He wakes up screaming. His lungs are on fire, there's a bullet in his chest, he knows it, he felt it. He should be dead. He should be dead, not in agony, not in a strange place with his skin stinging like there are needles in it and drowning in his own blood.
He-- He's supposed to be dead. He remembers. He remembers watching the rocket, remembers hearing the gunshot.
He can't breathe, but the scream is still ringing in his ears as he wheezes, gasps for breath, then rolls to his front, pushing himself up onto shaky feet. He feels dizzy, his knees don't want to support him. He staggers, equilibrium off, confused and trembling as he tries to find something like calm, tries not to panic. There's something in his hand, and he glances down, trying to understand what it is with a brain that feels like it's working at a quarter of its usual speed. He doesn't understand this. Where is he? This can't be the afterlife, because he shouldn't be sick. But then, all things considered, perhaps he's in hell.
--There's blood. There's blood on his shirt, and as he lifts his free hand, fingers trembling, it feels tacky against his skin. He digs at the hole, finding only scar tissue beneath. This-- This doesn't make sense. How is it possible? (Perhaps he'd gone through the Gate, too? But-- no, he wouldn't be that lucky. And even if he had been, it would be awful, wouldn't it? He doesn't have any time left.)
When his breathing has calmed again, when he can draw in oxygen without choking, without coughing, he forces himself straighter, finally lifting his gaze to try to figure out where he is. It's-- not a city he knows, is it? Nothing looks familiar, no one looks familiar.
.. What is he supposed to do now? Edward is gone, their work is gone. And Alfons.. shouldn't be alive.
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He wakes up screaming. His lungs are on fire, there's a bullet in his chest, he knows it, he felt it. He should be dead. He should be dead, not in agony, not in a strange place with his skin stinging like there are needles in it and drowning in his own blood.
He-- He's supposed to be dead. He remembers. He remembers watching the rocket, remembers hearing the gunshot.
He can't breathe, but the scream is still ringing in his ears as he wheezes, gasps for breath, then rolls to his front, pushing himself up onto shaky feet. He feels dizzy, his knees don't want to support him. He staggers, equilibrium off, confused and trembling as he tries to find something like calm, tries not to panic. There's something in his hand, and he glances down, trying to understand what it is with a brain that feels like it's working at a quarter of its usual speed. He doesn't understand this. Where is he? This can't be the afterlife, because he shouldn't be sick. But then, all things considered, perhaps he's in hell.
--There's blood. There's blood on his shirt, and as he lifts his free hand, fingers trembling, it feels tacky against his skin. He digs at the hole, finding only scar tissue beneath. This-- This doesn't make sense. How is it possible? (Perhaps he'd gone through the Gate, too? But-- no, he wouldn't be that lucky. And even if he had been, it would be awful, wouldn't it? He doesn't have any time left.)
When his breathing has calmed again, when he can draw in oxygen without choking, without coughing, he forces himself straighter, finally lifting his gaze to try to figure out where he is. It's-- not a city he knows, is it? Nothing looks familiar, no one looks familiar.
.. What is he supposed to do now? Edward is gone, their work is gone. And Alfons.. shouldn't be alive.