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There had been two times you’d experienced being shot before.
The first had been during one of your first missions after joining the Valorant Protocol. With smog suffocating the battlefield, your radiant powers had sensed the bullet mere moments before it hit you. Despite Sage’s best efforts, the cut it had left on your cheek never seemed to fade. Given that the alternative was quite literally death, you’d take the scar.
The second time wasn’t during a mission but an accident during training. You had joined an informal competition with your friends - essentially, Phoenix goading everyone into trying to beat his shooting range record. But during your turn, something had malfunctioned within the training A.I., or at least that’s what the incident write-up stated (written by Phoenix, of course). The only thing you could recollect was waking up to the taste of metal in your mouth. Your body wrapped in cocoons of IV drips, pulse monitors, oxygen wires, and the tight sheets of the infirmary bed told you enough about how bad the damage was.
At least the apology chocolates Killjoy brought you were good, though you couldn’t remember their German name to buy them yourself.
Actually, with the way you were bleeding out right now, you wondered if you’d ever get to taste chocolate again. This time you hadn’t had the luck of passing out immediately when your counterpart landed a lucky shot straight into your abdomen (hey, they say you’re your own worst enemy, right?), so now you had a front-row view of your death. Cool.
Three times being shot. It’s hardly a record compared to some of the older members of the Valorant Protocol, but it's not something you could ever get used to. Trying to calm your heavy breaths, you curled against the hallway’s wall. Sterile lights bored into you, dispelling any chance of concealment you had. You didn’t know where your counterpart had gone, and while you were alone for now, you’d have to get moving soon.
An aching grew heavy from the incessant chatter in your ear. Callouts were punctuated with heavy gunfire and the occasional mention of your name. You probably should have tried a little harder to regroup with your team or at least call for help, but you weren’t even sure you could pick yourself up (nor would they hear you amidst the hellfire of Brimstone’s odin).
A flick of your finger deafened your radio, leaving you with the faint tremor of your breathing and the roughness of the carpet that seemed to thrum in time to your heartbeat. It was kind of weird how clammy your hands felt, but your sudden fatigue outweighed your curiosity. If you took a nap right now, no one would notice. After all, you had survived every time before; you’ll deal with it later.
You could feel yourself drifting when something, someone, pulled you back. Your name. You thought you had turned the radio off… so who could be calling your name?
“You still with me?”
Deadlock’s voice came through with a strange clarity despite the blood pounding in your ears. Her presence alone already had a grounding quality, like a calm respite in a thunderstorm. And you always admired that in her, how composed she seemed even in the most dire moments, how she always knew what to do next, how she always kept a watchful eye over you…
Your breath struggled to catch up as she jostled your shoulder. “I need you awake, try to hold on a bit longer.” Her words came out unusually hurried. She crouched down to you, her eyes looking you up and down like she was mid-combat - analysing everything, not letting even the smallest details escape. Even before you realised you were sliding down the wall, her prosthetic shot forward in a heartbeat to stop you.
Deadlock shuffled closer, close enough to see the slits through her eyebrow and the length of her lashes. With her other hand, she carefully peeled your bloodied hands from the wound. Even with her usual unshakable demeanor, a grimace spread across her features, her eyes flickering between your face and the wound. “Åh nej. This is…” her words trailed off, transfixed at the sight below you. If Deadlock was in shock, you didn’t even want to know how bad it really was.
Even though she was looking at you like you were a ticking time bomb, she looked so effortlessly cool. Her hair framed her face in a way that cast shadows over her sharp features, the predatory gaze of a Ståljeger. The way her jacket hugged her frame, now marred with scuffs and blood, only worked to accentuate her muscular build. Some found her intimidating and coupled with her no-bullshit personality, she usually warded off those faint of heart.
But her glacial stare or brutally honest remarks didn’t put you off. You’d seen how she watched over her team, always looking out for others, taking on more responsibilities than she could handle. She had a good heart, even if she wasn’t the most welcoming.
“That hurts.” You choked out, drawing Deadlock’s attention back onto the fingers of her prosthetic embedded in your arm. A murmur of foreign words sounding like an apology slipped through her lips. Her grip loosened enough for the soreness to fade, yet she continued to hold you upright.
