With every breathe Zed takes, it feels sharper – needles scratch at the inside of his lungs, scrape the tissue away; tear alveola and every little cell lights on fire as though that carbon is forming its own ignition from within; dead lighting the dead. If Zed didn’t know better, spontaneous combustion might feel something like this, suffocating and a sickening hopelessness to stop the smoke from making its lethal way to his chest. Yet still, he’s upright, hacking his ragged breathes through the fumes, eyes stinging from the unpleasant invasion as he searches for Rahi through the smoke that begins to trickle its way between them.
For a moment, he’s not sure what Kumar’s going to say – wouldn’t blame the man for reacting in kind; a venom that is all earned, a too obvious way he discards other life because it’s not himself – and even above that, it’s not family, it’s not Rahi behind that walls he’s shielding the engineer from. And still, through the screaming of explosions, or gunfire and cries for assistance:
“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve eve—” coughs, louder now; more struggled, “ever said,”
He’s not sure he’s ever called Rahi anything but the smartest man alive – a pedestal that he’d raise beyond the fucking stars if that were his element; if he could.
If Rahi didn’t deserve a better person to do that for him. But he hopes – thinks Kumar understands his meaning; what the truth behind the hoarse insult means. And then, a heat that begins to near enough singe the edge of the hairs on the back of Zed’s arms where those flames lick close enough to touch their feet, force Zed to stumble them over some steps, a kind of forced gesture by any standard. Because they’re still not moving.
The yelling stills him again – a sound that pains him to hear, and that knife Rahi’s got a hold on deep within his ribcage wrenches a harsh one eighty degrees and it makes his lungs seem like a mere inconvenience in comparison. Zed can’t understand the sensation, how the man has such an invisible, impossible power that seems to choke him up without carbon influence.
Zed knows what the engineer’s saying, loud and clear – doesn’t share that there’s a lack of consideration for anything else besides the other right now; but it’s visibly palpable. He forces the words out, hand slamming on the wall next to them – more for himself, to ground himself to the present and not get lost in the lull of giving up consciousness: “And you don’t get to join them,” Why don’t you get that?
Searching through that cloud, drowns them from within. Needs Rahi to move already – to get out of the state of frozen, of whatever he’s trying to work through in regards to the room Zed would leave behind, over and over and over again if it meant he could drag Kumar up the corridor and out the back of the theatre with his life. Perhaps both the most selfish thing, and the least?
But two men with brains that have as much power as the fire teasing their demises – Zed’s is certainly slowing with the oxygen deprivation, the blur of vision as everything begins to grow heavier, the weight of his limbs included. The next wave of head shaking is to get his head some clarity; almost laughable that they’re having this conversation, here and now of all the places.
Zedekiah’s not sure if Rahi’s waiting for him to plead or if there’s some Lev-esque philosophy deeply rooted here – a poetry to how they’re to fall prey to a theatres combustion, as instigated by the Vasile himself. But you said, Rahi doesn’t get that end, no. “Kumar –!” an impertinence that comes out as another kind of garble of choked sounds as he tries to clear his airways once more.
“Alright, go,” Zed’s nodding, notions with an exhausted head towards the exit, reaches to the back of his trousers with lethargic limbs for a gun – he swears he can hear those gunshots getting louder –
– closer, and in turn, an increase in the already teetering danger that has the chemist convinced he’s already slipped out of lucidity once or twice when he takes his first step. Slam. An echo of that door Zed’s had his back to rips open – the flames taking it out with a violent force – Zed can only assume. Good that Rahi’s finally agreed to move – to leave –
Once more – different. Penetrating; a shock where Zed’s footsteps are not on his own accord, right foot jolted where something harsh winds him entirely, sucks the last of his speech; broken words that never escape lips. It’s almost theatrical, the way Zed’s legs give out entirely, that gun he’s holding slips from fingers and a new kind of thump where it’s late to recognise that something hotter than fire stings his back, upper right side; he can feel it take him to the ground, knees hit first.
Then down goes his hands, palms flat, strain on his back where his lowered position gives sight of the newcomer behind him, singed and sooted head to tow, a gun raised upwards; smoke that’s unlike the rest hisses from the barrel of a pistol – assertion in their aim as it lowers to remain aimed at Zed as though to issue a finisher; the Vasile’s been recognised – in amongst the flames, antagonists in every meaning of the word and an enemy lies in the doorway, a demon walking through the flames to end him in another way.
If Zed could speak and come to terms with more than shock flooding his system and the bullet that’s lodged in his backside that wanes every ounce of strength left, brings forth a quiet wheezing to try steady – control the intakes of soot; as though it’s only going to worsen, he’d yell. Instead, agonised eyes trail upwards, manage to determine a figuration of Rahi between clouds, run, Rahi, goddamn fucking, run.
The last thing Zed ever wants to imagine is the person standing ahead of him falling in the same manner he has – bullet in the back, or front. Kumar doesn’t deserve that; an innocent in the fray, affiliations fucking aside. Zed’s trying to reach for the weapon he’s dropped, only winces when it feels like he wants to collapse entirely onto the carpeted floors, inhale the sticky carbon until it’s all he can taste – but no, he needs to at least, from all this, get Rahi to safety, take out whichever fucking other gang shooter is just about evident in his peripheries.
