- Joined
- Jan 1, 2003
- Messages
- 16,598
- Reaction score
- 417
Another R100 prompt, slight Steelshippyness...kinda.
/My god, that Silver's been shot!/
/Get the traitor!/
/Bashou...don't let go of my hand...don't let go.../
/Buson? ...oh no.../
And now Bashou was alone in his room, in his bed, both of which had ceased to be "theirs" nearly twelve hours ago. He lay in his typical manner with his hands folded over his stomach, on what was always his side of the bed.
"Idiot," he muttered, going over the day's events.
No, it wasn't Buson's fault. Bashou knew that. It was that traitor who decided to pick off the first officer he saw.
Buson wasn't even supposed to be in uniform. He hardly ever wore his uniform on his days off. He'd spilled something on his shirt as they were leaving the apartment and grabbed his uniform jacket to cover it.
And the traitor saw it and fired.
"Idiot," he growled, the scene replaying.
Buson had always said that he was sure he'd die doing something heroic. But it wasn't to be. Shot down by a grunt outside the cafeteria, that had to be the worst way for an officer to die. Nothing heroic about that; he was shot and he fell, and that was it.
The traitor had been swiftly dealt with, as a dozen witnessing agents sicced their pokemon on him. But all Bashou could do was hold his dying partner's hand and watch helplessly as his other half faded before his eyes.
"Idiot," he hissed, his fists balling.
They were...he was a Silver. He wanted to think there was more he could have done, but aside from ignoring Buson and taking down the traitor himself, there wasn't and he knew it.
And he couldn't have left Buson. Not with such little time left between them, not with others there to snuff the traitor. He did what was right, what was logical, and it wouldn't have gone any other way.
"Idiot," he sighed, his eyes closing.
Bashou pictured what things would have been like if the situation was reversed. He knew Buson would put on a brave face in public, but that would have melted the second he got back to the apartment. For all his professionalism in the field, Buson was considerably more emotionally driven. He could see the tears falling, the sheet matted in tense fists, and who knew what else.
Overreacting. Buson would have cried and carried on and to what ends? It wouldn't have changed fate one bit. Bashou squeezed his eyes tight to dispel the image.
"Idiot," he said, but he didn't mean it at all.
/My god, that Silver's been shot!/
/Get the traitor!/
/Bashou...don't let go of my hand...don't let go.../
/Buson? ...oh no.../
And now Bashou was alone in his room, in his bed, both of which had ceased to be "theirs" nearly twelve hours ago. He lay in his typical manner with his hands folded over his stomach, on what was always his side of the bed.
"Idiot," he muttered, going over the day's events.
No, it wasn't Buson's fault. Bashou knew that. It was that traitor who decided to pick off the first officer he saw.
Buson wasn't even supposed to be in uniform. He hardly ever wore his uniform on his days off. He'd spilled something on his shirt as they were leaving the apartment and grabbed his uniform jacket to cover it.
And the traitor saw it and fired.
"Idiot," he growled, the scene replaying.
Buson had always said that he was sure he'd die doing something heroic. But it wasn't to be. Shot down by a grunt outside the cafeteria, that had to be the worst way for an officer to die. Nothing heroic about that; he was shot and he fell, and that was it.
The traitor had been swiftly dealt with, as a dozen witnessing agents sicced their pokemon on him. But all Bashou could do was hold his dying partner's hand and watch helplessly as his other half faded before his eyes.
"Idiot," he hissed, his fists balling.
They were...he was a Silver. He wanted to think there was more he could have done, but aside from ignoring Buson and taking down the traitor himself, there wasn't and he knew it.
And he couldn't have left Buson. Not with such little time left between them, not with others there to snuff the traitor. He did what was right, what was logical, and it wouldn't have gone any other way.
"Idiot," he sighed, his eyes closing.
Bashou pictured what things would have been like if the situation was reversed. He knew Buson would put on a brave face in public, but that would have melted the second he got back to the apartment. For all his professionalism in the field, Buson was considerably more emotionally driven. He could see the tears falling, the sheet matted in tense fists, and who knew what else.
Overreacting. Buson would have cried and carried on and to what ends? It wouldn't have changed fate one bit. Bashou squeezed his eyes tight to dispel the image.
"Idiot," he said, but he didn't mean it at all.
