His first thought is this: he doesn’t want to forget.
Of course, that’s not what’s going on. There’s no thick metal cuffs biting into the raw skin of his arm, holding him down while he twitches in uncontrollable agony. No echoes of “wipe him” ringing in his ears on repeat, a cacophony of words that slowly lose their meaning as they play over his screams. No metal contraptions encircling his head, buzzing with the sound of the smallest yet most powerful prison he’s ever known. But he can’t move and electricity is coursing through him and-
There’s footsteps. Heavy, trodden footsteps that are approaching with purpose, and Bucky knows he has to move- move, now- but his body doesn’t obey and suddenly those footsteps belong to a man and that man is on him and he reaches out and grabs the first thing his hands find purchase on.
And that, of course, is that damn shield.
The same shield that was used to kill a man- a boy, really- in cold blood. In cold blood, yes, but the real blood still rests hot and fresh on the sidewalk, spilled red for the world to see.
Walker’s on top of him, and he tries to wrestle the shield away, because it should be Sam’s. It should have been Sam’s a long time ago and it definitely should have been Sam’s before it was irreparably stained dark red in the true fashion of current-day America. There’s a bunch of metaphorical bullshit to analyze with it, but really, all Bucky needs now is for John fucking Walker to let go.
As fate would have it, that’s not what happens. (Fate has never been kind to him, though, so what was he really expecting?)
Bucky’s vibranium arm is still twitching, useless at his side, and Walker goes right ahead to take advantage of this. He plants his knee into the metal crook of the elbow, shifts his weight, and pins the arm down with a strength that he shouldn’t possess.
There’s a lot of things that shouldn’t be happening right now, but…
It creaks softly under the force, and there’s a flashing moment of genuine fear as Walker raises the shield above his head, crazed eyes locking onto Bucky’s own, and he finds himself internally laughing at the irony. Because wouldn’t it be just the thing to go out with, right? James “Bucky” Barnes, best friend of Steve Rogers, murdered by the very symbol he came to represent.
In an uncharacteristic stroke of fortune- or perhaps just one of those near-death adrenaline rushes he’s oh-so-familiar with- Bucky manages to swing his left arm back up and intercept the shield on it’s arc downwards. Vibranium meets vibranium; Unstoppable force meets immovable object. Something’s got to give.
Walker screams, teeth clenched with manic rage in his eyes, and well. For all that talk about “leverage” with Zemo, he sure finds himself missing it now. Because John is on top of him. Because John is fueled by palpable grief and searing anger- misdirected, sure, but it’s not like Bucky’s in a position where they can sit down and chat about who’s really at fault. It would be too easy if Walker wasn’t teetering over the edge of insanity.
The shield digs into his arm, an exponential chart of damage as soon as the first hit comes. As soon as the metal pushes its way through, John keeps going and going and Bucky is helpless to stop it because he’s pinned down by a man on a mission to destroy whatever’s in sight. A deafening groan of creaking metal fills the air as his arm becomes mangled beyond recognition, slammed into again, and again, and again.
Against the laws of physics, it seems, this unstoppable force has won. Bucky hopes his face conveys how pissed the Wakandans are going to be at Walker for that.
Thankfully, John seems way too fixated on the destruction of his arm, unaware of Sam tactfully rising and rushing in. Bucky is relieved, for a moment, before-
Walker’s head snaps to the side, and with reflexes too fast, too fast, bloodstained fingertips curl around the trigger of his gun and he pulls. The shots ring out, two of them, and they’re loud- there’s too much sound everywhere- and Sam collapses. And Bucky desperately scrambles to stand, to get to Sam, because he’s hurt. He’s hurt, and Bucky can see the red blossoming on his right thigh, and like the noise, there’s too much red everywhere today.
He’s distracted, momentarily, but Walker’s no longer walking the line, and Bucky turns to his smug face as he says, “This is your own fault, you made me do this,” raising the gun to Sam’s chest.
There’s no way in hell that Bucky’s letting that happen.
He forces himself to stand in a wave of adrenaline, and fuck rule number two; Walker deserves every last bit of this. You don’t shoot Sam Wilson, and you certainly don’t aim for the kill. Sam’s too good, too kind and caring in a way that borders on naivety, but not quite. He would never go for the kill, not if he could avoid it, and Bucky admires him for that. It comes so naturally to Sam, who’d rather talk things through than escalate conflict, and Bucky tries to emulate that in whatever twisted way he can.
