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“Get down!”
The movement is automatic. The enemy raises their gun and Simon’s body racts like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Tackle his charge to the ground – ignore the yelp. Ignore the pain. Ignore the soldier ten feet over falling dead in the dirt. Shift focus.
Grace is squirming beneath him. He can hear the gun catching. The enemy is moving to reload.
“Stay,” Simon hisses through his teeth. Grace’s body locks up, but he does as he’s told. Simon turns, taking advantage of the opening.
He lunges, reaching into his belt with one hand while the other wraps around the enemy’s throat. He ran out of ammo a while ago, rendering his standard-issue pistol little more than a paper weight until he can find more. Instead, he reaches for his combat knife.
The enemy soldier’s eyes widen. Simon can see the moment the man realizes that he’s about to die. The moment he loses hope. If Siomon were weaker, perhaps it would have made him hesitate. If Simon didn’t have someone to protect–
The blade disappears into the enemy’s neck. Only the hilt visible around the crimson erupting from the skin. The enemy looks at him with wide eyes before blood bubbles past their lips and their body slumps to the ground. Simon quickly pulls his knife free. He doesn’t bother to wipe off the blood. There would be no point. He’s already bathing in it.
“S-Simon…” Grace calls. Simon turns to find Grace having not listened. Standing directly in front of him, waving his hands wildly, face twisted in… concern. That expression doesn’t feel quite right. Simon doesn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that.
“Oh my god, are you okay? Are you hurt?? Oh my god you’re covered in blood we have to–”
“I’m fine,” Simon cuts him off. Grace’s brow furrows. Simon wipes the blade once on the front of his already bloody shirt before tucking it back into his belt. “Let’s move. We can’t stay here long.”
Grace scrunches up his face in annoyance, but doesn’t argue. Simon notices his eyes flicking down – looking at the mangled corpse at Simon’s feet – before he visibly steels himself. He knows it, too. Where there’s one, there’s more, and right now they can’t afford to run into any more.
Simon reaches out, closing his grip around Grace’s bicep. The blood on his palms smears across the sleeve of Grace’s muddied white shirt.
“Let’s go,” he commands.
Grace swallows and nods his head.