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It had always been obvious that Victor-Sixty couldn't be trusted. He'd never had what it takes to go through a mission properly – not the focus, not the communicative skills, and certainly not the dedication.
All the more disappointing that Bloody missed the point of no return when it came to the idiot’s priorities, and paid the price for it.
He thinks of how, just for a second before the shots, he saw something dangerous – not scary, he doesn't get scared – in the glint of Sixty's lenses, and his head throbs. Though, to be quite fair, most of that pain is from getting stomped into that tacky fucking carpet. Even now, it hurts to look at bright lights, and the last thing Bloody remembers after the pain in his torso and the cracking of his mask is the sound of his shotgun going off.
His favourite, lovingly maintained shotgun, that Sixty took off of him and proceeded to kill his entire squad with.
Should have used that if he really wanted to kill me.
The remains of a pawn shop on the inner side of the building, hidden away from the main streets, are not the perfect place to recover, but they're as good as it will get. Not to mention they're far enough from wherever that cunt is sure to be wreaking havoc now. Bloody would very much like to be somewhere quiet right now.
The bullet holes are few and relatively shallow thanks to the decent quality of CP armor, but they're still there and still need to be patched up with something more substantial than "introducing regeneration-aiding substance into the system" as per the useless training course. At least the kit they were issued has tweezers.
It hurts like hell to take the bullets out, but the sight of his own blood comforts him. He glances at the pack of gauze and tosses it away, instead picking up the needle and thread. Who the hell knows when he'll get another chance at a pit stop – and it's not like he's bleeding any type of bad, by his measure. A generous amount of medical gel goes right on top of the crude self-applied stitches and under the bandages, and the rest is redirected into the embedded IV after a bit of deliberation. Might help with his head, if nothing else.
He still hasn't been successful in contacting Airwatch, only getting static in response to attempts at communication. He's pretty sure he saw some kind of notification pop up on his vision before passing out back there, but he'd failed to make out what it said, and he definitely isn't gonna find out now. The inlaid comms module probably broke on impact – not that Bloody knows much about technology, but this is the most logical conclusion to make.
Oh well. If he can't contact the Combine remotely, he'll just have to find a roving squad and have them radio in his situation. Maybe this time they'll finally give him a new headpiece instead of the beaten up one he's been stuck with for months. Surely lacking a working comms module is grounds enough for a replacement, since losing his fucking NVG wasn't.
In the meantime, maybe he'd do good to get a few hours of sleep in.
***
The sun is just about to rise behind the clouds when he wakes up, startled by the wailing of a Hunter making its way down the street. It's a right miracle he's had this long to rest, not to mention in quite a comfy armchair – courtesy of some desperate couple, probably. Its resell value is now significantly lower due to housing evidence of Bloody's patch-up job, though. Oh well.
It's not exactly easy to navigate in the winding streets of City-17. Inevitably, he grows frustrated even as the presence of light makes his surroundings considerably less disorienting, but his sanity seems to be saved by the sound of a car driving up behind him. He turns around to see the Combine vehicle slow down and signals for the driver to stop, jumping into the back seat as soon as it drives up to him.
"5943 reporting," he fires off as soon as he settles in and adjusts his loadout. "My squad was wiped out by a rogue unit last night and my comms are down. Hopefully yours aren't, because I need to get to a proper base for some gear replacements and a reassignment."
The driver pauses, evidently not having expected such a barrage of information, before clarifying:
"I assume you mean the squad that was initially meant to secure the mall yesterday?"
"Yup. Now hurry up, yeah? I can only take so much fucking static in my ears."
His new companion groans, evidently not pleased with the attitude, but taps the radio.
"Unit 6257 reporting. We have news on squad C-18. I got contacted by unit 5943. He's the only one left after a code 49 and is requesting assistance, but his comms are down. Over."
There's some barely audible noise from his helmet, just enough to be recognisable as speech but too quiet to make out the words.
"What? Are you sure?"
The noise persists for a good ten seconds. As if in response, 6257 sighs heavily and grips the wheel tighter.
"Affirmative. Contact squad P-12 and notify them about the situation. New ETA is 37 minutes. Over and out."
Bloody waits for the connection to be terminated before leaning forward.
"So?"
"So." The driver taps the soft grip and coughs before explaining. "Normally they'd have me turn right around to get you to base, but I've got a supply drop to get to a squad stationed right on the edge of the city, and it's time-sensitive, so you're going with me. Then I'll drop you off with the guys at the perimeter, and they'll deal with you then."
