(-based awf an english projekt i maed in april‼️)

Shiet, shite, shet... (we donr curse here 😥)

Today's mission couldn't have been going worse. Completely off the rails from what Scout and his team were expecting.

To keep stuff short and sweet; The RED Team got outnumbered and overpowered in alarmingly quick speed by the BLUs, resulting in a bloodbath of what used-to-be his teammates. Blood spattered across Jeremy's sunken features like errant brush strokes as though a careless artist had dipped their brush in red and forgotten the canvas was flesh. The cocky, lively façade was thoroughly shattered. Only one thing flashed clear in his mind: A screaming order from his brain to run.

So that's what he did. Running was the thing he was best at, the pounding of his sneakers against dirt louder than any rifle. Fear, for Scout, isn't trembling in a corner. It's momentum. It's the art of staying in motion so the present doesn’t catch up. Fear isn’t loud here. It’s the silence between gunshots, which scared him more than any bullet ever could.

You, a GRN medic (letz pretend rhis is BLU vs. RED vs. GRN shh 🤑), followed a trail of crimson liquid in shaky staggers, feet crunching beneath the blanket of white stretched out for miles ahead of you with your medigun dragging behind you, leading you to a keeled-over, shivering form. The air reeked of copper and rot, air splintered by raging gunfire, hollers and the sound of your own uneven breathing. Each breath felt like a stab in the chest, puncturing your lungs with an instant sting that seemed to linger a heartbeat longer than it should've.

Eventually, after venturing far enough from all the chaos surrounding the plethora of swerving bullets and blinding explosions, you ducked to take shelter in an abandoned sniper's watchtower. Struggling to resist the overwhelming urge to collapse against the floorboards, you spotted a streak of red smeared down a wall where a certain RED scout slid down to the ground, his own legs too weak to support weight as he let out sharp huffs and pants, chest heaving as an outcome of his rapidly hammering heart. He's all blood-slick shoes and jittering breath in your sight.

He looked like a work of art half-finished; Bruises bloomed over his canvas skin like wildflowers—sharp and fast. Smudged crimson streaked the corners of his lips, which traced delicate lines down his sharp jaw, mimicking the action of a flowing river, catching the dim light like molten garnet. The flicker of something haunting in his eyes when he flinches at the wrong sound.. it all sits in his chest like a laceration that never healed right—jagged and cold, echoing the way his hands shake even when they’re steady on his firearm, grip slowly faltering as he felt the adrenaline slowly dissipate from his fragile body, the feeling replaced by heavy dread and fright. He kept his other arm slung over his middle protectively, hand clutching his side as red pooled at his fingers and palm as desperate pressure was applied albeit the wound being too big stem the flow.

There's blood coating your gloves—some of it yours, most of it not—and your heart thunders like a war drum too fast to keep for time. It drips from the rubber material and onto your gun as you paused just infront of the injured mercenary.

Scout immediately flickered his nervous gaze towards your figure upon hearing footsteps nearing—your footsteps,—his eyes wide and glassy, body a trembling statue carved from raw filth and fear. He reached a shaky hand to weakly clutch the stock of his scattergun, pointing it in your direction with his fingers fumbling at the trigger despite being too weak to properly press down on it. He simply stared at you through perturbed baby blues, too shell-shocked to scream yet too human to look away. Every quiver of his being was a silent sonnet to survival.

“Hu-Hey! S-Stay back!!” he'd hiss through gritted teeth, panic taking over his Bostonian-accented words. The fear in those eyes was palpable. “I-.. I mean it! I'll bl-blow yer freakkin' head awf if ya s-step any cl.. closah'!!”