Don Giovanni [Completed]

[awesome]

The moment he'd heard it, Gilbert knew he should have expected it. No one was stupid enough to attempt a sabotage, assassination, or whatever, something like this, alone. He'd flinched at the first shot, his senses already wildly alert. Whirling to find the source, a curse spilled his lips and he ducked when a second cracked the air. Gritting his teeth, he took note that the bullets were flying wildly, but the acoustics of the hall itself were working against him to find the source. Fucking Opera.

When the third shot fired, the albino all but roared back in retaliation. He was blind. He was fucking blind in the damn darkness and wise guy seemed to be playing with him. A distraction? Most certainly, but just where was he going to come from? Gilbert turned his attention to the box he'd leapt in from and cocked the weapon. At the silence he twisted to face the box on the opposite side, his pupils blown as he searched the darkness for some sign of movement.

He wasn't thinking clearly. He wasn't thinking clearly and his nerves and his senses where all fucked the fuck up. Breath catching as a new sound hit his ears, Gilbert's mind raced as he tried to figure out just what it was. Too late did he realize the source, for as the once securely locked doors of the box swung open, the harsh light of the fires beyond them hit his dilated pupils. Shielding his eyes, he didn't have the proper chance to react as another body slammed into him, tipping him over the edge.

Flailing, he tried to stop gravity's pull. He felt sick as everything shifted. Even though he was three stories up, it was a quick harsh fall, and Gilbert had barely had the time to curl. A scream ripped out of him, masking the cracking of his bones as he landed on the seats below. He lay there, trying to catch the breath that the fall had stolen from him and that the pain his body wouldn't allow him to take. Gritting his teeth, he tried to move, his breath catching repeatedly as pain shot from what felt like every part of his body. Panting, Gilbert just laid where he was, unable to will himself to overcome the pain. His leg, chest and arm all seared with pain. He could hear his pulse drumming loudly in his ears. He twitched, as the building groaned under its own weight, knowing he had to get up. He had to get out. Just...everything hurt and felt so very fucking heavy, but he, Gilbert Beilschmidt, he did not just fucking give up. It felt like a (very) slow process, but as carefully as he could, he rolled and wiggled himself onto his stomach. Pausing to regain the breath the pain stole from him he took in a large gulp and forcefully hoisted himself up, knuckles bone white as he strained and gripped the seat backs with his good arm for support. At what felt like a snail’s pace he moved, step by excruciating step out of the aisle. The creaking groan of the walls around him, were just a terrifying reminder that he needed to move; Move faster. Gott, he just couldn’t.

Gasping out in pain as his bad leg caught and nearly made him buckle, the, albeit painful, action probably saved the albino his head as he curled into himself. Not a full second later, the world shook and chunks of wood and who knows what else went flying as the stage exploded into flames and splinters. Gilbert peeked over the edge of the seat once the wreckage of that explosion seemingly settled. He was in shit shape but the fear and shock had his body surging with a new rush of adrenaline. Hobbling as quickly as he could, his body was still screaming in pain but he managed to get into the front hall, or what was left of it, before crashing to the ground again. He didn’t even try to hold in the sob that the pain wrenched from him. Blinking through the wetness in his eyes, he angrily swiped it away as he stared at the mess that had been the front doors. H-How the fuck was he supposed to get out? Where else was still standing and could lead him outside? And fuck….could he even make it there? Taking in as deep a breath as what he was sure wear some broken ribs would allow him, he couldn’t get his feet under him again. Twice he tried to rise, only to fall. Cursing every insult he could think at his leg that continued to point at an odd angle the wrong damn way, he resorted to literally half dragging, half worming his way along. The air was getting thin as the smoke grew thicker, so staying low to the ground was honestly probably a good thing. It just didn’t make things any easier. Coughing as his vision once again swam with painful tears, he dragged him onward.

There had to be another way out. There just fucking had to be. Lili would be devastated if he didn’t come back out, and what would Lud say when he heard? He couldn’t leave those two alone. Not like this. He was not going to die here. Gilbert Beilschmidt was not going to die, on his belly, dragging himself like a damn slug.

Not like this.

[Marko Iliev]

Part of Marko couldn't actually believe how easy that had actually been. Almost as soon as his body had slammed into Beilschmidt's, he'd toppled the man over the edge of the balcony... He'd prepared himself for a fight beforehand, at the very least, but to his apparent luck, it had been all over in a matter of seconds. He'd done it - he'd actually done it - he'd sent the military man tumbling down into the dark abyss below...

