Brendan could feel the hot blood bubbling its way up his throat. It quickly filled his mouth and for a moment he considered letting it suffocate him, but in the next instant he gave up the idea and spat it out, painting his lips and chin with thick crimson. Pain radiated through his body in constant excruciating waves, but still he reached out with his left hand and painfully dragged his too-heavy arm over the pavement with his fingers to get it closer to his side. It was an odd feeling having sensation in his hand and fingers and not the rest of his arm; there was a detachment somewhere, perhaps, but he didn't want to think about it. So he focused instead on keeping his hand moving, crawling spider-like up and over his abdomen where the first of his attacker’s bullets had ripped through his battered body.
He did his best to stay calm and keep his breathing steady, but when he pressed his hand to the gushing wound his body immediately convulsed, his vision darkened, and the air went out of him. Almost against his will Brendan rolled onto his side and curled into himself with a gurgled cry, spraying yet more blood onto the already drenched pavement. From this new position he realised at last that he wasn’t alone, making out the blurry figure of another person running towards him and, in the distance behind them, the familiar flash of red and blue lights fast approaching.
“I.. I ave been shot..” he informed his would-be rescuer once he thought they were near enough to hear, his lips pale and trembling. He was sure they already knew that, just as he was sure they were the one to call emergency services to save him--and, hell, if he was lucky they probably saw what happened too--but he still felt he had to tell them. There were several noticeable gunshot wounds to his upper body, piercing him from shoulder to chest to stomach, but the barely conscious Scot seemed only aware of the one still covered by his hand. He motioned to it with a very weak nod before letting himself fall upon his back once more.
