It was hot. That was not good. Hot meant more resting. Less time to eat. The goat lowered its head and tugged on a weed. Chewed. Looked around. There was shade here. Trees nearby. Thick bushes too. Plenty of leaves. For later. It dipped its head again. Teeth clamped down on another weed. Noise above made it stop. The goat looked up. Birds flying away. Squawking at one another. The goat bleated in annoyance. Lowered its head again. Then another noise. A loud noise. The goat looked up. Saw the herd running. Other goats bleating. Danger, danger. The goat tried to follow. But its leg hurt. Something was wrong. The goat bleated for help. It tried to run anyway. It fell. Its back left leg didn't work. The goat bleated in pain. It looked around again. Trying to find the predator. What it was running from. Something was walking towards it. Two legs, upright. It bleated in fear. Bleated for help. The herd was gone. The thing moved closer. The goat tried to move. Kicked its legs wildly. Pushed itself through the mud. Hobbled. Fell again. The shadow of the thing fell across it. The goat felt a pressure on its side. It lashed out with a hoof. The thing was on the other side. It pointed something at it. It looked up at the thing.
It tried to bleat again.
((Parker_Green - Day 7 - 06:56 Local Time - Entering from Bullet by Bullet))
Parker tightened the sling he'd made for Blaise's rifle out of their spare duffel bag, pressing it against his chest, then sliding it around to rest on his back. He took his foot off of the side of the goat, where he'd pressed against it to try and keep the squirming thing still, before reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a tightly folded piece of paper and a marker. He struck a single line through the last of the block capital words he'd etched into it by torchlight a few hours earlier, "MEAT", and then put both of them back. Prematurely perhaps, but having everything checked off brought a satisfaction he wasn't willing to deny himself, especially given what he had to do now as he squatted down beside the corpse. He slid his hands underneath it, and with a grunt, pulled the weight up with himself. His arms shook a little as he began to take careful, measured steps towards the bivouac he and Blaise had set up.
Butchering the thing was just as much of a pain as hunting it down had been. He'd hoped that the bullet hole in its skull and thigh would have been enough to drain most of the blood out, but after he mounted it up on the makeshift rack and ran his axeblade across its throat, he'd suffered the consequences of that assumption. A torrent of red had flown out of the wound, coating his hands and arms, as well as splattering all across his jeans and T-shirt - Earning a loud curse from him that had woken Blaise up from their sleep.
After that, every movement had been much more tentative, as he'd worked on skinning and gutting it as best he could. The axe was sharp, that much was true, but it was about the only positive it held for this application. It was big, and the lack of a handle in line with its edge made it clumsy. Eventually, Parker had had to give up on doing things properly, and flipped the goat over. Running the blade down the edge of its spine, and then running it across the ribs, hacking off chunks of shortloin that he threw into a pile on the lid of a first aid kit. It was disgusting work, but the result would be worth it.
Parker skewered the pieces of meat on the thick, sharpened branch he'd prepared earlier, and placed that spit on the rack that sat around their still smouldering fire. He let out a sigh of relief as the pit began to crackle angrily, as small drips of fat came out of the cooking goat and into the flames, the smell of it burning filling his nose. It smelt good. It smelt like real food. But most importantly, he was done.
He sat down on the floor, and flicked open the now blood smeared lid of his first aid kit, and pulled out another package of anti-sceptic wipes, followed by hand sanitiser, and set to work scrubbing his hands clean. Parts of the blood that caked his hands had dried now, leaving layers of different shades of ruddy brown, working down from his elbows to underneath his fingernails. He would have to get rid of it all, and then probably use half the bottle of alcohol gel if he didn't want to be struck down by Gastroenteritis or something similar. Parker didn't even look up from that arduous task as he muttered a half-excuse to Blaise.
"That looked a hell of a lot easier when the guy on YouTube did it."
The Information Paradox
Day 7, Pre-Announcement. Private.
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Frozen Smoke
- Posts: 533
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 3:50 pm
- Location: Where I need to be
The Information Paradox
Criticism or thoughts on my writing are welcome and appreciated - always looking to improve! Feel free to poke me on Discord or via PM.
