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Summary
He slid to the ground, staring up at the cloudy sky with bleary eyes. Already, his body felt cold, and the potent taste of iron was all that he could swallow. Should he really be smirking in a condition like this? Or was it fundamentally funny, that he should be taken down so simply? Pawn to E-3, with no one else to take the blow.
He couldn’t tell if it was his body tingling from the lack of blood, the numbness setting it, or the rain that had started to fall. All he knew is that he felt cold. He knew damn well that no one would miss him. After all, who would miss a cruel superior? If anything, the Fatui would miss his strategic advances, but it was a 50/50 if they even remembered what he looked like. Scaramouche laughed, the sound unfamiliar to his ears.
Rain batted his face, and with a sigh of acceptance, he closed his eyes. The world went black, and as did his frame of consciousness. The pain overtook him, and he slipped into an endless slumber.
At least, that’s what he thought it would be, until he woke up on a plush, pink pillow.