the graying sky above. Maybe it was the moon... how long how long had he been out there? What fuckin' time was it? It was the first legitimate thought he had had in a while; between dolphins and literary psychobabble. The passage of time was beginning to constrict his throat as his abused lungs and diaphragm attempted to pull in oxygen.
He heard the gentle sucking of a foot pulling itself out of the mud and his heart jumped. Despite the roar of angry, oxygen-deprived blood in his ears, his sense of hearing was keen and he was definitely sure that he had heard it. That someone was coming to move the damn RED Demo off of him and take him back to the freakin' Doc and make him as good as freakin' new so that he could freakin' live.
His mental tirade stopped suddenly when he saw a blue balaclava'd face looking down at him. He slowly blinked to let the Spy know he was alive and needed help. The lump that rose in the place of tears made his already shallow breathing even harder, he wasn't about to cry in front of the bastard.
The face drew closer and he wanted to frown, but his facial muscles weren't moving. Not enough energy to do anything but freaking blink and think.
He felt a warm hand slide into the pocket and remove a box of some sort. What the fuck was it? He felt something at the back of his mind prodding to get to the surface, but he pushed it back, trying to think. What had the Spy taken from him?
And why the fuck was he walking away?! He wanted to scream at that little rat to get his ass back there, to help his teammate and not slink off like the little pussy-foot mother fucking fancy cigarette smoking... oh. The thought attempting to make itself known finally broke through and he remembered snatching Spy's cigarettes earlier that morning; assuming it was still the same day.
Well... fuck. He felt a small pressure in his diaphragm give way and his breathing stopped altogether. Panic flooded his mind as he realized that he was dying. He was actually going to die, Spy had left and all because he had played a little joke on the snob, he was going to die.
He finally allowed his eyes to close as the thought hit him. He felt warm liquid leak from the corners of his eyes but didn't give a shit. After all... no one cares if you cry when you're about to die.
Marked for deletion (old)
>> No. 2870
this made me baaww...
>> No. 2872
>> No. 2884
o-oh god.
... ;_;
>> No. 2899
Finished the second part this morning. = )
Suddenly, something cool, crisp and sweet leaked through his lips. His tongue knew what it was, but his tired mind couldn't place it.
All he wanted to do was sleep.
To forget that the day had ever happened.
That he had had the brilliant idea of headshoting the Demoman currently atop of him with his Force-A-Nature right as he took the man's freakin' full bottle of scotch to the chest. He had wanted to slide under the man and escape before the bottle hit him, but physics had never been his thing and he hadn't realized the difference in the weight and reaction-times of the large Scot and a reedy Sniper on whom he had first tried the trick. Plus, the man was freakin' quick with that damn bottle. You'd think it was an unwieldy weapon, but it really wasn't when wielded by the perpetually drunk ass wipe that was still pinning him down.
The stream of liquid stopped and his throat silently objected by becoming more swollen and pained. Not like it mattered, he already couldn't breath.
The body on top of his shifted and felt the need to scream when pain streaked through his torso.
His mind felt light and airy and the next thing he knew, the blackness in his mind had turned to a bright red against his eyelids. A rough cotton weave was pressed against his bare back and the air was cool on his bare torso and legs. He tried to open his mouth, but his tongue seemed to be newly attached to the roof of his mouth.
"Vould you like vater?" Medic's thick German accent made goose bumps rise on his skin. Something about doctors just creeped him "the fuck out." As he had once phrased it.
The teen looked up at the blue eyes of the Medic with his own stormy grey eyes, albeit slightly confused and unfocused. The German repeated the question and he finally nodded a few times with his brows drawn low.
Medic slipped a gloved arm around the youth's back and raise him up a bit. The boy noticed that his torso didn't hurt at all and thanked whatever God there was for Medic's healing gun as a straw brushed his lips. He greedily snatched the straw with his lips and sucked down large gulps of the liquid. Medic quickly pulled the glass back from the boy and gave an amused grin at the childish pout that he displayed around the straw that was still between his chapped lips.
"You vere almozt dead." Medic informed him with a chuckled, keeping the glass of water just out of his reach.
"Yeah, I know, you wanna 'thank you' or ya gonna give me the mother fuckin' water?" Scout croaked irritably.
"Bon." Spy's silvery voice commented from the corner. "Your brush wiz death 'as not sapped your obnoxious and loud attitude, I see, mon ami."
" 'Friend'?!" Scout had learned the basic French that their Spy used quite a while ago and his mind automatically translated the phrases. "You fucking left me to die!" Scout snarled, his voice cracking dryly.
"Ah... you are sure of ziz?" Medic asked, looking from one to the other. "Spy is ze von who got 'Eavy and myzelf to get you." He informed the enraged Scout curiously.
"What...?" Scout started at the doctor as if he were speaking his native tongue instead of English. "But... you walked away." He looked to Spy accusingly, his tired mind slowly whirling.
"To get ze Medic and 'is pet." Spy stated with a small smirk.
"Oh..." Scout felt color flood his cheeks and he tried to swallow, but couldn't quite get the lump down. Medic handed him the glass back and he quaffed the liquid down before the good doctor could stop him again. "Uh... thanks I guess." Scout finally admitted. Maybe Spy wasn't a complete bastard after all.
"Hm..." Spy merely nodded disinterestedly before walking out the door.
"What's with him?" Scout asked, crossing his arms. It was so damn cold in there.
"Sniper vould only lend him 'is lighter if you lived." Medic smiled, taking the glass from Scout and motioning to his clothes. "Zere should be lunch left for you in ze ki-" he turned to see that he no longer had a patient to talk to. As soon as Scout had heard lunch, he was gone like a rocket. The doctor sighed and shook his head with an affectionate smile for the zest of youth and supple young muscles that were so different from the other, older men on the team.

Scout was alone in his room when the impact of what had happened hit him. He remembered the helplessness and the loneliness he had felt on the mud, blood soaked battlefield. A shudder racked through him and his eyes swam as he realized that he might make it. That he might get out of this hell-hole alive. Silent tears ran down his face as he ran his hands soothingly thorough his hair, rocking back and forth on his bed. This was how he dealt with things, the next time he would be ready for these emotions. He made a silent vow to himself that he wouldn't shed another tear until he was back home- safe. Because, honestly... no one cares if you cry when you survive.
Yay for reoccuring phrases. =D
>> No. 2911
I love happy endings.
>> No. 2915
Me too. = )
>> No. 2954
First, I was all like :'C

But then, I was all like :D

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