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued From Bullet By Bullet))
Tempting as it was to provide running commentary for Parker's most recent brush against masculine power fantasy, Blaise let him work in silence. He did not strike an altogether unattractive figure covered in blood and hacking away at flesh he'd procured by unknowingly weighted measures of luck and skill. Butchery was so far out of their expertise that with a more conscious effort Parker could have concealed that all was not going according to his plan. What few methods they had employed on the island had been, mm. Cleaner for certain. They assumed no method existed to adequately prepare breakfast with a rifle however, and one chunk of severed flesh looked much the same as any other to them. There was a teachable moment to be had here about how one's lack of proficiency could be covered by confidence, which is why Blaise assumed they would succeed at anything they attempted. Parker was well acquainted with that lesson, though. If he did not want them to see his frustration it would not be there. Reading between the lines to find what play he was making followed naturally. After watching the entire process, though, Blaise made the unusual decision to accept it at face value. Make no mistake, they were not suddenly swept up in some quaint sentimentality towards the man. It was a practical assessment. He had made himself vulnerable both in the hunt and in the preparation to themself and others. A multitude of risks not worth taking presented if he was not comfortable with his position. No, to be more direct, if he was not comfortable with them.
At odds with the worst part of both of their natures, they were at peace together.
The closest Blaise had been to peace in this place where their first minutes lying in the sand. In that brief period they had made a decision: that what went on beyond their senses was of no consequence to them. Their classmates could jump immediately to slaughtering each other and as long as it was kept away from them they were not concerned. The safest and most reasonable course of action was to disregard trouble that did not involve them at all times until it did. They had a view. They had alcohol. Was it so different than any other occasion with abysmal wait staff? It could be made to work. They were certain. Tracing the exact moment where they were forced to overwrite that certainty was not difficult. Friendship had not moved them and threats had proven similarly ineffective. A case could be made for the gunshot and its resulting wound, but really these were extensions of the first two propositions. On their own they would not have motivated Blaise. Looking back the most plausible argument they could make came down to one factor: incompetence. Blaise had been surrounded by incompetence from that moment onward, and it kept them moving. Motivated. There was always some fresh mess made by someone less careful they were being forced to clean up in one sense or another. Now with what was most likely the most literal, graphic mess they had encountered laid out in front of them as a consequence of what was most charitably partial success...hmm.
Blaise was content. Regardless of his individual failures, Parker was the only competent person whose company Blaise had been allowed to enjoy. It was pleasurable, not that they would ever tell him so. The last thing their arrangement needed was the inflation of his ego. "Nothing worth doing is simple!" If Parker made no attempt to hide his frustration, then they would make none to hide their amusement. "I would offer to assist, but..." They need not explain further. Doubtless they both still had ashen memories of a certain lost bet that led to the near demolition of a certain kitchen in service of a certain meal prepared by certain hands. Repetition was undesirable for all parties involved, so they pushed forward. "Don't be too hard on yourself. It smells better than some of the shit they announced for the other winners."
Tempting as it was to provide running commentary for Parker's most recent brush against masculine power fantasy, Blaise let him work in silence. He did not strike an altogether unattractive figure covered in blood and hacking away at flesh he'd procured by unknowingly weighted measures of luck and skill. Butchery was so far out of their expertise that with a more conscious effort Parker could have concealed that all was not going according to his plan. What few methods they had employed on the island had been, mm. Cleaner for certain. They assumed no method existed to adequately prepare breakfast with a rifle however, and one chunk of severed flesh looked much the same as any other to them. There was a teachable moment to be had here about how one's lack of proficiency could be covered by confidence, which is why Blaise assumed they would succeed at anything they attempted. Parker was well acquainted with that lesson, though. If he did not want them to see his frustration it would not be there. Reading between the lines to find what play he was making followed naturally. After watching the entire process, though, Blaise made the unusual decision to accept it at face value. Make no mistake, they were not suddenly swept up in some quaint sentimentality towards the man. It was a practical assessment. He had made himself vulnerable both in the hunt and in the preparation to themself and others. A multitude of risks not worth taking presented if he was not comfortable with his position. No, to be more direct, if he was not comfortable with them.
