M4DN3SS R3DACT3D (a sh!t madness combat story)

[[TW3LVE]]

Guilt.

Sanford had sometimes thought about what Purgatory might be like for him. From Deimos had told him, it was personal. You had to fight through the worst parts of your life, the last possible thing you'd ever want to do, and there was no end to it if you failed- you were just thrown back into it and you had to it again.

And Sanford didn't expect his Hell to be anything less than what he got. A lot of enemies. Dead friend. Repeat of the worst time of his life and every feeling that came with it.

Including how fucking guilty he felt for letting Deimos die. It felt physically suffocating. Every time Sanford had to re-live the moment he'd walked in on Deimos's dead body, whether it was real or in his mind, it felt like he couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He couldn't even speak at some points.

If nothing kept him grounded- Hank, for example- those thoughts would have long since eaten him up from the inside out, and he wouldn't be in much better condition than the dead man at his side.

A sudden warmth reached his hands, and Sanford looked down. The blood from the body was now welling up around his hand.

"Jesus-fuckin'-Christ." He wiped off his hand and ran it over his face, letting out a slight laugh.

How fucking pathetic was this?

Sitting with your best friend's body because you can't be asked to let them go and finish the job.

God. You couldn't keep Deimos alive if you tried. You could've kept him alive if you were there, why did you even leave him alone? You couldn't even keep yourself in control.

This is all. Because. Of you.

You.

Your fault.

He took a deep, shaky breath and slowly stood up, looking around for any possible indication to what he was meant to do now. Deimos was dead. He watched him die. Wasn't that bad enough?

What could possibly be worse than-

A gunshot rang out, just barely missing Sanford, and the man quickly took hold of his gun and aimed it at the source of the shot.

When he properly tried to look, the barrel of his gun met a familiar face. Well, as familiar as someone's face could've been with a bunch of pieces blown off by bullets.

...So it does get worse.

Sanford lowered his gun slightly. Was this seriously it? No way to avoid it at all?

It was one thing to see him get shot by an agent or grunt. But it was entirely different to be the one shooting him.

Now it was really his fault.

Before Sanford could consider a possible better solution to this problem, 'Deimos' continued shooting at him. His aim wasn't as on point as usual, considering his face was full of gaping holes and Sanford was a good distance away. It didn't take much effort for Sanford to get out of the way, but he knew he didn't have much time.

Fuck it.

Fuck this.

Fuck everything.

This wasn't the first time he'd seen him die.

Just get me the fuck out.

Sanford raised his gun, aimed it just above the bullet hole already going through the younger man's head, and pulled the trigger.

•••

Deimos knew there was no rush to get out of here. Hell had all the time in the world, it was just a matter of how fast he'd break.

He never thought these situations through, ever. He threw himself into battle 100% with zero second thoughts, pulling triggers and taking swings like it was as easy as breathing. For Deimos, against agents, it was. 

On his best friend that he watched begin to spiral, nearly beat the fuck out of him, and was now asking him to blow his head off- it wasn't so simple.

As his eyes stared into Sanford's, covered in darkness, Deimos thought of many things. 

He thought of what could be happening to the real Sanford right now. He thought of Hank. He wondered what would happen if he really killed Sanford right now. Did that get him out? Would he have to try to reach the doctor again, or would he suddenly appear back in the real world?

This was all a lot harder than it'd been the first time.

Fuck.

Deimos felt his hands trembling. He always thought going through Hell one time would have taught him enough. Made him brave enough. Strong enough. 

But he never realized how much it had traumatized him. And now, staring death right in his snarky, grotesque face, was not the best time to figure that out.

Sanford, on the other hand, was quite entertained by Deimos's breakdown. He spat more insensitive comments at him, hoping for a bigger reaction, but he received none.

Deimos didn't move. He couldn't.

"DO IT, fuckin' coward! Cmon!" 'Sanford' sneered, now beginning to get impatient, "This ain't any different than what happened to you, right?"

Deimos froze.

"Yeahh, stupid ass. Can't even shoot a possessed bitch? Are you THAT weak? Tell me you ain't that weak, Deimos."

The strong grip on the trigger tightened, Deimos looked away, and a gunshot rang out over the voice pretending to be his friend.