Meteora
Title: Priorities
Word Count: 261
He’d just managed to get his eyes open a crack when a flashlight suddenly swung into his face, and with a slew of vicious curses he managed to cover his face with his bleeding hands. Above him, he heard Azazel chuckle as the light vanished.
“I’m glad you find this so funny,” Sketch hissed, partly from annoyance and mostly from pain.
“I’m allowed a sense of humor,” Azazel replied, his voice moving around to Sketch’s side. There was a slight pause, and then the heavy table pinning Sketch’s legs to the floor was lifted away. “For a moment I thought you’d fallen off the world on me.”
“I wish.”
“Stop wishing for things you don’t actually want,” Azazel chided, and clicked his flashlight on again. “Oh. Gross. Your leg’s broken pretty bad.”
“You don’t say.”
“Want a drink?”
“What I want is a medic,” Sketch remarked sourly, pulling his hands from his face to glare at his friend. Azazel was ignoring him for the moment, though, watching the other survivors of the explosion as the moved through the dust-laden air, the sense of frantic urgency that rippled through the remains of the building. After a moment, he coughed and rubbed his eyes, streaking dust and blood across his pale features.
“Medics are pretty occupied right now,” he said, dropping into the depression that Sketch lay in, balancing on his toes and he crouched to examine the damage to Sketch’s leg. “I can get you a drink, though.”
“There’s no medics, but there’s alcohol?”
“Hey, even terrorists have their priorities.”
Word Count: 261
He’d just managed to get his eyes open a crack when a flashlight suddenly swung into his face, and with a slew of vicious curses he managed to cover his face with his bleeding hands. Above him, he heard Azazel chuckle as the light vanished.
“I’m glad you find this so funny,” Sketch hissed, partly from annoyance and mostly from pain.
“I’m allowed a sense of humor,” Azazel replied, his voice moving around to Sketch’s side. There was a slight pause, and then the heavy table pinning Sketch’s legs to the floor was lifted away. “For a moment I thought you’d fallen off the world on me.”
“I wish.”
“Stop wishing for things you don’t actually want,” Azazel chided, and clicked his flashlight on again. “Oh. Gross. Your leg’s broken pretty bad.”
“You don’t say.”
“Want a drink?”
“What I want is a medic,” Sketch remarked sourly, pulling his hands from his face to glare at his friend. Azazel was ignoring him for the moment, though, watching the other survivors of the explosion as the moved through the dust-laden air, the sense of frantic urgency that rippled through the remains of the building. After a moment, he coughed and rubbed his eyes, streaking dust and blood across his pale features.
“Medics are pretty occupied right now,” he said, dropping into the depression that Sketch lay in, balancing on his toes and he crouched to examine the damage to Sketch’s leg. “I can get you a drink, though.”
“There’s no medics, but there’s alcohol?”
“Hey, even terrorists have their priorities.”