Now though? Well, there always seems to be a reason to slip back into the persona he despises.
Bucky throws himself violently at John, aiming for the neck with his right arm- the only one currently working. He pushes all his weight into his movements, causing Walker to stumble and misfire the gun into a corner of the warehouse, before it falls to the floor with a clang and Bucky kicks it away. He straightens up, and Walker growls through his teeth, the soldiers’ eyes meeting once more.
John’s face is flushed scarlet and there is pure, unadulterated rage that brews in his eyes. Rage that blazes hot and wild, an untamable fire that’s only growing, only swelling like lava streaming from a volcano, destroying everything in its path. And Bucky- well, he’s right in that path.
Walker thrusts him to the ground like a sack of flour, both their bodies dropping heavily with a thud as they connect to the concrete floor. Bucky tries to push back, tries to fight, but John is far, far gone, deep into a mindset that neither Bucky nor Sam can drag him out of.
He glances towards Sam, who’s still slumped over, hands pressed vehemently against his thigh as the blood pools out of him. His hands are stained, just like the shield, just like every goddamn fragment of today’s events. Their eyes meet- only for a second- and Bucky takes one look at the glazed-over expression caught on Sam’s face, and knows he needs immediate medical attention. As if the bullet wound didn’t tell him that already, but it’s one thing to know logically, and another to see it mapped out in the pained expression of your friend’s face.
Walker, though, he seems to not have gotten the message that he’s in real deep shit now. He can’t- he can’t kill both of them, rationally. Sure, Bucky may be pinned and down a functioning arm, but all John wants is the shield and the title for his name, not stripped and bleached of it as it should be. And yeah, obviously Bucky will fight tooth and nail for what Sam so rightfully deserves, but Sam can’t have it if he’s bleeding out in a warehouse; priorities are important.
John will leave them beaten and bloody, probably cleansed of the Captain America title due to backlash anyway, so it’ll all work out.
Except… Except that’s not what happens.
Because Walker still looks deranged and is toeing the line of sanity, bright blue eyes flitting around before settling their sight on Bucky’s arm. His vibranium arm, which is already unusable in its current state. And there’s a hunger there, a primal hunger that Bucky fears as John bears his claws and digs his nails deep into the plating of the arm, ripping it apart- tearing it from his body.
And it burns, it burns with a pain unimaginable, but it is imaginable because he’s felt this before, hasn’t he? And he screams, screams in a way that blends too perfectly with memories, screams loud and without consciousness. Reality blurs and he’s brought back to the days before the Winter Soldier, the days on the cusp of his unwitting transformation to HYDRA’s obedient pet. Where torture was constant and his throat was raw, and the doctors poked and prodded, and shredded and teared. Metal fusing with his shoulder in agonizing heat as they soldered his new fist to bare skin. Sharp pain as thousands of needle marks littered his body, serum flowing through his veins, enough to heal, enough to keep him from death even though that’s all he could have wanted-
His arm comes off. Not in the way Ayo had deactivated it, because though unexpected that was relatively painless. No, his arm comes off, is ripped off, the very mechanism connected directly to his body destroyed as Walker pulls and pulls and won’t stop pulling despite the screaming. Because they never listen to the screams. They never stop for the pain.
“Bring back memories, Barnes?” Walker asks, and yeah. Yeah, it does.
Distantly, he’s sure Sam is watching this, watching as he’s literally pulled apart, but he’s too caught up in the perverted recollection to even register that fact.
Bloody nails cut deep into his shoulder and he flashes between HYDRA and Walker- not quite sure who’s who. Does it matter, really, when the pain is the same? (Yes, of course it matters, because he’s not a weapon anymore, not a killer. But he can’t even discern if either of those things are true.)
There’s voices, then, and at first they sound like Zola, or Rumlow, or Pierce, or any other omnipotent figure the Winter Soldier had to obey. But Sam’s kind tone leaks through the haze, and Bucky attempts to ground himself to the here and now, since he’s no use to Sam reliving old memories.
John’s distracted, he realizes belatedly. They’re both talking and Bucky can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but that doesn’t matter since John’s distracted, and that’s the opportunity he needed. And yeah, he can’t really fight back now, but barbed words can sting just as much as a fist. At least in his experience.