At odds with the worst part of both of their natures, they were at peace together.
The closest Blaise had been to peace in this place where their first minutes lying in the sand. In that brief period they had made a decision: that what went on beyond their senses was of no consequence to them. Their classmates could jump immediately to slaughtering each other and as long as it was kept away from them they were not concerned. The safest and most reasonable course of action was to disregard trouble that did not involve them at all times until it did. They had a view. They had alcohol. Was it so different than any other occasion with abysmal wait staff? It could be made to work. They were certain. Tracing the exact moment where they were forced to overwrite that certainty was not difficult. Friendship had not moved them and threats had proven similarly ineffective. A case could be made for the gunshot and its resulting wound, but really these were extensions of the first two propositions. On their own they would not have motivated Blaise. Looking back the most plausible argument they could make came down to one factor: incompetence. Blaise had been surrounded by incompetence from that moment onward, and it kept them moving. Motivated. There was always some fresh mess made by someone less careful they were being forced to clean up in one sense or another. Now with what was most likely the most literal, graphic mess they had encountered laid out in front of them as a consequence of what was most charitably partial success...hmm.
Blaise was content. Regardless of his individual failures, Parker was the only competent person whose company Blaise had been allowed to enjoy. It was pleasurable, not that they would ever tell him so. The last thing their arrangement needed was the inflation of his ego. "Nothing worth doing is simple!" If Parker made no attempt to hide his frustration, then they would make none to hide their amusement. "I would offer to assist, but..." They need not explain further. Doubtless they both still had ashen memories of a certain lost bet that led to the near demolition of a certain kitchen in service of a certain meal prepared by certain hands. Repetition was undesirable for all parties involved, so they pushed forward. "Don't be too hard on yourself. It smells better than some of the shit they announced for the other winners."
He smelled them before he saw them.
He smelled them before he heard them.
The safety of the BR-18 was clicked off before they heard him either.
The night had brought with it sleep for the first time in nearly three full days. He had been scared to sleep because of the blow to his head. He had been scared to sleep because, fuck, shit—what if Tirzah really had poisoned him? When he finally allowed his eyes to close, he did so resigned to the fact that they might not open again.
So, imagine how he felt when he did wake up? He felt alive. He felt better than he had in a long time. A week actually.
The guilt was still there though, and he was beginning to accept it as a permanent fixture. Guilt over Meilin and Toby and guilt over Jackson and now over Wyatt. He had just let Quinn kill his girlfriend and go, hadn’t he? He just let that kid take his gun and kill Jackson, ain’t that the truth? Tirzah could kill Wyatt and Toby and his own damn mother and give some half-hearted explanation along with a hug and some teasing and be forgiven for all, that’s what he was about? That was the loyalty of Ace Ortega?
Apparently.
He kept low to the ground, on the outskirts of their camp, hidden amongst shadow and brush of the wilds. Was it lower or upper? Meilin and Ramsey were in the upper. Ace was bad with directions. He had already forgotten the way to their graves.
The food smelled good. Smoke. Fire. Meat. It reminded him of home—nothing like Tennessee BBQ. He was looking forward to playing in Memphis and eating the ribs out there. He hadn’t splurged for ribs the last time he went to BBQ. He had pulled pork. It was 6.99 and the ribs were 16.99. What was ten dollars? Ace was bad with money.
Ace was also bad with names, he realized, when he finally got a view of the couple by the fire.
But he wasn’t so bad with faces.
There was the kid from the gym at the hotel.
And who else was he with…?
He remained hidden in the brush, low to the ground, gun pointed forward, eyes down the sight. A boy doing his best soldier impression.
Prolly just a boy doing his best.
He smelled them before he heard them.
The safety of the BR-18 was clicked off before they heard him either.
The night had brought with it sleep for the first time in nearly three full days. He had been scared to sleep because of the blow to his head. He had been scared to sleep because, fuck, shit—what if Tirzah really had poisoned him? When he finally allowed his eyes to close, he did so resigned to the fact that they might not open again.