An abrupt pressure on your abdomen forced the air from your lungs, almost making you curse at your white-haired savior.
“Keep putting pressure on the wound, it’ll help slow the bleeding.” A soft fabric tickled your fingers as she clasped your hands in hers, pressing down firmly. The longer you stared at the dark green wool of her scarf, the blacker it faded. It felt like there was a drum pulsating within you, each beat sending a slightly stronger wave of discomfort over you. You felt Deadlock’s hands squeeze yours, her voice sounding ragged as if she had been running, “I thought you were with the others. What the hell happened?”
You started telling her about how you got separated from the team, how your counterpart ambushed you, how they were still out there, how your injury felt increasingly warmer, and how heavy your eyes felt right now. But her glowing blue eyes narrowed with a frown (actually, when you focused, her eyes weren’t really glowing, but with how fuzzy everything was becoming, they looked like they had a blue aura emanating from them).
She turned to her radio, her words blurring into one continuous mumble. Something something, your name… something else… blood loss (oh, that’d explain a lot)... something that was urgent…
“We’re going back. Sage is on her way.” Her head swiveled as she surveyed the length of the hallway, as if expecting another ambush. Somewhere beyond the walls echoed the muffled crack of a gun. “Shit, you’re too exposed. Did anyone see you come here?”
You tried explaining your encounter with your mirror self again, but speaking sent the world spinning and anyway, the more you rambled, the more confused Deadlock looked. She let you finish though, giving you a slow nod as if you were actually making sense.
You must have looked pretty pathetic from Deadlock’s perspective - slumped over with barely any strength, still trying to cling to life. The image conjured a taste sourer than blood in your mouth. You had never been one to shy away from Deadlock, yet all you wanted to do now was close your eyes and melt into the floor.
The white-haired woman huffed, “You’re in no state to walk. I’ll carry you out.”. The assurance in her voice should have comforted you, but instead, it left you feeling more miserable than before.
Almost reflexively, you started to protest. You weren’t exactly sure why, maybe it was the blood loss talking, but maybe you also wanted to show her that you could handle this, that you were strong too. “No- Wait-”
Her hands froze, inches from your skin, “You can’t even hold yourself up. You’re going to get us both killed if we stay here any longer!”
Sucking in a deep breath, you willed your legs to work one more time. Pushing yourself up the wall felt like a herculean task, your arm practically squashed against it for leverage. The action felt like it took years, but for a second, you nearly managed to regain your footing. You could do this. “I’m okay Deadlock,” you said, your voice wavering slightly, “Let’s hur-”
Your knees buckled, and you knew that your energy had finally reached its limit.
“Just stop.” Your fall was abruptly halted by an arm wrapping around your waist. The sharpness in Deadlock’s voice caught you off guard. “Please, you’ll only hurt yourself more. Let me help you, and we can go home.” You couldn’t see her face, but even in your dazed state, you could make out a hint of a plea.
Your head was growing heavier by the minute. Images of your home flickered before your eyes - your family at the Valorant Protocol, the first time you met Deadlock, quiet moments you two shared after rough missions, and secret meetings late at night where you would talk over coffee (She always made it for both of you, being very particular about her coffee).
You let Deadlock’s arms wind around you, the coldness of her prosthetic creeping up your spine. You knew she could lift her fair share of weight, but when you heard the clatter of your gun on the ground, you realised she was carrying you without so much of a labored breath. You felt her fingers intertwine with your hair, gently massaging the back of your head as the thud of her boots reverberated through you.
You wanted to apologise for bleeding all over her scarf and for like, having to save your life and all. But the only thing you could get out was her name, Iselin, so quietly you could barely hear yourself say it.
The same icy blue eyes watched over you, their gentle glow never straying like how the moon diligently watches over Earth. While Deadlock liked to be blunt with her words, rarely did she express her feelings so explicitly.
But now, Iselin held you tightly against her body. Her warmth washed over you like a blanket. The footsteps - now increased in their pace - carrying you home. Her fingers were still woven through your locks, and you realised just how much she was telling you.
Your head fell against the crook of her neck, the familiar scent of coffee and cold enveloping you as you let yourself drift off. It’s funny how things work out, you were an arm’s length away from death’s doorstep, but in Iselin’s arms, you’d never felt safer.