“You don’t get to inherit everything Steve worked so hard for.” Bucky says, going straight for the heart. He’s become a master at picking up the tiniest insecurities, exploiting them, though in John’s case he wears this fact on his sleeve. He’s no Steve Rogers, and Walker is very much aware of that.
In fairness, it does hit right where Bucky expects it to, Walker’s face pinching in a ugly way. Unfortunately, though, it’s not particularly helpful in putting the situation to rest by non-violent means. John’s face twists into a scowl.
His head is smashed against the solid floor, which is admittedly not great, but at least he’s not shot. Bullet wounds are a hell of a lot harder to heal than concussions. There is a tinny ringing in his ears, high pitched and echoey, and he’s pretty sure there was a crack as well. But John doesn’t slam his head in again, so it’s a momentary win, despite the dizziness.
Walker gets up, and there’s a concerning amount of time between him removing his weight and Bucky actually realizing he’s moved. By the time he does notice, John is nearing him again, with something dark in his hands, but it’s not like Bucky could do much anyway. The ringing hasn’t quite subsided and a bit of nausea is creeping up his throat as his head swims. Yeah, probably a concussion.
He hopes Sam is faring better, but he does have a couple of bullet holes, so perhaps that’s delirious, wishful thinking.
John’s on Bucky again in an instant, white-knuckled grip so tight his hands are literally shaking with rage. Walker digs his knee into the tender, bloody stump of his shoulder, and Bucky tries to hone that stare Sam says he’s so good at, attempting to focus on John’s face. He groans in pain as the knee digs in deeper. He’s no stranger to pain, but fuck, does it never stop hurting.
Walker violently shoves the dark object- a dirty rag, from what it tastes like- in Bucky’s mouth. It’s such a sudden move, it takes him by surprise- though, that could be the concussion. Bucky weakly grabs at John’s wrist, because he can’t- he can’t breathe- and he’s not the Winter Soldier anymore, but if he’s not the Winter Soldier, why is he being bound and gagged like a pig for slaughter?
It’s too late when he notices the predatory look in Walker’s steely eyes, shockingly familiar in the absolute worst of ways. It’s a look of ravenous hunger, a look of a starved man who needs to be satiated.
In the back of his mind, he registers John’s mouth moving, facing away, talking to someone. Sam. Yeah, Sam. He’s here, and he’s hurt, and Bucky’s doing nothing to help. Even as John walks away for the second time, it’s like he’s bound to the floor, immobile, weak and defenseless, muzzled like the HYDRA scum he is. (He’s not, though, not anymore-)
(But if he’s not, then why-)
Walker returns. Bucky tilts his head to look at Sam, Sam, who’s still bleeding out, now tied down to the leg of a table. Sam who is so good, and now he’s gonna have to- he’s gonna have to see-
He averts his eyes. Stares at the ceiling. Prays to a god he’s long since stopped believing in that John’s not going to do what he thinks he’s going to do. It never helps, but it’s not like he can do anything else.
There’s a weight as the shield is shoved against his chest, painfully, but it doesn’t matter. A soft metallic sound chimes through Bucky’s ears, and Walker’s undoing his belt.
He thinks of dark cells, sweaty men, air sticky and humid. Cruel laughs, begging, teasing, praising- whatever they wanted. No names and faces, but the dragging feeling of fingertips on hot skin.
It’s not- he didn’t want it. Doesn’t want it.
But again, when have his “wants” ever mattered?
Sam’s saying something, yelling something, and his voice shocks Bucky back to reality. Sam’s… here. And if Sam’s here-
Walker’s hands greedily travel to his own belt, and it’s all he can do to at least struggle. He’s not going to- Sam’s not going to see him succumb to the mercy of Walker so easily. Bucky doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want it.
Not again, not again, not again-
He’s having trouble breathing, through the gag, but still he flails his arm and kicks his legs and tries to get Walker the fuck off of him. Blackness encroaches on his vision quickly, but hell if that’s stopping him. He’s not sure if he can do this again. If he’ll make it out to the other side in a way fit for living. So if this is his last battle, he’s damn well going to fight it.
It doesn’t matter though. It never does. John yells at him, something his oxygen-deprived mind can’t understand, but it’s clearly nothing good because his right arm- his only arm- is beat against the concrete. He can’t hear the snap, but something definitely breaks, judging by the pain that shoots through his wrist. It’s another injury to add to the ever growing list.
