#yet another prime example of me not knowing how to fill the prompt sdfhskdfhks

[mellowwhumps]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 13: Stuck in the mountains

OCs: Ida, Yuuto (by @/qiuthewhumps) (AU)

CW: blood, war-typical scenery (undetailed), near-death experience

@whumperless-whump-event

Shouts permeated the crisp winter air, gunshots ringing left and right around him as he ran, darting between trees and bushes alike, weapon in unsteady hand. It was clear as day that they were on the losing side, stuck in unfamiliar mountainous terrain and in less than desirable conditions. 

He thought it would have been a temporary ceasefire, at least until the snow stopped falling heavily upon all of them, drenching his clothes and boots. 

He thought wrong. 

Gods, he helped in planning the attack, it shouldn’t have ended like this. He ran through numerous simulations in his mind. It was meant to work, if not for so many unseen variables. The plan wasn’t bad. He was just unlucky.

Hope was a terrible, terrible thing. Yet, it remained the only thing keeping him on his feet. Around him, bodies were scattered in a cacophony of chokes and cries. He could imagine them, still alive, grasping onto every part of his body and pleading for help he could not give, because if he ever stopped then he would have turned out exactly like them. 

Like another nameless soul of the masses, nothing but a tag to identify them against all the blood and grime. If anyone was even here to check. Hastily, he shakes stray thoughts of home out of his mind. 

No.

He wanted to simply scream out his location and be done with it, wanted to pray that someone would find him. That would have meant alerting the opponent too. Small price to pay, wasn’t it? Between dying by the opponent or to frostbite, it was still death. An end, no difference. 

There had to be a way out of this damned place, he thought, stumbling up a particularly steep section of cliff and nearly slipping from the wetness of the rocks, heart nearly pumping out of his chest. He heard footsteps trailing behind him, making a quick left to try and evade their sights. 

A bullet hit the tree beside him, covering him in a small blanket of snow he hastily shook off, much too close for comfort. With the only source of light being the dim moonlight above, he could only see their silhouette, ever getting closer.

The second shot missed. 

The world almost seemed to fall silent. Not that it already wasn’t before, the few moments when the creatures residing in such a place sensed danger and fled, caught right in the middle of some conflict they could not possibly ever understand.

He remembered finding a village with his platoon, razed to the ground, not quite abandoned. It was clear that the villagers had been rushed out, having just so happened to be there. Some hadn’t even been able to escape. Or hadn’t wanted to, he suspected. 

So what? So they had to sleep in the freezing outdoors, no shelter in sight? Destroying other people’s livelihoods just to get the tiniest bit of an advantage was something worse than foul play. But war was war.

The next two shots struck true. One to his arm. The other, right through his chest. The world blurred, his legs giving way beneath him as he fell in almost slow-motion. 

No life flashed past his eyes. Instead, all he could think of was the silhouette, trembling, slowly approaching his body and entering his view. The stranger wore the same uniform as him. 

He wanted to laugh, then, but all that came out was blood. Useless. All of that running was useless. His vision faulted again and the next time he managed to focus, the stranger had already turned tail and escaped. 

He was going to die alone. He was going to die. Cadaver, forever unable to find the way out of such a place, lost, wandering. It was always going to end like this, wasn’t it? He wasn’t a hero, brought down by friendly fire, no less.

He wasn’t alone. 

People were coming towards him, armed in strange attire, holding lights and weapons. He’d have cursed if he had enough time to, but dying, anything was better than being captured as a prisoner; he had to at least try and end it before…before. His gun wasn’t in his hands, dropped somewhere he couldn’t see. 

The man, likely their leader, stood over him, studying him like his seniors would have. Analyzing his use. Still, he reached for his side, feeling for the pocket knife at his side, glaring daggers at the man. It wasn’t a battle he could win, but then again, none of them ever were. 

He spluttered. His whole chest hurt, and he couldn’t even move his arm, let alone feel it. The blood in his windpipe wanted a way out, and without the strength to turn himself over, he was left choking on vermillion, his body trying to expel the unwanted fluid through coughs that made his whole body jerk and spasm, taking hurried gasps for air that could not enter. 

It was like a competition, the way his gaze hung on to the stranger’s, desperate like any other human would be, even for an enemy. The stranger let go of it first, turning back to say what he could recognize as a foreign language he understood, but having thoughts too incoherent and oxygen-deprived to even begin to translate it.

He hung on to the last shred of his consciousness before a cloth was put to his nose, and he suffered no more.