They don't sound too sure of themselves, but it's probably understandable, considering the relatively unusual nature of the situation. So now there's nothing to do except wait to get there.
The now well-illuminated streets pass them by, and Bloody feels his temporarily squashed anger and irritation rise up again.
What a fucking bother, to have to sit here and wait for the kind stranger to get him somewhere safe like some helpless little lad trying to get home after drinking too much in some shithole. All because of an unstable wet-behind-the-ears fucker being oh so sad about having had to follow orders almost half a year ago.
Whatever. He's gonna get his gear, he's gonna get a new squad, a new assignment, and eventually a chance to track down and put Sixty down for good.
And he's gonna do whatever needs to be done to make that happen soon.
His thoughts are interrupted by the car slowing down. The front door opens, and 6257 jumps out, gesturing for their impromptu passenger to do the same.
"C'mon, 59. Need some help here."
Bloody reaches for the door handle, and a chill slithers up his spine.
Something isn't right. 62's tense, somehow – has been since the transmission, but even more so now, standing right outside and waiting instead of attending to whatever it is that they need help with.
Either way, staying inside isn't really an option.
"Thanks. There's something stuck on the other side, and it's blocking the rear mirror view. Looks big."
That's a lie, and a horrible one at that, ripping at the seams even before it's fully formed.
"Right."
Bloody thinks back to the one-sided conversation he witnessed. 62's initial reaction, their request to notify the squad instead of doing it themselves, the cagey responses and mannerisms, and now this.
Whatever it is they were told about him, it's not good news.
Neither of them move in the quiet and uncomfortably still air.
One wrong move, mate...
"Right, um..."
A hand slowly sneaking up to a holster is all the confirmation he needs.
62's awkward and half-assed distraction maneuvre is cut off by a yelp as they clutch their shoulder, the gap in the armor plates quickly darkening. A kick to the stomach sends them to the ground, and Bloody wrestles the pistol out of their hand before they can even raise it.
"You take me for an idiot, huh?" Bloody steps on the wound to discourage any more struggle and leans down to pin their head to the ground with their own gun. "I want the fucking truth, and I want it now!"
Physical pain and panic never fail to make for good motivators, it seems, because 62 doesn’t mince their words answering the question:
"Oh fuck- They- They said you were deserviced!"
Bloody chuckles, bitter and joyless:
"And to put me down like a fucking dog, yeah?"
"N- they didn’t say it like that- AGH-"
The asphalt darkens around their shoulder as the boot presses down further.
"So they did. Well, sorry, but that’s not in my plans."
"Hey, wait-"
"Fuck off."
BANG.
The shot cleanly pierces the side of the soft headpiece, and 62 goes limp. Bloody stands back straight and stares at their body, the rush of mortal danger and the power trip's high waning as quickly as they came.
They said you were deserviced.
In other words: the Combine doesn't need you anymore, and there's nothing you can do about it.
The realisation is in no rush to set in, flowing down into his brain like molasses while he pats 62 down and searches the car for anything useful. He was lucky that they left all weapons except the pistol in the passenger seat, otherwise the fight might have not been so easy. The trunk does indeed have some supplies – doesn't seem to be a lot for a squad, but more than enough for a single person.
He looks over to the body. The ETA given by them is still hanging over his head, and the car probably has a tracker of its own – no use for trying to hide with it inside the city.
Bloody thinks on that for a moment. There's no Combine in the Wild, sure, but there's also no cushy infrastructure. Just the radioactive lakes, packs of Xen creatures and maybe the occasional rebel outpost.
Outposts. If Sixty joined the Resistance – and, really, it's not even a choice in his situation – then he’d most likely be trying to get out to one of those. Not a bad place to start. And then...
From what little info he has on the topic, he's aware that the wastes surrounding City-17 swap out for old forests some... some miles out north-east. A lot easier to hide in than an open field, and potentially easier to establish some kind of living in, as well.
Bloody debates swapping his mask for 62's before wincing at the idea and jumping into the driver's seat. All the future planning will come later. For now, it's time to press down on the gas and head for the perimeter checkpoint. Best case scenario – the CPs there will mistake him for 6257 and let him through with no issue. Worst case – well, this thing is very well-armored, and if he's the one carrying P-12's fresh supply of ammo, then it won't be too difficult to convince them to let him through.
And then he's finding and catching Victor-Sixty, taking back his shotgun and blowing his fucking brains out with it.