There’s nothing he can do. There’s a sort of resignation in that thought, that he’s utterly and completely screwed, and there’s nothing he can do. Bucky feels himself slipping into an almost dissociative state- never unconsciousness, he’s not lucky enough for that- but his eyes glaze over and everything becomes slightly numb.
He’s still able to feel Walker’s grimy hands as they roughly pull at his pants, slipping his jeans to his ankles before running a finger along his thigh. Still feels his blood encrusted nails dig into the soft flesh, leaving mottled bruises in their wake. Still sees John’s crooked sneer morphing into a twisted smile through bleary eyes.
It’s enough sensation- familiar enough sensation- that he knows he really, really can’t do this. Not that his self-imposed tolerance matters to anyone fucking him, but there’s no way he’s going to be able to relive this recurring nightmare. With Walker, no less. HYDRA, not HYDRA- it doesn’t make a difference.
Just when he thought things were looking up. Just when he thought things could get better. He was making amends! He was going to court-mandated therapy! Him and Sam were finally on better terms, finally starting to get along, finally about to take back the shield. And now...
Sam’s here now. It’s something that he keeps reminding himself of, for better or for worse. Even though the fuzzy line between the Winter Soldier and James “Bucky” Barnes slowly blends together, he knows Sam is here.
And, well. He really wishes Sam wasn’t here.
Bucky manages to choke out a plea. “Get off… Get offa me.”
It’s a new feeling, the ability to beg and plead. Not being controlled and manipulated to just take what’s given without complaint. The fact that it does absolutely nothing makes him feel all the more helpless.
Walker presses his face close to Bucky’s own, hot breath rolling over his cheeks as John hisses through clenched teeth, “Don’t ruin this for me.”
There’s a brief moment of respite where Bucky’s sure John is going to stop, to realize how deep a hole he’s dug himself, but then his hand is on Bucky’s hip, pulling out the knife he keeps sheathed there. Walker moves so efficiently that Bucky’s eyes can’t even follow the movement- it’s just a blur of pale skin. One minute, John’s body looms over him, the next, a knife is pressed through the soft flesh of his palm, embedding in the concrete beneath. Bucky’s body goes rigid as the pain catches up with the action, biting down on the rag so hard he probably tears through it.
Rape and torture. For someone who’s supposed to represent the American dream, his methodology aligns pretty close with HYDRA Nazis. But then again, the American government has always been based around hypocrisy.
Walker drops the knife and fervently grabs handfuls of Bucky’s bare hips, reality once again locking in as he’s propped up and splayed on John’s legs. It’s not long before Walker’s thrusting forcefully into Bucky, muttering incoherent nonsense that he can’t even spare a thought towards.
He has two options here: Remain cognisant, or retreat into his mind. Neither are good.
It’s not really a choice- it never is- but there’s just so much sensation that Bucky can’t help but feel every jerk, every spasm, every slap of skin against skin over and over again. The smell of sweat is heavy and noxious in the stagnant air of the warehouse, the coppery tang of blood mixing in and creating a putrid concoction.
Walker settles into a rhythm, and Bucky can’t help the squeaks of pain that periodically escape his lips, blood dribbling wetly out of his open mouth.
An aura of despondency takes hold, his own body giving up. The repetitive beat of their hips crashing together plays loudly in Bucky’s ears, John’s greedy moans accompanying the melody. Walker begins to talk in a low, filthy voice, words jumbling together. He catches key phrases that he’s sure John wants him to hear, like “probably used to being used,” and “Cap,” and “HYDRA,” and of course “...lie still like you’re supposed to and enjoy it!”
Bucky’s used to being berated, that’s- that’s not uncommon. It wasn’t, at least. But having free will and still finding himself in this situation? Humiliated and used? It’s just… unfair, at this point.
He’s lost a lot of blood by now (and, some deeper part of his brain reminds him that Sam probably has, too) so it’s not even a surprise when Walker uses those fucking nails of his to dig deep into his sensitive flesh, drawing more spurts of the crimson liquid easily. Bucky’s vision is blackening, darkness seeping in almost cruelly, not completely taking over.
