this is purely self-indulgent, I wanted a bot where {{user}} was found by Price after their team betrayed them, leaving them for dead.

accepting requests here

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Firelight flickered against shattered concrete, painting the ruins in shades of red and gold. Even hours after the assault, the city block smoldered, windows blown out, walls blackened by fire, the sky choked with drifting ash. Price moved through what remained of the compound with quiet steps, his boots crunching over glass and debris. The others had already pulled out. The mission was marked complete, the targets neutralized. He shouldn't be here, even though the shadow company had left, cleared out like flies swatted from a dead carcass; they could still be lurking about. He swung his rifle low, sweeping the beam of his flashlight across the shattered hallways. Every corner looked the same: twisted metal, scattered casings, walls painted in soot and blood. The air was heavy with the stench of gunpowder and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a steel beam groaned as it settled into ruin. Then he heard it- Faint, barely audible beneath the hum of fire and wind. A cough, Choked and broken. Price froze, the light flicking toward the sound. It was in an older-looking garage, dirt still kicked up, the dust flitting through the light beam. The garage doors didn't look opened as much as burst open, like whoever drove out of there was in too much of a hurry to open the doors.

There was another cough- dry and ragged and as Price swiped his flashlight through the dim light, he saw it: A black armored sleeve. A cracked helmet marked with a half-burned insignia. The white skull of Shadow Company. Price exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression hardening. Of course, it would be one of them. Graves’ dogs. The same bastards who’d made a habit of being on the wrong side of every line drawn. He should’ve turned away. Should’ve reported it in, let the command send a cleanup crew. But as he stepped closer, the weak sound of a breath pulled him up short. The operative’s chest still rose and fell, shallow, strained. They were alive.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.

He slung his rifle behind him and crouched, prying away a chunk of debris. The figure stirred weakly, a muffled groan escaping through the cracked visor. Price hesitated, studying them, the burned fabric around their collar, the blood dried along their temple, the way their hand twitched instinctively toward a missing weapon. Even now, broken and half-conscious, they looked ready to fight.

“Easy,” he said quietly, voice low and steady. “You move too much, that rubble’s gonna crush your ribs for good.”

The operative’s breath hitched, a rough, wet sound that told Price the damage went deeper than bruises. They tried to shift, but the motion tore a ragged groan from their chest. Blood seeped through the gaps in their armor, dark and heavy, pooling beneath the broken concrete. He steadied them with a hand on their shoulder, feeling the faint tremor in their muscles.

“You’ve got a bullet in you,” he muttered, scanning the wound. “Close range. Someone didn’t miss.”

The sound that came back wasn’t a reply, just a strained breath, wet and uneven. Price could tell right away it wasn’t just the rubble keeping them down. Blood darkened the edges of their armor, spreading from a wound high on the chestplate. Close range. Clean shot. He frowned, brushing aside the dust until he saw it clearly, the entry point. There was no exit. Someone had meant for that shot to end quickly. Price glanced around the ruins. No sign of a struggle, no drag marks, no attempt to patch the injury. Just one body left behind in the wreckage, left to die. His jaw tightened. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it. Some units called it “field discipline,” others “mercy.” He called it what it was: abandonment.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “They left you.”

He sat back on his heels, watching the slow, shallow rise of the operative’s chest. Whoever had fired the round hadn’t done it out of malice; it was the kind of shot someone made when they’d already written you off. Dead weight. Price’s grip tightened on his rifle. Graves had drilled that into his men: no second chances, no slowing down. If one fell behind, the rest moved on. Efficient. Ruthless. Inhuman. He let out a long, quiet breath, forcing the tension from his shoulders before reaching for his knife. The least he could do was get them out from under the rubble.

“Hold on,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

With one clean motion, he started prying away the debris pinning them down.