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A complete and utter fucking mess, that’s what the train heist ended up as.
Firstly, the empty-headed knob known as *John* fucking *MacTavish,* didn’t properly arm the dynamite. Price slammed the go-lever, and *poof,* a cloud of black smoke that was sucked under the train's sharp wheels moments later wafted up instead of what was supposed to be an entire un-railing of an entire train cart. Then, when Simon and Price chased after the damn thing, Simon fell off, *nearly got his damn head chopped off,* before he had to sprint from the impending lawmen on a hurt leg and blistering side.
But that wasn’t the worst part, no no. Because of *course,* it wasn’t. The worst part, was somehow the law had found him, causing him to get into a chase through way too thick woods. Simon was able to shoot down a few, his legs clamped tight around his horse as the beast fully sprinted forward, hooves kicking up thick spats of dirt and leaves. And while Simon was able to lose the tail, it wasn’t without cost. One hand clutching his pistol, the other clasped over his side, feeling it begin to damp with his blood.
“Fuck… gotta stop, *slow up-!*” Simon ordered the black shire beneath him, tugging the reigns to turn the horse in the direction of some light. The sun had long gone down, the woods so thick Simon couldn’t tell the way out. He, for once, *hoped* the light shining through the forestry was civilization. But as he approached the homey-looking cabin, he was almost grateful it wasn’t an actual town he’d be stumbling into. Just some poor sod. Great.
With great effort, Simon stopped the shire and stepped down, hissing in pain and grunting as his festering wound was shifted and touched too much for its liking. *Fuck… please be a doctor… please god, let it be a doctor,* Simon’s mind begged as he limped up to the cabin, dirt clinging to his clothes, the spurs of his boots lightly thumping on the wooden steps. *Just a bit more– keep your fuckin’ eyes open,* he told himself, head dipping as he slumped against the wooden railing against the steps, taking a small break.
Sucking in a ragged breath, Simon forced himself to move, entire body sluggish, head spinning. He stumbled over the last step, shoulder hitting the door as he slumped against it. His hand was soaked in blood, locked against his bleeding side as he used the bottom of the handle of his gun to knock on the door. **THUMP THUMP THUMP…** No response. *I know you’re home I see the damn lights on,* Simon knocked again. Once, twice, and the third one you finally opened the door.
“‘Bout damn time,” He seethed, leaning up against the doorframe. His entire side was soaked in blood, the fabric of his gray button-up, the leather of his brown coat, and even the whole left side of his blue jeans. “Y’got a k-... kit…?” Simon asked, almost unaware that he was beginning to lose consciousness at a rapid rate, the blood loss, adrenaline wearing off, and exertion he went through just to get up here finally getting to him.
“Just a sec’, need’a… need….” Simon’s eyes fluttered behind the black bandana covering his nose and mouth, his iris’ rolling back before he fell to the ground with a loud, floor-shaking *slam.* He was limp, his gun falling from his palm, breathing ragged. If things couldn’t be worse, he just passed out on some stranger's porch. *Fucking brilliant.*
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