Genre: Historical, Friendship,
Summary: Sweat went down his brow. Iosif knew a German soldier could run out from behind the damaged door and shoot his head right off with an MP40. He kept going anyway. If he was a soldier, he was going to at least act like it.
A/N: This was originally just a drawing idea, but I was bored in Social Studies (Yes, it's that boring.) and this appeared. Enjoy!
Iosif gripped his gun tightly as he headed towards a steel blue door covered in dents and ash. The rectangular, beaten up steel was literally falling off its hinges, threatening to utterly break off. Despite how quietly he was walking—almost on tiptoe—his sheer size and the debris on the ground made it impossible to walk without moving scraps of metal or breaking delicate pieces of concrete that was softened from constant bombardment.
Sweat went down his brow. He knew a German soldier could run out from behind the damaged door and shoot his head right off with an MP40. He kept going anyway. If he was a soldier, he was going to at least act like it. For Mother Russia!
He quickly wiped the sweat off his forehead. He wasn't taking any chances. In the distance he could hear explosions and gunshots, but that did nothing to ease his noisy treading.
Jesus Christ, he thought.
How come he isn't this nervous when infilterating enemy territory? Maybe it's the uneasy silence. He really didn't know, and whatever it was made him scared shitless.
He inched towards the door.
He quickly pointed his gun towards the door, aiming at the German who was peeking from behind it. He heard a loud, booming noise and felt a sharp pain attacking his leg. Fighting back the agony, he shot back. The German fell and he checked his calf.
It wasn't pretty.
He could see the wound was already gushing blood, crimson starting to stain and drip from his pants.
Iosif cursed quietly in Russian and buckled under the feeling of one hundred burning coals placed to his lower limb. It hurt that much. Landing against the wall of a building and onto some rubble, he winced and gripped his leg.
Well, he was fucked.
How can so much blood come out of such a small bullet wound? Was there more than one bullet involved?
Since imagining would get him no where, he decided to check the wound more thoroughly for anything that could explain this oversized amount of blood.
Then he noticed something weird about the injury. As he examined closer, he could see 3 more holes. How is that possible? How did that damn Nazi shoot him four times?
From a farther distance, the four lacerations looked like one large one. Like from a sword or dagger. They were so close that the second, third, and fourth bullets just made any previous wounds larger.
The red puddle was getting larger and Iosif tried not to panic. Panicking would just worsen the situation. The best thing was to stop the bleeding. He cut off a piece of his uniform and wrapped it tightly around his leg. He looked around for a stick, but nothing around him resembled a twig in shape.
Sighing, he tilted his head back and onto the gray, crumbling bricks. He was going to die because of his stupid leg. His. Leg.
The blood loss was getting overpowering. There wasn't enough oxygen in his body to support his heart, which was beating rapidly. He could feel the organ pounding against his rib cage, almost as if it was trying to get outside where the oxygen is. He was starting to slip into unconsciousness. He knew it was the end.
"Well, this is where I fall." He muttered.
As he closed his eyes, a blurry figure with a red star on its forehead ran up to him.
"Comrade! Comrade! Держись!"
As Iosif woke up, he was on a pile of rubble still. Was it all a dream? Was the figure that called him comrade just an illusion created by his mind? As he was thinking, he had a sudden realization.
He was awake. Awake and breathing. He quickly felt for his heart, which was still beating rapidly, but seemed to have slowed. It wasn't desperate to get out of his chest anymore. He then looked at his leg, which was all bandaged and not oozing out vital fluids anymore. There was still red on the dressing, but it wasn't spilling out all over the street.
He sighed in relief, but wondered who his savior was. Was it another Soviet? Probably. Or was it an angel?
That actually be kind of weird, a communistic angel. One, he didn't really believe in angels, and two, even though communism was okay for him, he didn't think it would fit a divine being sent from God.
"Ah. You're awake."
He looked towards the voice and there, standing in front of him, was a Soviet. He looked pretty tall but probably because Iosif was sitting down. He was wearing glasses and his accented voice was pretty deep. Red hair was peeking out from under his cap, which had the red star from earlier.
So much for angels.
"You had me worried there, comrade. I thought you had already died. But I checked your pulse and you were still alive. I pulled out my trusty bandages and cleaned you up."
The other Soviet continued rambling on about how he saved Iosif and all that, saying he would have been "dead meat for the Nazi bastard's dogs" or something like that.
Dogs eat human remains? Never mind.
"…and then, I heard a big explosion from somewhere beyond, so gathered everything up and carried you here on my back!"
Iosif wasn't paying attention at all. He just wanted to kill more Nazis. He pulled himself up with his hands to keep himself steady. His "savior" quickly reacted to this and protested.
"Hey! Are you sure you can get up? Your leg…"
Once Iosif had made sure he wouldn't fall, he looked at the other.
"What's your name?"
"My name? Viktor, sir! The best of everyone!"
"Ah. Viktor. Thank you, comrade."