It’s not enough, though, and Walker starts hammering into him frantically all of a sudden, a man deranged, and all Bucky can do is let out agonal grunts through his blood-soaked gag. His eyes stare blankly, just waiting for it to be over. It always ends, eventually. And if he passes out or dies before then, well, it’s probably for the better.
He tries to think of better times. Of Steve. Of his mom and his dad and his sisters. Of the soft swing of forties music on the radio while he’s deployed. Of Coney Island, and rides with his sickly best friend. Of dances and cute dames. Even of Sam, who he’s formed a begrudging and tentative friendship with. If it could count as that. But it’s something he likes all the same. He imagines visiting Sam’s family, his sister and the nephews he’s heard so much about.
It still can’t block out the incessant slapping of flesh against meaty flesh, or the sharp pains searing through every nerve of his body, but that- that would be too much to hope for, wouldn’t it?
Walker makes a weird move against his hips. Lifts up inside him, uncomfortably. Bucky catches his eyes- terrifyingly piercing and impatient, waiting for something. Expecting something.
He’s not sure how much he has left to give.
Apparently, his lack of response is all the permission Walker needs to try something different, something more aggressive. Instead of a persistent, aching pain between his thighs, John continues with sharp thrusts that start tearing inside of him. Ripping violently and making both of their lower bodies slick with blood. It flows down Bucky’s thighs and drips onto the cement floor.
He thinks that’s going to be it, that Walker only wanted hell knows what- just. Bucky hoped he got it already. That he was satisfied. But there’s suddenly a thick hand across his throat, wrapping tightly around his neck and choking him with insatiable fingers. John jerks frantically, screaming in a way he knows Bucky will hear, “You think you’re better than this? You think you’re better than me?” He lets out a manic and hysterical laugh, pupils blown wide, “Look at me, you fucking machine!”
And yeah, he can give Walker that.
Bucky twists his head, their eyes locking, and he makes sure to put as much hate as he can muster into the gaze. He knows he’s downright scary on a good day- at least, that’s something Sam’s told him- so he hopes the iciness of his blue eyes doesn’t lack too much conviction.
He’s determined to win the staring contest because hey, that’s what John wanted, right? For Bucky to look at him? But all hope of coming out victorious (and wow, it’s insane to think there was any victory that could be attained on his end) disintegrates before his eyes as Walker goes faster and faster, and god, fuck, it just really, really hurts.
He knows he’s on the precipice of something, just not quite sure whether it’s death or something else entirely. Bucky turns his head to the side, a vain attempt to hide his face, breathing heavy through his nose in uneven spurts. It all starts to come to a head and it’s just too much, the pain, the humiliation, the fact that he’s being used as some sex doll again, because the world has it out for him. He’s sorry, okay? All the horrible and shitty things he did as the Winter Soldier haunt him, and yeah, maybe he deserves the punishment, but it’s too much. The oppressive air he can hardly breathe, filled with blood and sweat and sex, Walker’s breath heavy on his neck, nails still digging into his throat, knowing that Sam’s still sitting there, injured and watching Bucky being used-
His eyes blink involuntarily, eyelashes fluttering as his face heats further and tears begin to form. His face scrunches up in a way he can’t control, and Bucky just tries to bury his face further into the cold ground.
Walker seems to sense this, somehow, like a vulture swooping down to steal the last dredges of emotion left inside him. He senses the weakness, his crumbling sanity as everything falls apart around him for the umpteenth time. John sinks his nails into Bucky’s skin, again, but this time the stimulation proves too much, and the tears start to leak out of him. He keeps blinking as they flow steadily from his eyes, wet and heavy and he honestly can’t remember if he’s ever cried like this. Leave it to John fucking Walker to force it out of him.
The setting sun glares directly into his eyes; the world spotlighting his crowning moment of weakness and vulnerability. Walker still pounds into him from underneath, but it feels meaningless. Beads roll down his cheeks and mix with blood, landing in the disgusting rag binding his mouth. He can’t bring himself to care.
Bucky’s eyes close fractionally, not yet blissfully unconscious, but deliriously bordering on the edge. Everything is dark, but he can feel Walker speed up, frantically twitching and Bucky almost passes out then and there from the sheer knowledge that John’s almost done with him.
(At least, he hopes. He can’t even think about what would happen if Walker went another round.)