...And yet, it wasn't without its repercussions. As he watched Beilschmidt fall, he realised he himself was teetering on the edge of the box - very close to dropping off, himself. As soon as it hit him, just as gravity was starting to tug on the top of his body, he grabbed the barrier as quickly, and as desperately, as he could. But that wasn't enough to stop him, and on instinct, he shoved his knee upwards into the top of the barrier... The knee of his bad leg. There was an unpleasant popping sound, but he barely heard it; from below, Beilschmidt's scream was enough to block out all the sounds of the flickering fires and the groans of the building's frame as it drew ever closer to collapsing fully... The pain, on the other hand, was enough to tell him he shouldn't have been so careless as to have done that.

He lifted his good leg up and pushed off the barrier with his foot, dropping - rather ungracefully - backwards onto the floor of the box. He gave a hiss of pain, automatically shifting his hand to grab at his aching leg. Deciding that, despite how much it hurt, he needed to continue to ignore it and worry about it later, he sat up, and then put his weight on his uninjured leg again as he tried to stand... To no avail. He was close to both physical and mental exhaustion by now, and he dropped back down to the floor with a wheeze. But he'd come so far; he knew the risks he was taking carrying out a mission like this when already injured.

Reaching up for the barrier, he tried again. This time, he actually managed to stagger to his feet, although there was no way in Hell he'd be able to walk without support. Blindly, he felt around behind him for the top of one of the chairs, heaving himself towards it when he'd got a good grip on it...

Boom. The bomb beneath the stage exploded, causing him to lurch forward again. Had he not been holding on to the chair with a tight grip, he'd have fallen flat on his face... That had been the last of the bombs. Time was running out.

[Ludwig Beilschmidt]

The air was burning hot and thick with smoke, and although Ludwig held a sleeve up to his mouth to try and breathe as he ventured into the burning building, it helped very little. The auditorium had turned into a vast smoking oven, and try as he might to feel his way around in the darkness, Ludwig could find nothing that resembled his brother. Panic began clawing at the inside of his ribcage, along with an almost painful desire for fresh air, and Ludwig fought them both down. He left the auditorium to search the hallway from the other end, just as another bomb went off, shaking the entire building and throwing the inventor to the ground.

Coughing and gasping for breath, Ludwig shook his head in a futile effort to get rid of the ringing in his ears. Gilbert had to be here somewhere. He had to think. Trying to focus as heat and smoke continued to sear at his senses, Ludwig narrowed his eyes. Gilbert knew the opera house as well as he did. And he'd been in chaotic violent fights. So he'd recover quickly from any injuries and, if he could still walk, would have made for the doors. The front doors were the biggest and most obvious... he'd start there, and with that decided, Ludwig climbed to his feet, suppressing the very real terror that Gilbert had been injured badly enough that movement - or survival - wasn't a possibility. If he didn't find Gilbert here in the halls.... Ludwig shuddered, thinking of the burning auditorium. He'd just have to go back and search again. He wasn't leaving Gilbert to die in such a place and, as deeply as he cared for his younger cousin, Ludwig felt slightly ill at heart to realize that he was torn between abandoning his brother or abandoning Lili. A life without either of them would be hollow.

As he stumbled towards the front doors, the air now black, something caught Ludwig's feet and sent him sprawling painfully onto a pile of broken wood. Coughing out a curse, he felt around frantically under his legs; whatever had tripped him had been soft, too soft to be wood. His hands brushed against a coat and, as he tried to find out more, the figure tried to move away, no doubt attempting to escape the smoke. Impatiently, Ludwig wrapped his arms around the man's chest and hauled him up; in the dim atmosphere, the man's hair shone silver-white. Feeling a surge of hope, Ludwig heaved the figure over his back and made for the side doors, the ones he'd entered through, sincerely hoping he hadn't mistaken some old noble man for his brother. The building had taken far too many hits and Ludwig doubted he'd get more than a second chance without the place collapsing. Coughing and spitting out ash, he followed a wall blindly using his right shoulder until a surge of cool air washed over him; even then he didn't look up or stop, continuing to just stumble away from the opera as best he could.

