Work Text:
The TNT went off.
Once, against Cleo.
Twice, against Grian.
Thrice, against Scott.
Nothing. Nothing. NOTHING.
Over and over and over again, nothing.
It hurt. Every time it hurt.
It burned. Like rain against his skin. It burned.
As he dug a hole to pity himself in.
As Impulse told Tango to kill him.
As Tango profusely denied.
He left his hopes beside.
You would think he would be fiery.
You would think he would be mad.
You would think he would be worried.
He was actually just sad.
Three lives off his team, off him.
He's liability now, he’s always been.
Whispers filled his ears, reminders of failure.
Colors drained from the hearts of his arm.
For some reason, They knew.
He wasn’t on session two for a reason.
For some reason, They still did it.
Did they just want him to commit to the treason?
He bets if he would’ve taken the offer.
And slit Imp’s chest in the pit he’s now in.
They would’ve been pleased.
He would never. They know it.
They know how much he hates this damned curse.
They know how attached he gets to his teammates.
They know how good of a target he is.
And as he sits there, between dirt and darkness.
His name turns red.
Grian types “Session’s over”.
And he wishes it would’ve been someone else.
Someone else would’ve made it.
Grian’s never been it.
Cleo’s never been it.
Skizz’ never been it.
Why him.
He's gone, he knows it.
He’d like to get it over with.
But his team could still use a hand.
And they wouldn't let him anyways.