Dalien's got a fucked-up sense of humor.

Sebastian curses and throws himself forward under the factory’s assembly line as the men he’s supposed to be dealing with open fire. His leg opens up in the same heartbeat: a massive electric shock of pain spiraling up his thigh to his brain, white-hot and obliterating.

I’ve been shot, Seb thinks, stupidly, obviously. Then he hits the ground, and he doesn’t get up.

His leg is on fire. Knee-cap to hip. If it’s there. If it exists. Sebastian’s not sure, because there isn’t anything left; no flesh, no sensation, nothing except the all-consuming scream of his nerves. Sebastian’s breath catches raggedly in his teeth, not reaching his brain. He can’t breathe. Can’t think. A helpless sound escapes from the back of his throat; not quite a scream, although there’s not much difference. Around him, the factory machinery darkens. The world threatens to black out entirely. Sebastian’s eyes squeeze shut and he takes a breath, forcing it through lungs that want to shut down entirely in shock. His muscles twitch and spasm, spine cracking as he writhes on the floor. Dimly, he can feel both feet kicking helplessly at the dirt.

It’s the only reason Sebastian knows his leg hasn’t been amputated entirely.

He wastes precious moments curling into fetal position, grabbing uselessly at the gaping slash opened in his thigh, just to reassure himself it’s only a graze. His hand is instantly sticky with blood, liquid clotting over his palm and fingers. Only a scratch, though. Only the comet-trail of a bullet. With each breath pain snags inwards around Seb’s brain, a looming darkness that threatens to pull him under completely. Do it and you’re dead, Seb tells himself furiously. His fingers spasm on his thigh, tightening reflexively, digging in to the injury. Pain splashes through his brain again like solar-flares, grounding him. "Stay still and you’re dead," Seb tells himself, "Enough whining, get up, get up, MOVE –"

Around him gunshots slam into the air, one-after-another like the crack of thunder. It’s too loud to hear over. Too loud to think around. Sebastian slams his head back against the floor to focus himself, swallowing down curses. The second burst of pain narrows off the first, leaving him enough room to think. It brings him back, to the factory floor, to the problem at hand. He wastes precious seconds grabbing ear plugs out of his pocket and shoving them into his ears, but then again, if he went deaf Dalien’d probably kill him. Underneath the conveyor belt the air is hot and close. Sebastian pants as he flips himself over, sets his jaw, and begins determinedly dragging himself on his stomach towards the exit.

He has to ignore the whizzing pings as bullets come in a little too close for comfort; better ignore them then think about how small his chances really are. The earplugs don’t do much to drown out the sound; they’re cheap, and to be fair, the noise is uncomfortably close. The hired thugs haven’t figured out where Seb is yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Somewhere, Dalien's probably laughing his posh little ass off. Sebastian snarls, forces himself up on his elbows, and drags himself deeper under the conveyor. Above him, loose pieces of machinery swing and clank against each other, barely audible over the deafening fire.

“Fucker went under!” some brilliant soul finally realizes, “After him!”

Sebastian grits his teeth and tries to move faster. His left leg drags uselessly behind him. The fierce fiery slash of heat across his thigh throbs with each heavy pulse of his heart. He can feel the wet seep of blood working its way down his trouser-leg, leaving a slick smear over the floor behind him; not that it’s easy to distinguish from the rest of the muck. Sebastian’s deliberately not thinking about what exactly he’s dragging an open wound through. The air smells stingily of chemical waste, and the dust on the floor’d probably test positive for weirder things than industrial run-off.

Sebastian shakes his head to clear it. Not now. Think about it later – think about it when you’re through –

“Down here!” someone shouts.

Sebastian twists in time to see a dirty face peering under the machinery; heavy eyebrows, big nose. Whoever is looking is Eastern-European, hired for his indiscriminate hands, stupid and cruel. Seb curses again, inaudible under the sound of the gunshots. Not the sort of face you yell wait to.

The thug pulls back, his off-army boots visible for a minute before he crouches down to jam the barrel of his gun in Sebastian’s direction. Sebastian’s mouth nearly drops open. No one could be that stupid –

But Seb doesn’t bother to bet on it. He plants one foot on the floor – the uninjured leg – and uses it as leverage to shove himself behind a sorting machine. Just in time, too. The thug pulls the trigger, sending a thick stream of hot lead down the confined space beneath the conveyor belt. Bullets slam into the back of the sorting machine, denting massive craters in the metal. Sebastian thanks Christ for whoever decided on building these things out of inch-thick steel. It rings like a bell, but doesn’t give; eating up the automatic fire like it was designed for cover.

Which, of course, means ricochet. Seb’d feel bad for the poor thug who goes screaming backwards, eating his own rebounding shells. He would feel bad, only brain is entirely full of noise; there’s no room for thought, no room for anything but the deafening noise of lead-on-steel.

Seb’s not even entirely sure when the gunfire stops; even with the cheap plugs, his ears are ringing like a nail-gun's being fired directly into his eardrum, pounding against his brain. When he presses his fingers to his earlobe, they come away wet.

Sebastian grimaces, and checks his magazine. Not counting the round he’s got chambered, there’s three shots left in the pistol. It might be enough to get him out safe. Maybe. He hadn’t packed extra, the job’d be easy Dalien had rather happily told him, a low roil of anger turning in his stomach. "I’m going to kill the little freak."