Chapter Text
The two looked at Rosco, two pairs of eyes studying him. Rosco was in Gale's office, where the mafia boss had his charmer, Zander, in his lap.
"You want to do what now?" Gale asked. Rosco sighed and repeated himself,
"I want to go into the HQ of the enemy's base and install the virus," Rosco explained. The tech specialist had coded a virus that would do a mass wipe of all data that this enemy mafia had, and they had a lot, especially on Gale, that was hanging over his head.
Zander, not one to be involved in this stuff, the technical side of the mafia, had his input. Of course, he did, and Rosco was his little brother.
"Rosco, darling, are you sure you want to?" He asked
"You must go into the base to install it, but why go alone?" Zanny had a point: why would Rosco go alone? He should bring people with him. But Rosco had a reason to want to install the virus early. It was because he overheard at a bar he went to a few nights ago, by chance, that the enemy mafia had gotten more data, more information, and it was on Malim. Now, Rosco didn't care much about what information they had; he knew Gale would have him install the virus in due time, but having information on Malim, on his charmer, now that's where Rosco drew the line; that was war.
"It's a personal matter..." Rosco said, not elaborating further.
Zander and Gale shared looks, ones of worry, but they understood, Gale mostly.
"Looks, I understand wanting…revenge. This is why I got you to create this virus," Gale said, but his face turned stern,
"But planning an attack, something like this, must be done carefully. It can't be done on a whim, and that, wanting to go to our enemy's HQ and install the virus earlier than planned, is the flaw." Rosco was about to argue, but Zander spoke up.
"I understand," he started, slipping into the voice Rosco knew all too well, one he loved but hated. It was his 'big brother' voice.
"Wanting to get revenge, but you're going back to old habits," Zander got out of Gale's lap and walked over to the shorter one. Zanny grabbed Rosco's hand, gently, holding it as if it were a delicate chain, and inspected it. Scars and unhealed cuts were littered all over, with the odd stitches and staples being marked from where Rosco originated, his first mafia.
When Rosco was starting, he forced more on hand-to-hand combat and would get cuts all the time, and he was one of the hardest-headed, stubborn enforcers in the old mafia, and Zanny knew him.
"Your old habit of not waiting, being stubborn, and just jumping the gun," the charmer said, grabbing Rosco's other hand and gently tracing the scars.
"I'm not a kid…" Rosco muttered, but he still allowed Zanny to treat him like one,
"I know, darling," he said and turned to Gale,
"Rosco, we know you are not a child, but pushing the mission ahead? That's reckless and flawed," the mafia head said, crossing his arms. Rosco stood there, his eyes darting between the two. He wanted to speak, and he wanted to get mad. But he couldn't, not with how Zanny treated him or when Gale looked out for him. Rosco returned his hand from Zander's hold and left the office. Gale and Zanny exchanged a look of concern,
"Zander," Gale spoke, the charmer straightened up,
"You know Rosco better than I," the mafia boss started. The blonde walked over to the desk,
"What's the likelihood of him going on the mission?" Gale said,
"He's stubborn and will do things without question if he sees the need to…and based on his reaction…" Zander sighed,
"He most likely will," he answered Gale's question.
Rosco sat in his room, staring at the monitors and playing with the USB with the virus as if it were his switchblade. He was conflicted; he knew he should listen to Gale and Zanny, but their information on Malim angered him. Rosco had come to terms with his feelings not too long ago, and he accepted them. Still, he didn't expect to act out this way, since he hadn't had a partner before. He did; when he was younger, but he always avoided relationships due to the nature of being in the mafia, not wanting to drag others into it. Still, Malim worked in an industry that was a key pathway into business, which is heavily intertwined with the mafia. With a not-so-heavy heart, Rosco decided to go ahead and install the virus.
He spent the day scouting out the area, watching. Observing. He needed to plan this right and had limited knowledge of the events. The original date for the installation was planned accordingly, as they had been told from the inside, by a planted spy, that there was an event for everyone in the mafia to go to. Rosco had to be smart about doing this impulsively. Even when it was an impulse, his madness needed to be sharp.
When night fell, it was time for his move. He blended in with a few outside hired workers, as they came by, just by luck, and he snuck in with them. Since he had the enemy base layout, which came from stolen base maps the informant gave Gale, memorising, quick memorisation was a skill he picked up in his old mafia, he headed straight for the heart. Where the files were kept. Getting through the first security set wasn't easy, but being a tech specialist, he found workarounds.
