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royalboar) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2019-10-13 11:43 am
royalboar) wrote in finalflight2019-10-13 11:43 am
PSL; [every moment's a day]
[He can’t fucking see.
His eye flares bright with pain. It feels as if someone’s hammered a nail into it, blinding him, and the heel of his hand presses hard against the flow of blood that ekes past the wound, smelling of copper and warm like fire. He forces his other open, willing it wide, and light floods his vision. He sees shapes, and those shapes shake and stutter and finally fuse into the violent scene now engulfing him — them — like a storm.
He had fallen to his knees, the bones in his legs having become useless in those few treacherous moments when pain seared itself into his eye. He can feel the hard, tiled floor bruising them, shards of glass strewn around his feet (the once-drink in his hand), gunshots filling his ears. Somehow, instinct had overtaken his body as he fell, and the table they once sat at now lays upturned in front of him, his only form of cover. It might as well be made of paper, judging by the sound of the gunfire staccato-crackling through the air. Automatic, high-caliber. A bullet punches through the wood just inches away from his head, spraying splinters, and he grits his teeth as his ears ring.
Movement all around him. The rest of his retinue are scrambling for cover, and the men opposite them must be doing the same. That, or they’re already dead, bleeding out with bodies full of holes, and this thought has him reaching for his gun — when he realizes it had been resting on the table, now skidded across the floor. In the line of fire and out of reach.
Shit.]
Ashe—! [It’s the man closest to him, their crack shot gunman, who hunches behind their shared cover. Dimitri yells over the din, adrenaline and pain twisting his face.] I want you to put a bullet through the skulls of every last one of them!
[Them. Unknown, masked, wordless men who had interrupted a by-the-books, boring business exchange by barging in and lighting up the whole room. Just a handful at best, but a handful of assault rifles is all it takes to turn a good day into a bad one.]
no subject
Assuming he makes it to later. As it is, there's a single table between him and the enemy, and his cover is looking more and more like Swiss cheese by the second. Dimitri is next to him, and the sound of his barked orders over the din of the gunfire draw Ashe's gaze.
Oh. Oh hell. There's a stripe of bright red painted down Dimitri's face, sliding out from beneath the palm pressed to his face. There's enough rage in the one bright blue eye Ashe can see to easily make up for the absence of the other. It's a startling sight, but to take even a second to gawk could mean death for the both of them, and if nothing else, Dimitri needs to make it out of here alive.
All he does is nod, not bothering to shout over the report of automatic gunfire. His pistol is in his hands already, has been since the moment everything went to hell. There's a small dip in the noise, a split second of quiet that cuts through the din as their assailants dip back behind cover to regroup or reload. It doesn't matter which.
Ashe takes the chance and pokes his head around the ragged edge of the table, and the instant a masked visage peeks over the side of another overturned piece of furniture, Ashe fires. The man's(?) head snaps back, rifle clattering to the floor from limp fingers.
That starts it all over again, the spray of bullets against their waning cover. At least one shot gets too close for comfort, carving an angry red line across one of Ashe's freckled cheeks, and he's forced to shift his position, slinking past Dimitri to pick off a couple more from the opposite end of the table. A stream of bullets slam into the ceiling as one gunman dies, finger still on the trigger. Waste of ammo, Ashe thinks grimly.
It goes very quiet after that. Either the enemy was not very many at all, or he's thinned their numbers enough to have them second guessing themselves. Green eyes flick back toward Dimitri, questioning. ]
no subject
He doesn’t reply at first. Dimitri takes the opportunity to make for his gun, swooping it up in a crouch and standing to his feet, visible eye ablaze as he pulls the hammer back and aims outwards toward their assailants. Blood ribbons from his injured eye squeezed shut and still pained; something to be concerned about later. (Glass, it must be glass, the drink in his hand had exploded into tiny shards when a bullet whizzed by, and suddenly he couldn’t see—)]
Goddamn it.
[He hisses out, furor behind each syllable, being met only with the crumpled corpses of their business partners and masked attackers, and a door flung open, letting in the polluted air of the nighttime, empty street. Whoever was left must have already fled, probably already long gone.
He whirls on his heel to assess the damage done to their side — a table full of holes, and behind that, a bar counter in a similar state. But rising from one end is Dedue, who is quickly making his way over to Dimitri, frowning sternly at the sight of blood marring his face. Felix, on the other end, staggers up to his feet with a knife slathered in red clutched in one hand. There must be another body lain on the ground behind the bar that Dimitri cannot see; looking at the neighboring back door, open ajar, gives more than enough clues as to what happened. Someone trying to sneak up from behind, instead met with Felix who was very unwilling to oblige.
