Quatre. PG-13. ~300 words. Violence.
Flashing lights, boots pounding on metal stairs, hastily shouted commands ringing off the cold walls. Heart in his throat, Quatre skidded around a sharp corner, nearly striking the wall before gathering his feet under him again. The semi-automatic clutched under his arm dug harshly into his flesh, forming bruises that wouldn’t be noticed for days.
Quick fingers keyed in the passcode, a quiet prayer of thanks on his lips as the door slid open with a rush of displaced air. He dashed through it, down the hallway until it branched. He licked salt from his lip. One minute, maybe a minute and a half until lockdown. A split-second decision had the gun swinging up into his hands, aimed and fired.
Scorched circuits hissed and rough shouts echoed in the closed space as he darted behind the safety of a service entrance. The light blinked red, already sealed shut. He flattened himself against the wall, peering through the insufficient light.
Two. Only two. Letting out a steadying breath, Quatre dropped to a knee and laid down one sweep of fire before scrambling back again. A gruff voice called in man down, their location and a request for support. Heavy footsteps approached, cautious but not cautious enough.
Quatre jammed the butt of the gun into the man’s throat, catching a flash of white-eyed surprise. A ragged shout tore from his own throat, full of frustration and rage. Tempered steel cracked bone with a sick crunch. Incomprehension flashed across a suntanned face, death following swiftly on its heels.
Disgust clutched his stomach with iron claws, gut-wrenching hate for himself and for never-ending wars sent him stumbling back. Stubbornly, with a low snarl, he pushed it down, shoving away from the wall. At best, he had thirty seconds left.