Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Ngh-“ 

He didn’t need to breathe. He didn’t need to make a sound, he didn’t need to, but he couldn’t help it, not when he’s got a finger digging into the crevice of his thigh, thirium dribbling down his hands, staining the fabric of his pants. 

He needed- he needed to get it out.

Simon gritted his teeth and dismissed error message after error message that blipped up on his peripherals of foreign intrusions. 

Another grunt. He twisted his wrist, and a bullet dislodged itself from where it’s pinned the hydraulics in his thigh, automatically deactivating any function, any feeling. His knee buckled as feeling floods back once more. Simon pressed his head to the thin wall of the hideaway he’s dragged himself into with a sharp exhale, hands shaking and twitching as they attempted to recalibrate themselves. The gun in his other hand felt heavy. Weighted. 

Clinked . The bullet bounced off of the floor. He straightened his now-recalibrated leg, covering his mouth- stopping when blue smeared on his face, choosing instead to clean his hands on a uniform that doesn’t belong to him. Slowly, he sank back down to the floor. 

That’s all Simon has, now. He can move. But he can’t risk it, not when he hears footsteps wandering on the roof outside.

He can’t breathe. He won’t let himself breathe. Once again, his grip tightened on his firearm. The phantom feel of Markus pressing it into his palm, fingers brushing. A hand clamping down onto his shoulder. I’m sorry, Simon. We have to go.

A selfish thought streaked through his mind. 

They left him behind. 

Alone and trapped and alone and trapped. 

Experimentally, Simon pressed the gun to the underside of his jaw, finger tight on the trigger. The cold, unfeeling tip jammed uncomfortably against synthetic skin. How easy would it be to just press his finger a fraction harder? Would it hurt to die? 

His finger tightened, breath hitching, before the gun lowered. No. No, he’s too... too much of a coward. He couldn’t, not now. Not willingly. 

When had his mind changed? Once so willing to fling himself into darkness in hopes that whatever waited on the other side was more merciful than the reality he lived in, now unable to twitch his finger just a little harder, just a little more. 

(Maybe it’s when he realised that he had something else to live for. Maybe it’s because of Jericho. Maybe it’s because of Markus, and everything he stood for.) 

If there was ever an afterlife, would he one day get the chance to say sorry to the family he left behind? 

Creak.

Simon turned his head, aimed, and fired.

Red, red, red. His LED flickered on and off as he stood up and scrambled out, collapsing onto the snow-covered roof with a painful crash when his leg gave way. Bullets whizzed above him. He can hear them screaming. Take cover!

His breathing quickened. Simon was sure he’d shot the RK, but he should’ve gone for the head. He wasn’t thinking straight, he just needed to get him away from him, and now he’s trapped, alone and trapped and-

Oh god .

A figure slammed into him. The RK. Simon’s respiratory components emptied themselves of air, and he fought- felt the foreign intrusion into his mind, forcing its way into every piece of him, his memories, no privacy, violation , fear, they’ll find Jericho [J E R I C H O paint on rusted metal] and it’ll all be his fault and why didn’t he pull the trigger-

Simon shoved the gun to the underside of his jaw, finger tight on the trigger. The cold, unfeeling tip jammed uncomfortably against synthetic skin. How easy would it be to just press his finger a fraction harder? Would it hurt to die? 

Here’s to finding out.

BANG