So, imagine how he felt when he did wake up? He felt alive. He felt better than he had in a long time. A week actually.
The guilt was still there though, and he was beginning to accept it as a permanent fixture. Guilt over Meilin and Toby and guilt over Jackson and now over Wyatt. He had just let Quinn kill his girlfriend and go, hadn’t he? He just let that kid take his gun and kill Jackson, ain’t that the truth? Tirzah could kill Wyatt and Toby and his own damn mother and give some half-hearted explanation along with a hug and some teasing and be forgiven for all, that’s what he was about? That was the loyalty of Ace Ortega?
Apparently.
[Ace Beats Continued From: hustler for death, no heaven for a gangsta ]
He kept low to the ground, on the outskirts of their camp, hidden amongst shadow and brush of the wilds. Was it lower or upper? Meilin and Ramsey were in the upper. Ace was bad with directions. He had already forgotten the way to their graves.
The food smelled good. Smoke. Fire. Meat. It reminded him of home—nothing like Tennessee BBQ. He was looking forward to playing in Memphis and eating the ribs out there. He hadn’t splurged for ribs the last time he went to BBQ. He had pulled pork. It was 6.99 and the ribs were 16.99. What was ten dollars? Ace was bad with money.
Ace was also bad with names, he realized, when he finally got a view of the couple by the fire.
But he wasn’t so bad with faces.
There was the kid from the gym at the hotel.
And who else was he with…?
He remained hidden in the brush, low to the ground, gun pointed forward, eyes down the sight. A boy doing his best soldier impression.
Prolly just a boy doing his best.
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
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Frozen Smoke
- Posts: 533
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 3:50 pm
- Location: Where I need to be
Parker's absent minded scowl softened and twisted into a light smile as he tossed the first of what was likely to be many wipes onto the floor, turning his head up and to the side to look over at Blaise as they reminded him of the sole culinary adventure he'd witnessed them take part in, even if the charred and oversalted mess they'd produced for him reeked more of self sabotage than abject incompetence. Part of him wanted to ask if that was the case, now that their original game of trading blows to one another's egos instead of hard cash had ended, but the subject was dropped just as quickly as it had arrived.
"Unless you managed to find a spice rack somewhere, this is pretty much all we can do, anyway." he noted as he reached out over the fire and turned the spit around, before snatching it back as the heat of the fire began to penetrate his own flesh, barely resisting the urge to wave it frantically around in the air to cool it off.
Still, Blaise brought up another interesting topic, one he had thought mostly irrelevant up until now. The Best Kill Award seemed like a way for the terrorists to mark someone they felt might be pulling ahead, to highlight them as a preeminent threat and encourage conflict, rather than an actual prize. But there was a chance that other people didn't see it that way. People that they, as a group, were interested in predicting the behaviour of.
"How did that winning that thing work, anyway? Did they give you a time limit to eat by? How much of an exclusion zone did they put around it, do you think?" He asked, pausing momentarily as he used his teeth to tear open another packet of wipes, before continuing and elaborating on his thought process for their benefit. "Because if we know someone is going to be heading alone to a specific point on the island, probably with a false sense of security, there's a good chance we can pick them off before they actually get there."
"Unless you managed to find a spice rack somewhere, this is pretty much all we can do, anyway." he noted as he reached out over the fire and turned the spit around, before snatching it back as the heat of the fire began to penetrate his own flesh, barely resisting the urge to wave it frantically around in the air to cool it off.
Still, Blaise brought up another interesting topic, one he had thought mostly irrelevant up until now. The Best Kill Award seemed like a way for the terrorists to mark someone they felt might be pulling ahead, to highlight them as a preeminent threat and encourage conflict, rather than an actual prize. But there was a chance that other people didn't see it that way. People that they, as a group, were interested in predicting the behaviour of.
