@lostintra sent "NO!" to watch my muse get fatally stabbed
three had warned them to stop boosting such expensive cars, but the twins had a taste for the finer things in life. plus, when you got away with stealing a hundred thousand dollar car, a thirty thousand dollar sedan just didn't cut it anymore. so, they were back at it as often as possible — careful and calculating, but they hadn't crossed all their t's this time. they'd left at least one i un-dotted.
twelve is waiting across the street from them as they approach the vehicle and get to work breaking in. they get the door popped open in a matter of seconds, but then someone's coming, and twelve doesn't have the time to cross the street — there's too much traffic. all they can do is yell.
thirteen's turning their head toward the familiar sound, a small smile on their lips, when they realize that this isn't just a cheer... this is as warning. it's too late, though, thirteen recognizes the mark right as he's gaining on them, and there's no where to go. it's car door and man with a knife.
"whoa, whoa, dude, relax." they say, hands held up in supplication. it doesn't have to be this way. they're thinking quick, but they're not quick enough. they've chosen the wrong mother fucker to mess with today, as he doesn't even seem to care that they're in the gloaming on a busy new york street.
it feels like they're being punched repeatedly as the mark thrusts the blade into thirteen's abdomen. the shock of it has them almost crumpling under the force, looking with surprise at the perpetrator. yes, they'd been about to steal this man's car, but did it really warrant such a violent reaction?
it's over, too, before thirteen can get their bearings, and they've been shoved to the side, their assailant having jumped into the open door and driven off, nearly hitting thirteen in the process. they're grateful for small blessings, they suppose.
as twelve rushes over, thirteen still can't feel the pain, just has their hands pressed to some of the leaking wounds. but there are too many, they know. their grey tank-top has soaked through already, blossoms of red meeting each other like water color bleeding through the page. their twin holds them, has long since called for help and is frantically applying pressure to the various wounds littering thirteen's abdomen. "i'm okay... it's okay." they say, but they know it's not true, the adrenaline is wearing off and they can feel the way their heartbeat is growing weaker, the way the pressure is giving because they don't have the strength.
