dimitri alexandre blaiddyd (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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.]