Dedue is already reaching out to clasp a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, to turn him around so that he can assess the damage done. The blond shrugs him away, the buzz of danger and adrenaline and anger making him impatient to all those around him.]
I’m fine, not now— Ashe. [He calls for the other, knowing he’s fine, and flings a request his way.] Unmask them; I want to know who would be stupid enough to do this to us.
[Minus the one behind the bar, the majority of the assailants’ bodies are strewn near the entrance of the restaurant (a front, of course). Easy enough to locate them, he thinks, though Dimitri is blissfully unaware of another body — one far more familiar to all of them, unaccounted for in the fresh wake of this chaos — that lays near where he directs Ashe to go.]
no subject
That doesn’t happen, a small favor amid the carnage. Once the silence has settled for a moment or two more, Ashe stands. He doesn’t drop his gun into its holster, that would be a fool move, and instead keeps it at the ready, held loosely in both hands. He can feel the slow, warm trickle of blood running down his cheek from when he got grazed earlier, but he doesn’t bother to wipe it away. Not until he knows they’re safe.
Movement, and Ashe’s gun ticks in the direction of the bar, only dropping once he sees the familiar faces of Dedue and Felix. Ashe breathes out a sigh of relief, and then he finally takes a hand from his pistol to wipe at his face with the back of his sleeve. Dedue goes right for Dimitri, because of course he does, and Ashe’s eyes keep sweeping the room. There’s no more movement, which is making something uneasy coil in Ashe’s stomach.
They’re missing one.
But an order gets lobbed at him, and he doesn’t have time to dwell. ]
On it.
[ Glass and broken bits of furniture crunch under his shoes as he moves across the room, stepping over the larger pieces and spent bullet casings. He rounds the remains a plush bench, something that’s kept in the restaurant’s waiting area, upholstery stripped by bullets and the stuffing flung around to paint this little corner white… but for an all too familiar flash of red.
It isn’t blood – though there’s plenty of that as well – and Ashe goes suddenly still. There’s another body or two in the corner, but those don’t matter. He’s over there in an instant, pushing the other bodies aside, red staining his palms as does. ]
Boss?
[ Quiet, tense, but his voice feels oddly loud in the wake of the nonstop thunder of automatic weapon fire, even with Dimitri seething off to one side. Now that he’s cleared the others away, Sylvain is staring up at him with unseeing eyes, face gone slack. Lifeless.
Goddamn it. ]
no subject
His mind works hard in his skull in those few passing moments, suddenly turning over a hundred possibilities why he'd detect distress in Ashe's voice. A headcount is the first thing that barrels to the surface, simple and easily prioritized, and a weighted stone sinks in his stomach when he realizes that they’re missing someone.
That better not be the case. That better not fucking be the reality, or he’ll—]
What is it? [He says, coming ‘round one of the bullet-ridden couches to better see what’s waiting for him in this corner. But his next words wither on his lips, the sight of his old friend staring up at him, dead-eyed, with crimson staining his front.
The whole world goes numb for a second. Dimitri does little more than stand, looking down at Sylvain with Ashe by his side. He looks like a shell, he looks wrong — like someone’s taken a copy of the man and wrung everything that made him Sylvain.
He’s not sure how long he’s stood speechless, but at some point, Felix has drawn close, his shock more visible on his face, the anger he spouts almost enough to pierce the veil hanging over Dimitri. He’s cursing, furious and cold, and the front door almost falls off its hinges when he bolts out and into the street in a vain, desperate attempt to catch up to whoever did this to them. Dimitri knows it’s a useless effort.
Someone’s talking to him. Dedue’s voice finally breaks past the white-noise storm in his head. ”…are we going to do now?” come the words, and the world snaps back into place. Dimitri looks at him, then at Ashe, pointedly ignoring Sylvain’s corpse.]
…Clean this mess up. The restaurant’s closed indefinitely until then. Call in help if you need to, and we’ll see if we can identify these bastards after the fact.
["And Sylvain?” Dedue’s face is like stone, with the small exception of an inscrutably wrinkled brow.
A muscle jumps in Dimitri’s jaw. To both of them-] Load up his body and bring him back to HQ. Does it even need to be said?
no subject
And now here Sylvain is, one more “should have” on Ashe’s very long list of should haves.
