This is just an excerpt; the whole thing is 4.3k long on ao3. I'm really proud of it
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I'm not used to putting writing on tumblr, let me know if I messed up.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Scar’s breathing grows ragged. Forced. Heavy gulps of air. In, out. In, out.
Don’t stop. Never stop.
The strap bites into his chest as he runs. His rifle is still there. He can feel it. He can feel the shoulder bag too. Five extra mags, half a bottle of water, his journal and pen, a keychain flashlight, even a bit of orphenadrine left to keep his legs from locking up... He remembers packing it all this morning. Counted everything twice. Tried to be optimistic.
Tried.
But it’s not enough. It was never going to be enough. He’d been abandoned. Left to rot by the only group he thought gave a damn. After everything, after all the times he’d had their backs. Watched their six, covered their exits, encouraged them when they were having doubts, gave up meds so they could sleep without the worries and the guilt.
Why wasn’t that enough?!
His legs scream with every step, muscles shuddering under the weight of panic and fatigue. Behind him, the wailing continues. Voices, some human and some not, dragging at his heels like they’re leashed to his very being.
Scar rounds the corner of a concrete office building, boots scraping against cracked pavement. The wails behind him are relentless, growing more strident and shrill. The shriek of something still aware of what's lost and what awaits. An unholy prayer to finally rest, their souls transcending to whatever hell or void awaiting them, judging them for what they've done.
His breath shudders. His vision is growing spotty.
And then one of them crashes through a wobbly traffic sign, pulling it across their path. Another trips over a toppled frame of a bike rack. The rest snarl, slowed for a second in the mess of their own momentum.
One second.
Scar knows the meaning of one second.
He sprints behind the remains of a corner café, windows smashed, tables overturned. Maybe if he can find a back door, a covered dumpster, or a ladder or..
A ground maintenance hatch! YES!
City access, maybe. Half covered in grit, but intact! Scar stumbles to it, knees slamming to the ground but he has no time to think about it. He fumbles with the handle. It won't move.
Come on, come on, come on!
He yanks with all the strength remaining in his back and legs. It groans open with the sound of tortured hinges, and he throws himself down and onto the ladder leading into the darkness. The hatch slams shut from the force of gravity just as footsteps, too many way too close, scrape the ground above.
Scar hooks his arm on the ladder rungs and gets out his flashlight, pointing it at the hatch above to see a large deadlock. Bingo. He hooks it closed and flash the light down below to the bottom of the ladder. The ladder itself doesn't reach far before hitting a metal catwalk. Other than that, there doesn't seem to be any visible or audible danger, as much as he can pick up with the distraction up above. So he makes the executive decision to climb down and hope for the best.
A bit further down the catwalk he can see more soft lights of greens and reds, but down below rather than where he was standing. There's also flashes of faulty and sliced wiring sparking up their surroundings at infrequent intervals. It’s straight out of a nightmare.
His boots hit the catwalk with a dull clang. He’s not at the bottom, nowhere near it. The railings stretch into the void, barely touched by the soft red glow of emergency lights below. Shadows eat the space ahead, but Scar figures he’s hidden, at least from anything looking up.
He lets himself exhale. Just once. Leaning on the cold wall behind him. The adrenaline begins to waver, but he has to go on.
It takes several seconds of observation before Scar realises that he isn't alone down there. Or rather, there's noise coming from down below along with the noise from the ground level he left behind. Not as much, but it's way too audible even if there weren't any distracting noise.
He crouches down and turns off his flashlight, relying entirely on the emergency glow to his sides as he stalks forward as stealthily as he can. Away from the too loud noise. He pulls off the strapped rifle and holds it at the ready.
A customized Remington Model 700. Painted orange, his favorite color, soft grip, noise suppressor, with an old scope attached he's owned since even before the calamity. The name "Peaches" is scratched into the stock, the handle of the rifle. He had spent a sleepless night etching the name and little doodles into his gun with a flat screwdriver. She was the only friend he had ever truly relied on. And currently loaded with match-grade rounds. The most reliable bullets he could get his hands on. He has three additional mags of the clean shots in his bag, along with two mags of sketchier, messier, scavenged bullets. Those are for emergencies only, when he's run out. Usable, but questionable.
Not the time.
He focuses on the noises below as he gets further away from the distraction he left behind.
The walls breathe with a tired, electric hum. Mechanical droning rattle through the vents. A sickly buzz crackle from above a rusted ceiling panel, making Scar flinch. He grips Peaches closer.
IT'S 4AM AND I'M CAFFEINATED TO HEAVENS AND HELLS! I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE CONFIDENT IN MY LITTLE SQUARES!!/! IF YOU SEE THIS, GIRLIEPOP, I'M SORRY I KNOW I SAID I'D SLEEP BUT MY BRAIN DECIDED TO BE GOD'S PROUD MISTAKE TONIGHT.
"...Thank you for staying." The words and the softness of its delivery is unexpected considering who it came from. The Balladeer is pretty much well known for his harshness. No one escaping his wrath, not even you.
But at times like this, where only you are in his presence, away from prying eyes, he lets his guard down. An almost entirely different person shows himself, but only for you. He lets himself be held as he does it back, tight yet thoughtfully gentle. Lets himself whisper sweet nothings into your ear, just to see your flustered face and hear your soft giggles. And most importantly...
As tears fall from his eyes, he lets himself be vulnerable. Softly laughing at the way you started fussing over his tears, simply worried, not at all with judgement. Taking in your lovely touches and listening to your whispered promises that you'd always be there for him, that you'll never leave.
And though he has no heart to call his own, he has no doubt that if he has one, it'll only beat for you, from now until eternity.
language barrier (series)
synopsis !! the reader wants to hear what a foreign language sounds like.
al haitham
"do you know? he's..." (individual)
synopsis !! petty kaveh tried stirring up trouble for al haitham (who has a blatant favoritism towards you).
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bumpy rides (individual)
synopsis !! you're on your way home w/ diluc when the ride encountered a sudden jolt.
diluc