But muscles fatigued, slowed where blood loss is the next thing to war with; he’s losing, but he won’t lose him.
Zed’s eyes are begging Rahi to run, let the other remain distracted with the Vasile and give Kumar a chance to escape.
the theatre is clouded with thick black smoke and it’s almost like he can feel it weighing down his chest as the theatre is consumed with crowds of people all willing to step over each other for a way out. stepping on someone else to help yourself suddenly doesn’t seem all too bad when you’re faced with a life or death situation. killian never needed those situations to take what he needed or what he wanted.
the longer he roamed chicago streets, the more he craved home, this wasn’t home. tonight’s effort to emerge into the city was nothing more then a puppeteer pulling the strings, he never much cared for puppeteers, unless of course, it was him pulling the strings.
the bomb had gone off, the gunfire followed, it didn’t take a native to calculate which family had been conveniently scarce tonight. killian had no issue taking out any enemy that would cross him tonight, rather a fire take him then his enemies. he wouldn’t want to give them that satisfaction. still, he had a craving for a certain line of blood to be spilt tonight. he was sure if he’d found one, the way out would follow, their life would just be the topper.
of course, he had to survive the fire first. the smoke clogged his lungs, droplets of blood wetting his tongue as he choked on the only thing he could breathe in. he’s not even sure where exactly he’s found himself, the smoke has burned through his vision, his eyes burned just as much as his lungs had.
the dwindling amounts of people going in the direction killian had been should have given him warning enough to turn around, go the course everyone else has chosen and get out. instead, he finds himself faced with a rather rare opportunity in the face of possible death. a vasile. knows rahi too, likes him even, a rare thing for the man. still, this is how it goes, something killian is hoping ahi understands—- can only assume he must if he’s standing here with the man that’s had hand in all of this, or so he presumes. maybe he’s just looking for an excuse to spill some unwanted blood. he doesn’t see it coming, maybe that makes it worse, but the trigger is pulled before the thought completes and zed is falling to his knees. he could leave him there, let the smoke finish what the first bullet doesn’t. the black tar that is his lungs is softening him, figures, he’ll be nice, end his misery quickly. his weapon never lowered, his eyes narrowing through the smoke that clouds them. the next one is aimed for his head, a mercy, really. “ you should go rahi. ’
Refuted into silence, Rahi quite literally bites his tongue — pushing back that overwhelming roll of emotion that crawls up his throat. He knows what Zed means, he always does, sees his actions completed before he can even think of them. So does this mean Rahi should have predicted this, despite the silence? Should he have prepared? How didn’t he prepare—
“And this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
Rahi knows enough about numbers to know they’re not on their side. The entire room’s boiling hot now, small droplets of sweat framing his hairline, matching the heaviness of his chest.
At the instructions, Rahi does move — if only to reach down to Zed’s hand, holding it tight. All the rest of his trust misplaced, this is something he can rely on; through smoke and flames, that he’d guide them there.
Fingers entwined, he looks up at Zed, expectant — Go where? — when Rahi thinks he sees a shadow — but everything’s a shadow now, what with all the smoke and darkness, every running being, a blur.
The loud bang of a gunshot doesn’t register, nothing registers, until it’s far too late. Zed’s no longer supporting him, but a weight that drags down, heavier and heavier still against Rahi’s own body. He fumbles to try and catch Zed as he lowers — to no avail.
No, no, no, no, no, no. Transcending just his mind, Rahi’s mouth replicates the sound, over and over, excruciatingly so — a repeated hum of desperation.
Even as Zed crumbles down, he refuses to let go of his hand, as though if his grip was strong enough, it’d keep him here. It’s not too long until Rahi’s kneeling too, searching for a wound, for a breath — anything he can deal with beyond just the pain.
He’s a fixer. He can fix things. He’ll fix this.
It’s all hopeless, until Rahi looks up only to spot the culprit — and the thin dark barrel of a gun.
It just then occurs to him, he’d never been on the receiving end of one before. And in a way, he isn’t. He blinks, and notices it’s not pointed at him, but the back of Zed’s head.
His name doesn’t sound like his name. Can’t connect to it, or so much as recognize it, for that matter. His lungs are heavy with tar, his shirt-sleeves growing red and redder with blood.
For too long a beat, he’s paralyzed — shock taking hold in all its varying ways, overwhelming every nerve. One moment lasts forever, the slow-motion in slow-motion on a torturous loop, until it breaks. So when he lets go of Zed’s hand it’s only to reach for the gun, dropped to the floor and shining like an offering.
It’s less than a split second between one decision and the next, no time spent in humane choices. Zed hadn’t cocked it yet, but Rahi remembers how to. Flight, or fight, or keep your goddamn heart on the same plane as you. He targets it up at the shooter, recognition slowly coming forward even in darkness.
Rahi should go. He really should—
