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“YORK,” I screech over the gunfire, skidding into cover and glaring across the room. “Get that damn door open!”
“Working on it, Y/N,” he snaps, hands jerking over the lock, “a little patience goes a long way.”
I scowl, gun held between my feet as I reload amidst the chaos, hearing sirens sound. York swears with the sound of more guards incoming. “I can fix this guys, don’t you worry.”
“Bloody hell man,” calls Wyoming, casting me an incredulous glance around his gun, back pressed to the opposite wall, “why do we always end up with him on our team?”
“Cus the Director likes a challenge,” I reply, standing to hurl as many bullets as possible into the onslaught of bodies choking the halls, Wyoming doing the same. Wet thuds see them dropping, but not quick enough.
“He’s certainly challenged,” teases Wyoming, moustache twitching as he enjoys his own joke. He’s backing up, feet shuffling into retreat with each body launching over the growing pile.
“Hey, that’s not very nice.” York turns, hands on hips to glare at Wyoming, who shrugs.
Discarding the weapon in frustration I turn away, bolting towards York and the stubborn door. “Get outta the way, asshole,” I snarl, forcing him back, “we don’t have time for this.”
“You’ll set the alarms off,” he argues, but I’m already drawing my fist back, the panel crunching with the impact of my knuckles. Miraculously, the door slides open with Wyoming’s cheers of triumph.
“You already set the alarms off,” I grumble, grabbing his arm and yanking him after me, speeding through the hallways ringing with shrill wails, bullets chasing after us. “We’re wasting time.”
“Nice going, old chap,” smiles Wyoming, clapping him on the shoulder as he appears to our side.
York looks about ready to hit someone - mumbling in disapproval.
I ignore the bickering, Wyoming working past me and taking off down the halls. Collecting a explosive from my belt I toss it towards him, his hand catching it and planting the device to dead end we’re fast approaching; a violent rumble tearing the metal away to reveal the open air.
Enemy soldiers are close behind, their yells drowned out in the clatter of guns. York presses against the wall, firing pot shots into the crowd.
Wyoming provides back up, slicing the skulls of those in his path. “What’s extraction playing at?”
“They’re taking their sweet time,” agrees York loudly, kneeling and levelling the gun on his shoulder, firing.
I shake my head, glaring at the empty space that should house the ship before turning. “Fucked if I know, we’ve gotta hold them back.”
“No crap?” York laughs, more soldiers hitting the floor as Wyoming hits him in disapproval. I don’t acknowledge then, pulling the pin on a grenade.
“Shut up and get down.” With a grunt I hurl the device into the packed, narrow passage as my teammates curl into cover; scream of panic cutting off with those of pain.
And then everything falls silent bar the blaring sirens, gurgles of voices lost in pools of blood.
Breathing heavily I plant my hands on my knees, head dropped as I try to recover. York steadily stands, moving in front of me, body hunched before he stretches. “Nice one, teamwork wins again.”
“Teamwork?” I demand, straightening up, Wyoming pacing and shaking out his limbs, looking at York as though we were deliberately trying to walk on glass. York doesn’t shuffle beneath my fiery gaze, instead meeting it with an irritating air of nonchalant. “You’re fucking kidding me, I did everything. I saved your damn ass while you were fingering the damn door.”
“Hey,” he rejects, holding his hands up in surrender, giving in to my anger. “I guess I owe you a thank you.”
“You owe me a lot more than a thank you.”
“I’ll make it up to you when we get back to base, how’s that sound?”
“That sounds vulgar and atrocious. I want no part of it,” teases Wyoming, moving to my side and poking York in the chest. The man rocks with the momentum, and beneath his helmet I know he’s smiling.
But I can’t pay attention, my knees bending to launch at him as a gun cocking rings out. My palms knock him down as my body explodes forward, the bullet aimed at the back of his head now tearing agonisingly between my ribs – Wyoming’s reply shot almost in sync.
I land with a heavy clatter and groan, body spasming on impact. York’s there instantly, moving me onto my back, eyes panicked. His hands are clumsy; ripping off my helmet as the suit begins to lock, granting me fresh air and the taste of copper. Applying pressure, I scream, contorting beneath the pain of organ failure.
“I’m sorry I’ve been wasting time,” he struggles, throat thick with tears as he tries to plug the bleeding, Wyoming yelling desperately into the com. I try to wave away his words, but I can’t move. Heat courses through my veins, sweet beading as I try to cling to consciousness. “I didn’t mean too, I’m so sorry. I love you, Y/N. I won’t waste it anymore. Oh god, I love you please don’t die.”