[Miloš Jovanović]

His vision was getting a little blurry, though he wasn't sure if that was just him or the smoke. Either way it was fucking annoying. Milos had stumbled to the doorway when the last bomb went off, shaking the entire building with an audible rumble. He nearly lost his balance, quickly throwing his weight against the door frame and hissing as he hit it, clutching onto the door frame to keep himself upright and shutting his eyes for a moment as his world shook. It took him a moment to gather the strength to open his eyes once it was over. He wondered why Marko hasn't already caught up at the sluggish rate he'd been moving so he looked back into the booth, seeing his partner's figure lit up by the light of the fire hunched over holding onto a chair.

He waited a few seconds, but when Marko wasn't immediately getting up he called out to him, voiced dampened by the crackling of flames outside the box, but still barely audible, "Hey! Are you alright?!" When he didn't get an immediate response that's when he started to worry. Sure his vision was blurry, he already felt like he was on fire from the pain wracking his body, and his reputation was probably shot to hell, but the only thing he could think about at that moment was that the two of them were getting out of there even if he had to drag Marko and his bum leg with them, which he was starting to worry he'd have to literally do.

Of course Milos would do it if he had to, even in this state; this wasn't the worst situation he'd been in before and if he survived back then he sure as hell wouldn't die so easily now. He would grit his teeth and stay conscious long enough so they could get the fuck out of there.

[Marko Iliev]

Once again, with as much strength as he could muster, he pushed on the top of the chair, heaving himself to a fairly stable standing position, after having waited for the initial aftershocks of the bomb to stop… But, waiting around for the building to become stable again so he could walk at least a little better wasn’t an option. Marko reached forward again, taking the back of the next seat along, now trying to find his breath and his vision through the approaching smoke and dust.

“Does it fucking look like I’m alright!?” He barked over the noise of the chaos around him, pressing onwards in a stagger and doing his best not to lose balance.

[Miloš Jovanović]

Milos grinned wryly, and couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity they'd landed themselves in. He could only laugh once though because when he did he ended up coughing what felt like half his lung. When he was done he looked down at his hand to see blood, but just shook his head, wiping it off on his pants and grunting as he straightened himself up. "Just give-!" he started coughing again, forced to yell more mutedly, "-me a second!"

Luckily his legs were still alright, though the room was spinning a little, but he staggered the few steps over to Marko and used his good arm to wrap around his side to help him walk. With a weary smile he spoke, "Come on, we just... gotta, get out of here."

[Marko Iliev]

Swallowing down the pain distracted him from noticing Milos had come back for him, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to see and hear in there, and that was without counting the fact that the crippling ache in his leg was making his head funny. He'd forced himself to stop using the back of the chair for support, stumbling forwards a little further and trying to get his balance back as best as he could. When he felt the other's arm around him, he instinctively - yet carefully, remembering Milos was injured, worse than he himself was, in fact - did the same. "Da..." He responded breathily, exhaling in relative relief... Or pain... Or both.

[Miloš Jovanović]

((Just a note, Bulgaria and I agreed to the shared actions in this post))

Though he wouldn't admit it, Milos was glad for the support. Slowly he took the first step, and then another. Leaning against Marko, he gradually led the way out of the box into a sea of flames that used to be the hallway. Looking around he spotted the side staircase and nudged his partner, pointing at it. Or he assumed it to be it was hard to tell with his vision fuzzy and the room filled with smoke. But Marko seemed to get the idea as he took the lead and they walked along as fast as they could to the stairs.

It took some time to get down the stairs with Marko's bad knee, longer than Milos would have liked, but he didn't have much choice; his world was getting fuzzier the longer they walked. It wasn't very cool. He was supposed to be the 'hero' here, saving his partner's life, but instead he was increasingly relying on Marko to keep them going. Once on the bottom floor it was Marko that remembered that there was a door in the back, guiding them through the back halls until finally, they reached the back door and exited out into the back alleyway.

Milos coughed, glad to be out of the smoke. "Let's get away from this shitty place." He moved his arm away from his side for a moment to slap his own face to keep himself awake before quickly returning his hand to his side.

[Marko Iliev]

The air outside was cold, and it hit him in the face the moment they'd left the building; only then did he realise how searing the heat of the flames had been inside. But now that they were out, all Marko wanted to do was collapse on the ground and either praise both God and his entire ancestral line that they'd both gotten out of there alive, or else writhe in pain. Except, neither of those were good ideas. They may have been out of the opera house itself, but that didn't mean they were out of danger. With both of them injured and the military more than likely on its way, were it not already present at the site, moving was the only option.

“Yeah...” He tugged weakly on the hold he had around Milos. “We need... To get underground. Quickly.”