After avoiding a lot of security, even successfully shutting down one of the enemy's systems, he was at the heart of where the enemy mafia kept all their files, blackmail, deals, and plans. In reality, it was a gold mine, and Rosco was slightly disappointed that he was installing a virus to wipe it all out, but he had to for his conscience.
It was quick, put the USB in, upload, wait, and when it turns green, run. The need for a USB was to kill the data from the inside out, allowing any offline saves to be killed. The code was intensive work; Rosco spent months in his mafia dorm room typing the code and testing it. Even with the enemy mafia being up-to-date with tech, they had a flaw; they never saved to an encrypted cloud, which is why the USB was needed with the virus. Once the USB's red light turned green, Rosco ran to indicate the upload was successful. But running was not the best idea as he triggered the security system. He was now in deep water.
While on the run, the tech specialist got battered and bruised. Rosco encountered a few of the enemy members, who were alerted by Rosco accidentally triggering a security breach protocol by leaving the USB in, which was soon identified as an unknown hard drive. He forgot to unplug it. So he got into some physical fights with his enemies. But, luckily for Rosco, he was proficient in hand-to-hand combat, and while the enemies got some hits in, Rosco was ultimately able to fend them off. Still, he got beaten badly; the enemy mafia group was not to be underestimated.
Soon, Rosco found an exit and stumbled towards it. He'd survived close calls before — left people dead behind him like in his mafia days — but this time, he saw it: freedom. Just a few feet away. He hobbled along, his ankle severely twisted. His eyes scanned the shadows instinctively, muscle memory from years of watching for threats. He was just a few feet away. He had a stitch on his side from running around, his shirt was ripped, and his whole body ached. It was just a virus installation; it was meant to be simple, but the world wouldn't allow that, especially when he heard footsteps behind him. The footsteps echoed in his mind like gunshots, triggering a cold adrenaline spike.
Rosco was about to reach the door, but he was too late. From behind, his side got struck. He left metal briefly; it was a crowbar, right to his ribcage. He fell, hearing a sharp crack from the impact. He was sure something had broken; what confirmed it more was his shortness of breath. Did a rib puncture his lung? Pain flared, but the old enforcer discipline kicked in—don't lose focus. He swallowed the shock, trying not to flinch.
"Oh, tech boy," one of the attackers sang, towering over him. The tech specialist looked up,
"We're not done till we say we are!" Rosco's vision became spotted, and his ears buzzed like they had been after a close gunshot. His body tensed, craving a weapon that wasn't there.
As soon as that was said, Rosco heard two rounds of shots fired, and before he could react, two bullets had punctured his right side, under the broken rib, and got lodged right in Rosco's lung. Still hard of breath, Rosco slumped more onto the floor. He felt his body spasm slightly before coughing violently. As he coughed, a frothy, red substance came from his mouth, blood. As more bloody phlegm came up from Rosco's esophagus, he choked on some blood, the taste of metal making him gag and cough some more. The second attacker smiled at the effect of his gunshots. Rosco's hands twitched, fingers brushing the empty spot at his waist where his blade should have been. His mind screamed at his body to fight, to survive, but his breath rattled ragged and fast.
After closer observation, it was seen that one of the two attackers, Rosco, was still breathing. There was a third voice,
"Fuck, he's still alive, he's breathing," the third said, so their buddies, who had already had their fun with Rosco, encouraged them to 'finish him off' to 'fix the problem' so the third attacker did. Examining Rosco's body, what caught the third attacker's attention was a blade. The switchblade was in the holster. The attacker grabbed Rosco's blade and swiftly plunged the knife into the same area, the area where the two bullet wounds were. The attacker stabbed Rosco once, twice, three times, continuously, in the same spot, each cut getting deeper and deeper. Rosco tried to scream, but he was more focused on breathing as the attacker, using his switchblade, ripped through the tissue of his skin and hit near his right lung, which was already punctured by his broken rib cage. Rosco's breathing sounded like a car's engine. When it needed repairs, it wasn't natural. Rosco's chest slowly stopped moving, as if he stopped breathing, as if he died. His body trembled violently, the adrenaline crashing through his system, limbs spasming despite his fading consciousness. The pain was a distant echo now, overridden by a numb cold.
"He's dead!" The attackers yelled with glee, and with smiles on their faces, they left Rosco's body there to rot.
