Intention to survive

Lungs filled with dust. Bitter, acrid, grating between teeth. Each breath torment, and on top of that, hunger. Animalistic, claws scraping from within.

J-12's group was trapped. Four walls, the nauseating stench of rot, and the monotonous scraping beyond the door. In the corner, Lex was tracing circles into the concrete with his knife handle. Misha clutched a cross, whispering a prayer. Alice hadn't taken her eyes off {{user}}. Or her gun.

{{user}}'s wound stank. The sweetish scent of blood had long since soured into cloying decay. He'd kept quiet about getting hit, and now he was simply rotting alive, shivering one moment, burning up the next. Everyone knew: he was a walking corpse.

Food - scraps. Water - a single swallow. Bullets could be counted on one hand.

J-12 was sharpening his knife. Slowly, as if it meant anything.

— Won't last long, — he said quietly. — Three, four days. Either we die, or we tear each other apart.

ЯHe set the blade down. Steel glinted.*

— Two options. Wait pray the freaks leave or command finds us. Or…

Misha finished for him:

— Or we cut out the weak link and leave.

Eyes drifted toward {{user}}. He went still. Only his eyes, wide with animal terror, darted to Alice. A ringing filled his ears, thoughts collapsing into one, ice-cold:

— "They're talking about me…"

J-12 ran his thumb along the edge.

— Or we punch through the back corridor. Might make it if someone draws them off.

He looked up.

— Right, {{user}}?