Chapter Text
His entire body felt like it was on fire, but he still ran. Through bushes, trees, and foliage he practically flew through the forest, his blood staining the plants, leaving an obvious trail in their wake. He could only hope those girls hadn’t told them where he was really going, or that if they had, rain would wash away the evidence that he’d been there. He clutched his abdomen, the blood flowing freely through the gaps in his fingers. How long had he been running? It was nightime now, that much he could tell, and the adrenaline was finally beginning to wear off. His legs buckled and shook as he willed them to keep moving. He refused to die like this, and he refused to be brought back to that hellhole. His mind wandered briefly back to his accomplice, and he uselessly hoped they hadn’t found her out. But then, worrying about it wouldn’t put her out of danger. She was a smart woman, she’d be fine.
Suddenly, his foot smashed against a stone and his body lurched forward, sending him sprawling down a hill. He screamed, free hand grasping desperately for anything to grab onto, to stop the fall, but he couldn’t keep a solid grip on anything. He finally retracted his hand, palm gnarled and scraped from the stones and branches, and reached it up to shield the back of his head, his other hand still uselessly clutching the wound on his side. Finally, something broke his fall, and two voices joined in his shouting. Just as he’d knocked into one of the girls before, now he’d landed on another person. The guards? The ones who’d hunted after him, shot him, had he seriously ran straight into them? It figured that he’d done his hunter’s jobs for them, that was just his luck. As he rolled past the two into a patch of fern, his mind returned to what would face him once they realized who he was. His vision was blurred, and he could see the outline of his glasses beside him, probably destroyed completely now. Then his gaze rose to the two figures, blotchy silhouettes of a tall, muscular man, and a small more delicate looking woman. He’d landed on the man, evidently, and the woman was helping him to his feet.
‘This is it.’
He thought to himself, breaths shallow and ragged. He was going to die. Whether to his injuries or their cruelty was the only thing left to contemplate. No freedom, no escape, they had been telling the truth. The only way a traitor leaves is dead. He let his eyes close, trying his best to swallow the whimpers of pain from his many injuries as the adrenaline finally abandoned him entirely, and he was left to fester in the agony. He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.
“H-Hannah what…”
The male voice began, and Spencer realized he didn’t recognize it. He opened his eyes again, and immediately regretted it as the woman let out a shrill scream at his condition. And then it hit him, they weren’t guards, none of them would have been so horrified by the sight of him, they’d revel in it. Survivors, they were survivors! Not guards, or raiders, they were survivors! Maybe… he had a chance after all?
“¡Santa mierda!” (Yeah, I’m a no sabo kid, you got me. Laugh it up.)
The man shouted, and Spencer could vaguely make out that he was approaching.
“Hey- hey can you hear me?!”
“Is- oh my god! Is he dead?! Dying?! Diego- what- what do we do?!”
The woman cried, most of Spencer felt relieved, hopeful even, but a small part wished they would shut up. Hadn’t he earned a peaceful, quiet death? A wheezing cough escaped him, and he could taste the hot, metallic blood that was pooling from the back of his neck and into his mouth. It trickled down his chin, and he could feel his vision go dark.
“FUCK- HE’S DYING! HANNAH!”
The man shouted, and Spencer gave a weak, smack to the man’s hand as it reached towards him. Of course he couldn’t die in peace, he had to listen to them scream and grab at him.
“We have to help him, come on!”
At that, Spencer almost wanted to scoff. Couldn’t they see he was dying? For God’s sake, he’d been shot! Trying to help him would be like trying to put a band-aid on a bullet wound, which, now that he thought of it, they just might attempt it. But then, the fact that they might try to, of all things, help him finally registered in full. No, he must be delirious, the blood loss was getting to his head. Nobody just ‘helps’ another person for nothing anymore, it was a ridiculous notion. Even he had had to earn help to escape, work for it, unless they wanted something from him they wouldn’t even try. And then that thought threw him right back into his earlier fear. That was it, they wanted him for something! What would they do to him? No, he couldn’t let this happen, he needed to run! He needed to get up and run!
“Is- can we even do anything?! What do we do?! How do we-”
“We have to try, you know we have to!”
But… he was so tired. And in so much pain..
“No! No! No! Keep your eyes open! You’re gonna be alright!”
“I can try to stop the bleeding, get him to the truck!”
The woman suggested, and finally, Spencer slipped into the void, and it all mercifully faded away, at least for now.
Should they help, or is he already as good as dead? It’s your call. (Also until I get an answer I’m not going to do anything cus I can’t make my own decisions)