As he's dragged to the car, Mike tries to explain. It's all there in his head. The reason he was there, the reason he followed Hadad. He'd worked through it on the drive. But it came out jumbled and broken. Each step was agony to his leg alone, and his stomach was so much worse.
He tried again in the car, trying to explain it. But he was loosing blood far too fast. The world was getting rather fuzzy around the edges, and remaining upright was becoming a problem. He may have asked if they were going to a hospital, or apologized for ruining the meeting. He knew this cold be really bad. Driving out to the desert to bury his body bad. At one point he tried to reach for the steering wheel, a desperate attempt to save himself, but he could barely lift his arm, let alone reach across the car.
He was barely conscious as they made their way inside, a cold sweat soaking through his shirt. Identifying where they were or why they were there was long gone from his mind. What thoughts remained were abstract at best, a vague acceptance that he was about to die because he had no strength to fight back.
That strange pleasure was the first thing he was truly aware of. As it flooded through him, he first thought maybe this is what death actually felt like. Because there was no way a feeling like that could be physical. But as the reality started to sink in, it came with an undercurrent of dread. A feeling like that wasn't something he could just shake off like it never happened.
The first thing he did was pull up his shirt, before even getting to his feet. The blood was still there, on his shirt. Evidence that he really had been shot. But there was no sign of it on his stomach. He prodded at the place he'd most certainly been shot, but there was nothing.
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He tried again in the car, trying to explain it. But he was loosing blood far too fast. The world was getting rather fuzzy around the edges, and remaining upright was becoming a problem. He may have asked if they were going to a hospital, or apologized for ruining the meeting. He knew this cold be really bad. Driving out to the desert to bury his body bad. At one point he tried to reach for the steering wheel, a desperate attempt to save himself, but he could barely lift his arm, let alone reach across the car.
He was barely conscious as they made their way inside, a cold sweat soaking through his shirt. Identifying where they were or why they were there was long gone from his mind. What thoughts remained were abstract at best, a vague acceptance that he was about to die because he had no strength to fight back.
That strange pleasure was the first thing he was truly aware of. As it flooded through him, he first thought maybe this is what death actually felt like. Because there was no way a feeling like that could be physical. But as the reality started to sink in, it came with an undercurrent of dread. A feeling like that wasn't something he could just shake off like it never happened.
The first thing he did was pull up his shirt, before even getting to his feet. The blood was still there, on his shirt. Evidence that he really had been shot. But there was no sign of it on his stomach. He prodded at the place he'd most certainly been shot, but there was nothing.
"What the hell?!"