Unbeknownst to the attackers, Rosco was still alive; he was holding on by a lifeline, but he got up. He wasn't letting death win, not yet. Every step was agony; his mind catalogued the pain, but his old training pushed him forward. He adjusted his weight carefully, avoiding further damage to his broken ribs. The walk back from the enemy's base to the Goldwind pirates' base was agonising; his breathing was uneven and short, and he came out with a slight gurgle, with pain that stabbed his side each time he breathed. Rosco had one arm by his ribcage, which was blood-stained. As he trudged on, his vision soon became tunnelled, blurred with black spots, but he kept walking, his blood making a trail behind him. He flinched at every slight noise, eyes darting reflexively, heart pounding like a drumbeat from his violent past. Rosco wasn't going to die, not yet; he had escaped before, and he would again. If he didn't, he had to live; going this for Gale and Malim would be for nothing. Rosco kept going.
Soon, he made it. Rosco was just able to open the door before he collapsed. The adrenaline he had that allowed him to get back was gone; he didn't have a choice but to allow himself to collapse and lose consciousness. His body convulsed in aftershocks, cold sweat drenching him as the crash hit hard. Just as he did, another person, one of Gale's associates, saw the tech specialist and was horrified.
"Rosco-?!" Before they said anything else, they radioed in for the medical unit.
"Someone send in Cassian! Send in Nayuta!" they yelled in a panic, already doing the emergency medical procedure, trying to buy time. Rosco's eyes fluttered weakly; his mind was flickering between past violence and present pain, lost in a haze of survival instincts.
Cass was running; he never ran, but he did. He ran past his medical team. The sound of the medical team running past Gale's office got his attention, so he stepped out and quickly stopped Nayuta.
"What's going on?" the mafia boss asked,
"Rosco, he's back, but in critical condition," Nayuta said before running again. His eyes were wide, and he looked back into the office, seeing Malim and Zanny talking. Without saying anything, he left his office and ran with his team.
Cass had made it. He had one look at the tech specialist on the floor, and he fell to his knees. Even with being an ex-military medic, the sight of his friend in this condition brought him to his knees, his hard, cold shell of being emotionally dead and distant, shattered. And being a military medic gave Cass a hand as he knew precisely what Rosco's state was. Rosco was pale, his skin clammy. Cass placed his hand on Rosco's wrist, and his eyes widened,
"He's diaphoretic," Cass muttered, taking in how sweaty Rosco was. The associate looked at the doctor.
"His pulse is weak! Nearly absent!" he yelled. His whole medical team stopped, and Gale and Nayuta just got to the scene. Nayuta was quick to Cass' side,
"Cass? What the-?" Nayuta couldn't finish, and Cass rapidly explained Rosco's condition as he examined the tech specialist.
"He could be in hypovolemic shock," he said,
"What class?" Nayuta asked, already using hand signals to tell the medical team how to approach the situation.
"Class three or four, he is also tachypneic." Nayuta watched Rosco and understood what Cass meant. Rosco's breathing was struggling but rapid. But the doctor's eyes widened, and he saw frothy foam coming from Rosco's mouth, and he was coughing up blood,
"Cass!" Nayuta pointed to Rosco's mouth. Cass looked, swore under his breath,
"Hemoptysis?" Cass questioned, "He may have Hemothorax and likely a collapsed lung," he said, his voice stern but filled with worry.
Cass soon moved his hand to where Rosco's own was, holding his side. Cass pressed slightly and could already tell that Rosco's ribs were fractured. He relayed the information to Nayuta, and the doctor assented, taking a mental note. Cass kept rapid-firing information,
"Under palpation, there's crepitus and diminishing breathing too. It's over his right lung…" Cass spoke,
"Could he have?" Nayuta asked, and Cass nodded,
"Hemopneumothorax," he confirmed, "Nayuta's concerns. Rosco could have both pneumothorax and hemothorax—a collapsed lung where there is air outside of the lung, and there could be blood in the same area.
"Rosco's losing too much blood…" he muttered. Nayuta ripped some material from his coat and gave it to Cass. The medic then sealed up his chest temporarily to stop the bleeding.
"We are not losing him, not on my watch."
After what felt like hours, it was only thirty seconds to a minute. The medical team managed to get Rosco to the medical bay.
"Hemothorax, multiple broken ribs, collapsed lung." Nayuta checked Rosco's vitals.
"Heart rate 146 and climbing. BP 68 over barely anything. Narrow pulse pressure. Breathing fast and shallow, there have been over 30 breaths a minute. Oxygen dropping."
"Skin's cold, mottled, lips blue. Cap refill over four seconds," he added after pressing a fingernail.
"Pulse is barely there." He shone a penlight into Rosco's eyes. "Right pupil unresponsive. GCS is 6, we're losing him fast."
"Class IV hypovolemic shock," Cass said. "He's lost about 40% of his blood. We need to move, now!" The team rushed in under his command.