he felt the bullet enter, then exit. a clean shot. what wouldn't have dropped him were the round not a .300. through a lung, his next breath stings of iron and the taste dissuades him from getting back up. joins in with wheezing, ragged inhales and a slow slump against the wall he'd fallen beside. somewhere in the near distance, beyond the fractured scene through goggles that still try to calibrate the field, he can hear yelling. gunfire. then silence. just the shuffle of combat boots and an extra pop ! to ensure those downed stayed down.
he waits for his turn, but it doesn't come.
an hour, maybe two, he'll be able to move without labor. breathe without drowning. but they never give him an hour, maybe two. the soldier isn't meant to need it. he should have already stood. shaken off the bite. he should be moving, even if it were shallow, desperate breaths. he's not, though, and he knows that's why he feels it. grazing, at first, the contact isn't gentle once settled. under the muzzle still locked tight, scented like pennies and flooding slowly. and he knows who it is without looking. so he doesn't.
a handler, not his usual, but the one he'd been tasked with, @rejectory smells of leather, oil, and a rich aftershave he doesn't care to know the name of. nothing so distinct it can be distracting, but enough to be certain, here. sure that his own hand, snapped up to seize a wrist he could, but doesn't, break — can come with consequences. reprimands. a firm reminder where he sits on a ladder he can never see through the fog. the soldier exhales, finally, and the sound come with it is sickening. a gurgle, someone else's death rattle, but not his. it'd take more than one round, more than a full clip, for that.
" <Я в рабочем состоянии.> " translates to don't touch me, and an added give me a minute for good measure.
