Tyrant

(38) 𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗

Darcio
A Few Hours Ago

I'd cursed my entire existence for my distracting sarcasm the second my comrade slumped to the ground like a sack of meat.

I really never knew when to stop.

Without thought, without checking to see if she'd been hit in a vital area, I slammed down the trigger of both my pistols, opening fire at the source of the bullet now embedded in Kenna's side.

The crack of something and a weighted thud was the only confirmation I needed as I knelt by the unmoving Kenna, her labored gasps and pants the only sound that filled the thick, hollow air around us. 

I'd howled her name at the top of my lungs, dread and adrenaline kicking in like a drug at the sight of her sprawled upon the gravel, crimson ribbons of fresh blood streaming and seeping into the dirt under her, pooling around her waist.

The sight of her like this brought me to my knees.

The way I'd repeated her name like a prayer on my tongue, my words a pleading chant for her to be okay, to stay alive, shook me to my very core. My voice was more graveled than the crumbled rock and crushed debris extending under us like a sheet.

Desperation lined every single one of my pleads. 

She couldn't just die.

No words from her. No response. Only jagged breathing and small whimpers met my requests.

The sight of her lying against the dirt like a limp porcelain doll soaked in a puddle of her own vital fluids, a gloved hand pressed into the seeping wound, had me feeling as though a bullet was embedded into my side as well.

The excruciating, drowning guilt of the fact that this was my fault didn't have time to wrap its long fingers around my neck and block my airways. Which was what I'd deserved.

Without thought, I'd frantically reached into a small pocket lining the side of my gear, fumbling around with the small Tracker between my fingers. Like a clumsy, reckless piece of shit, I had almost dropped it in the expanding pool of Kenna's blood as I'd aimed to press the red button. 

Sending an emergency signal to the Base. 

And to them, that signal meant that someone was either hurt, dying, or dead.

The word dead bounced off the walls of my hollow mind, resonating around the empty chamber like a misty, threatening taunt.

I was not going to let Kenna die.

Sudden panicked shouts encompassed me, thunderous remarks both so close yet distant all at once. None of my comrades' words registered in my head, each alarmed sound becoming more muffled and muted, as though layers of wax sealed my ears shut.

I was not going to let Kenna die.

I was not going to let Kenna die.

I was not going to let Kenna die.

And with the limp, bleeding female secured in my arms, my fellow Terminators alerted and vigilant of the situation at hand, I had ran like never ran before. Every building I'd passed was a flash of hideous gray and shit brown, every passing shadow lingering in the backroads unseen and ignored.

All I could think of was the woman in my arms, how the slash of a bullet tore apart layers of her flesh, how with every step I took, I could feel droplets of her blood dripping onto the gravel as we passed. Discarded and wasted, never to return to her body.