He knew in the back of his mind that the seventh day and sixth announcements would bring more truths—no doubt Jackson’s name amongst them, but also the identity of Jackson’s killer and thusly his own attacker. He felt concerned about that. What was the rule there? Was he bound to hunt the scared kid down in bloody vengeance, just, y’know—because?
Because?
Because Jackson died for you asshole.
Because homie took out more than a few brain cells when he thwacked you with that fuckin tire-iron.
Don’t you get it? You’re here for a real reason—cuz he got hit like you got hit but he ain’t fuckin’ breathin’!
Rap line for everything.
The laws he used to hold true thrown in his face once again. By none other than his truly.
[ Ace Beats Continued From: They Didn’t Make It ]
He had been lucky, in a sense, for those two a days spent in football running in the hot sun. He had been blessed, in a sense, for his own natural ability and honed athletic skill. He was a lean, mean machine and although he had been hit hard by Justin—he bounced back.
The swelling under his eyes and that bumping headache aside.
He thought of Brockman and #Swiftball because when your glory days are limited, you always go back to the same stories. Maybe swallowing the ibuprofen wasn’t enough, maybe snorting it was the way to go. Would at least save him on water.
All this self deprecation and self guilt…you don’t need a sense of responsibility, what you need is a sense of fuckin’ direction.
That had been Ivy’s job, he couldn’t read a map for shit and so while he had tried to stay low and stick to the roads , somehow he had ended up on the other side of the island according to the map. On top of the concussion, he couldn’t tell you how long it took for him to get there or how he had gotten there. He had ended up in the woods all the same. He tried his best to pay attention to the announcement, but he had kinda faded out after hearing Meilin’s name again. He remembered hearing Bret’s name over the intercom, it was familiar, but he knew it wasn’t for an interception.
He kinda felt bad for wanting it to be the opposite of what was the real reason Bret's name was called. He felt selfish for wanting his friend to be among the killers and not the killed. Death was so permanent--but how many had been killed at this point? Close to half, right? Was it inconceivable that Bret be among them? He could picture the more serious Carter twin now, stoic as ever, shaking his head telling Ace that he wasn't that special. Ace wouldn't have believed him even if he had really heard him.
Even poor little Nathan Coleman, by Connor’s girlfriend no less. It was fucked up. But what else was new? Not like Nathan had a shot anyway. Not like she had one either.
Anyway, maybe that's why he was lost and he couldn't tell you how he ended up in the woods from the infirmary. He had ran a lot and cried more. He had thought about what had happened to Meilin and Jackson a lot.
He couldn’t think about that shit no more, all he could think about was getting the fuck out the woods before dark. That was the smart thing. He had to do the smart thing. He never did the smart thing.
The brim of his cap kept him safe from the waning sun. The freshly fully loaded BR-18 supposedly kept him safe from the world at large. He had stolen that as well, just as much as Jackson had stolen the bullets intended for him. Ace was just a better thief. Was that something to be proud of?
A good thief could prolly read a map.
He couldn’t read a map, but he could still see far ahead, a clearing in the distance. He made his way out of the brush towards it before fumbling with the map again, his gun pointing towards the ground.
He muttered and cursed to himself and thanks to the migraine headache courtesy of TireIronPM and lack of sleep, he didn’t give a fuck who heard it.
