agogelogs | AREN'T I SUPPOSED TO WANNA FIGHT?

WHO? prompto

ryuji, and hei

dipolar.
WHAT? hei is delirious and thinks prompto is someone he isn't.
WHEN? sometime after noctis' kidnapping and hei's sort-of recovery.
ANYTHING ELSE? obvious violence and swearing, dark thoughts?, alcoholism...

(needed to get away from dorian, if only for a little while. the nurses tried to warn him against it, force him down against the cot he's been staining for days now, but he's stubborn enough to shake them. even as weak, as beaten, and as bandaged as he is, it isn't difficult with his abilities. they're taking their own well-needed rests now as he slips out with their motor oil rum and wanders down the beach.

no one should be out here, only scrabbling supply routes to boats plucking scared soldiers away from the cove like angels come to collect souls for the sky — one that's cleared despite the regency's fog. he can't see the stars, but he wasn't looking for them. the reason his face is aimed up is out of some desperation, searching the near-black ceiling for any sign of regency ship or their own despite knowing he'll never find a thing. they're between space and time, not floating just outside of their atmosphere to wait hand and foot on their soldiers. they're alone and it's scary.

noctis is gone and he's horrified, drinking from the flask to numb some of the anxiety balling up in his chest and throat.

it's his fault as much as it is their commander's, hei knows that. he had every chance to warn them of what was coming and all he told his group was that it would be best if they stayed in pairs. in pairs, as if that would make a fucking difference in the end. now, thanks to his desire to stay undercover in defence of leaders he doesn't even trust, everything's been lost and he's survived again. uselessly trudging with an occasional slip and stagger in the sand, looking pathetic to spite himself.

still, pitiful he may be, when another pair of dampened footsteps approach from behind it's like a very cruel switch flips. COST won't be out here, surely busy with evac, and that goes double for the ANZAC few who were more than ready for the retreat. so his eyes drop, chin still raised, and he listens carefully with a very slow tuck-away of his drink and the unlatching of the crude dagger his bayonet's been repurposed into. prepares to engage the regency agent, turkish soldier, whichever this scene's interloper happens to be—

and his sudden, silent sprint through the fog reaches prompto in a split second, blade whipped in a savage arch at his chest.)

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[They're late.

Not that Prompto would know. He's long since lost track of time, too distracted by the possibility of stumbling afoul of enemy soldiers—Turkish or Regency—and too stressed and exhausted to care. But, split from the rest of the groups and forced to take a roundabout, disorienting maze of a route back to Lone Pine (and this still isn't Lone Pine, so fuck this route, tbh), most everyone else is already back at the tunnels.

It's pure luck that Hei's blade doesn't meet its target. It has nothing to do with skill (or a lack of, on Hei's part); Prompto just happens to glance forward, away from Ryuji, and right at Hei when he bursts through the fog. It sends him staggering back in something that isn't quite a dodge, reflexively trying to get his rifle between them, and the tip of the blade catches him across the shoulder.

Ever graceful, he trips backwards and goes down ass-first in the sand.

Oh fuck.]

(blood sluices off of his dagger and hei follows prompto to the ground, aiming to followthrough with his attack. as dizzy as he is from dorian's attack days ago, he has trouble discerning the uniform in the bleak grey, blinking blotches of colour out of his vision when his cold sweat beads at a brow smeared with stringy hair and mud. it threatens to stagger him, but he has to ensure this one doesn't make it back to camp. he has to.

for noctis' sake, m's sake — people who actually care about the lives of the soldiers waiting for their evacuation.)

Die. (a growl through stained teeth, straddling narrow hips, the bayonet attachment is flipped expertly around a finger and caught by its handle.

thrusting the blade down into the meat of prompto's bicep, tip sinking through and burying itself into the sand, he lets it hold him down as pupils burn with red light. it signals his ability's ignition, too bright to look into directly, what little he can muster in the regency's power-dampening fog rolling like blue radiation off of his outline.)

AREN'T I SUPPOSED TO WANNA FIGHT?

what up, this is so late (lmk if i should change anything)

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