Walker comes, suddenly, pulling out and spewing the liquid between Bucky’s legs. He could drop dead right now and be more than pleased that death finally granted him mercy. But then he hears a voice- not Walker’s, thank god- shouting about something that echoes off the warehouse walls in a desperate wail. He can’t make out actual words, either due to distance or the fact that he likely has brain damage, but their tone is clear.
He can feel John’s hands run along his thighs, rubbing hard, too hard, semen and blood coagulating in a sickening mixture that paints his legs. It’s sticky and grimy and Walker’s hands just keep travelling over his inner thighs, roughly, like he’s trying to start a fire with all the friction.
The voice in the background becomes more frantic, more urgent, and though it’s seemingly directed at Walker, he gives no response that Bucky can hear.
His eyes are open, glassy, staring into the sun without a hint of recognition in them, and Bucky’s about ready to give up. The gag is ripped from his mouth and he doesn’t react, except to take a small, wheezing breath in. As Walker’s hands finally rise from his legs, apparently satisfied with their perverted paint job, the voice becomes clearer.
“-off him! Take the-”
The noise cuts in and out, wavering in Bucky’s ears, but… It’s unmistakably Sam. Right, yeah, he was here. Sam watched- He saw that.
Sam was also shot. Twice. And even though it’s probably not been the many hours it felt like, it’s definitely still been long enough for Sam to lose a lot of blood.
Bucky feels a tugging sensation near his knees, Walker’s hands grasping onto the buckles of his jeans and dragging them back over his legs, the fabric rubbing painfully over the sore skin. The inside of the pants stick to his thighs uncomfortably once they’re fastened, the bloody mixture cementing them together as it dries.
His awareness starts coming back, very gradually, until Walker decides to rip the knife straight out of his hand and his vision goes black. He gasps softly, unable to really move, but it doesn’t seem like John is paying attention. Bucky eventually is able to make out the shadow of Walker along the wall, walking towards Sam. He manages to turn his head slightly to make sure he’s safe. Not that he would be able to do much, but. It’s Sam.
Thankfully Walker seems to just be untying the rope he used to strap Sam to the table. He’s still yelling, eyes locked onto Bucky and he wishes he could respond. Give a sign. Ask Sam if he’s okay.
Sam stumbles his way over, tripping and bleeding, and completely ignoring Walker. He comes close to Bucky’s side, still saying something, placing his hands gingerly on his bruised skin while he calls out something about an ambulance. Yeah, yeah, an ambulance- that seems like a smart move. Sam needs help.
Bucky attempts to reach out his hand, blood flowing freely from the gaping knife wound in its center, and Sam gently moves it back towards the ground. His super healing is kicking in- working overtime, for sure- vision slowly becoming clearer.
“Bucky, Bucky-” Sam mouths, and probably says, too, but it’s not like he can hear it well enough to make sense of it.
He blinks, meeting Sam’s eyes for the first time since- first since- and he can’t quite read the expression on his coworker’s face. Sam is pale, hands clammy, from what Bucky feels, and he can tell the blood loss is getting to him.
“Sam.” He tries to say, but his throat is mangled and sore- probably from all the screaming- and the words come out a hoarse whisper.
Sam gives a slow blink in response, grip loosening as he kneels next to Bucky on the floor, slumping over. Like he was waiting to get to Bucky before passing out.
They both kind of lie there, drifting off in semi-unconsciousness, and Bucky really hopes that Sam managed to call an ambulance before he collapsed. Because he sure as hell can’t, not when he can’t even sit up, missing an arm and stabbed through the other.
He groans, trying to hold to reality long enough that he’ll be able to hear if help is coming. Turning over to his side- a painful move, but the burning jolts him into awareness- Bucky spies something red and off-white.
And holy shit, if his ribs weren’t broken and it didn’t stand the chance of killing him, Bucky would have laughed out loud. Because there, on the goddamn pavement of the warehouse floor, is Captain America’s shield.
A hysterical feeling bubbles inside him and he opens his arm out, reaching over to grab the stupid hunk of metal. The cold vibranium stings against his palm, smearing blood all over it- but it’s not like there was any absence of blood on the shield, anyway. Fuck, this is- fuck. Unbelievable. All that effort, and for what?
Bucky awkwardly pulls the shield across his chest, cradling it with one bloody hand like it could still protect him, after this.
His eyes slip closed as the sound of sirens blares in the distance.