It’s hard to tell what Dimitri is thinking, blood slowly seeping over one side of his face while he stares silently with his good eye, but Ashe knows what he’s thinking. Someone has to pay. And someone will, if he knows Dimitri the way he knows him. ]
Boss…
[ The quiver has gone from his voice, but there’s still a softness to his tone, ever-present in a way that makes most people underestimate him. He stands, and for a second he’s not sure what to do with his hands, painted bright crimson. Is it Sylvain’s blood? he wonders, or someone else’s? At last he tugs handkerchief out of one pocket, hurriedly wiping his palms as clean as he can before stuffing the cloth back where it came from. ]
We should get you to Sister Mercie.
[ Too cute a nickname for their personal medic, but her demeanor lent itself to it. As it is, Ashe can already imagine the scolding Dimitri is going to get for letting his eye go this long. There might not be any salvaging it at this point. ]
no subject
Between you and Dedue, you’re not going to let up, are you? Fine.
[He acquiesces, if only because the pain and bleeding is turning into an annoyance, and he'd rather focus on his anger than anything else.]
If you’re that concerned, you can come with me. [He continues walking towards the backdoor, where they can slip away into dark alleys before taking a ride to see Sister Mercie herself. Dimitri trusts Dedue with the clean-up; he trusts Felix with the same once he returns, stewing in angry grief. He waves a hand for Ashe to follow, the other wiping at the blood beneath his eye.]
I can’t drive like this.
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He exchanges a quick glance with Dedue, who is as hard to read as ever, but he gives Ashe a nod – a silent reassurance that he and Felix will be able to handle things here. Ashe nods back, the motion small and quick, before he’s darting off around ruined furniture to follow his leader. He skirts around Dimitri to take point on their way out, sparing only the slightest glance at the corpse Felix left splayed behind the bar.
They don’t know where the rest of their assailants went, but it seems none of them are lying in wait out back. Their vehicles seem untouched as well, but Ashe still gives the car he means to take a once over before opening the door to allow Dimitri inside, and sliding into the driver’s seat himself.
The quiet settles over the interior like a physical thing, tense and heavy. Ashe’s grip on the steering wheel goes white-knuckled, even as he eases them away from the ruined restaurant and out into the street. ]
Boss… I— I’m sorry. If I’d been just a little faster, then maybe…
no subject
[The silence may weigh heavy at first, but the sharpness of that one word might as well shatter it like glass. Dimitri props up an elbow, leaning against the car door at the base of the window. His free hand wipes at the blood dribbling down his cheekbone.]
Just don’t, Ashe. It wasn’t your fault — guilt isn’t going to do you any good in this situation. It’s not yours to carry anyway.
[That is his burden to bear, and he’ll feel it begin to dissolve him from the inside out later. When the adrenaline has died, when his eye is tended to, when he’s finally by himself after the ruckus of this whole mess is sorted.
A leader takes the blame, after all. Barring betrayal or flat-out incompetence, it all circles around and back up to him. Part of his responsibilities.]
We just need to focus on getting back at anyone who would dare think to do this to us. You understand?
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Each of them will take a piece of this, whether they want to or not. They’d all been there, and they’d all failed to save Sylvain, and in their own ways, they’ll each feel it. Felix especially must be beside himself. Ashe doesn’t say as much, however, instead willing himself to relax a little, his iron grip on the steering wheel loosening a little. ]
Yessir.
[ It’s not his place to argue one way or another, anyway.
He spends a quiet moment as he navigates their way through the sparse late-night traffic to think of the old films of which he is so fond. Gangsters in black and white scheming and manipulating and gunning down anyone who got in their way. Revenge is a common theme in those movies, but none of them ever really explore what happens when it’s over. When revenge is served in a hail of bullets, what then? Does it make the gnawing feeling of “could have, should have” go away?
They’ll find out, one way or another, but for now the spire of Sister Mercie’s church is looming a short distance away, a grand and gothic structure half-illuminated by streetlights. A low glow shines through the stained-glass panes in what Ashe knows to be the church’s sanctuary, and Ashe has to wonder if the Sister keeps a candle lit for them when she knows they’re going to be doing business.
Ashe brings the car around the back of the building per the usual – no need to go frightening innocent churchgoers at any time of day or night by waking into the place bloodied and bullet-riddled – and once parked, he gets out to open Dimitri’s door for him. ]