"How did that winning that thing work, anyway? Did they give you a time limit to eat by? How much of an exclusion zone did they put around it, do you think?" He asked, pausing momentarily as he used his teeth to tear open another packet of wipes, before continuing and elaborating on his thought process for their benefit. "Because if we know someone is going to be heading alone to a specific point on the island, probably with a false sense of security, there's a good chance we can pick them off before they actually get there."
Criticism or thoughts on my writing are welcome and appreciated - always looking to improve! Feel free to poke me on Discord or via PM.
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
Parker's second offering of meat was less palatable but more likely to benefit them in the long term. Besides that ideas were far less likely to carry parasites. Blaise had not dedicated much energy to analyzing the infrastructure of the game; it largely benefited them other than the attention it drew, and when they cared to work around that they had no complaints worth noting. Most other attempts to broach the subject would have led to Blaise tuning the speaker out until it was time to reward their efforts with sarcasm. Parker had earned an investment of attention though and he did not disappoint on cashing it in. The areas announced seemed too large to be of any tactical use. In this area they would defer to his knowledge though. They rose from their cross legged position and stretched their arms until their shoulders cracked. "I was not given any instructions on time. I suppose they must exist, otherwise there is an unadvertised benefit to winning. Immunity, so to speak, for the rest of the day."
Their eyebrow twitched. Of course they could not be certain this benefit did not exist. They had allowed themsself to become preoccupied in the course of their collection and did not think to test it. There existed then the possibility that they might track Lorenzo to a relatively certain location only for their captors to shower him in undue praise, and once he was inside the danger zone he had the leisure to leave wherever and whenever he pleased. Ridiculous. Unacceptable. They should not even entertain it, it was so absurd. It would not leave their head though, and that led them into Parker's next assertion. "The size, though. I have caught myself crossing borders from time to time, the zones seem to cut off an appreciable portion of the island." Ah. There was something here. "I do not think we could exploit them now, but perhaps if we obtained...ah, what do you call it?" They tapped the top of their rifle with a frustrated grimace. "Circular, glass inside." The word would not come to them. "You attach it here, it is like a, a..."
Blaise threw their hands up. There was little purpose in trying to mask their embarrassment, not when Parker was being so open with his own inadequacies for the moment. Undue strain on their new partnership, yes, maintaining too certain a position relative to his might agitate him. They had not forgotten. This was a tactical team building exercise, that was all. They let their frown turn to a tense smile. "You know what I mean.
Their eyebrow twitched. Of course they could not be certain this benefit did not exist. They had allowed themsself to become preoccupied in the course of their collection and did not think to test it. There existed then the possibility that they might track Lorenzo to a relatively certain location only for their captors to shower him in undue praise, and once he was inside the danger zone he had the leisure to leave wherever and whenever he pleased. Ridiculous. Unacceptable. They should not even entertain it, it was so absurd. It would not leave their head though, and that led them into Parker's next assertion. "The size, though. I have caught myself crossing borders from time to time, the zones seem to cut off an appreciable portion of the island." Ah. There was something here. "I do not think we could exploit them now, but perhaps if we obtained...ah, what do you call it?" They tapped the top of their rifle with a frustrated grimace. "Circular, glass inside." The word would not come to them. "You attach it here, it is like a, a..."
Blaise threw their hands up. There was little purpose in trying to mask their embarrassment, not when Parker was being so open with his own inadequacies for the moment. Undue strain on their new partnership, yes, maintaining too certain a position relative to his might agitate him. They had not forgotten. This was a tactical team building exercise, that was all. They let their frown turn to a tense smile. "You know what I mean.
Who the fuck are they…?
Ace was bad with names. He was good with faces.
He remained still, except for his hands--his hands were trembling. He was scared, he knew it. He hated that weakness in himself. He had used fear as fuel too much in football. He was always scared on the field—scared of getting hurt, scared of getting hit. That fear caused him to move faster than he normally did. It did the same when he tried to save Meilin. It did the same when he ran off from a dying Jackson.
Running was what he did. His fight or flight--was normally firmly set to flight.
He had frozen up with Quinn. With the boy with the tire-iron. With Tirzah.
He remained still—frozen. Well, except for his hands. He squinted in the dark, looked at them by the fire and tried his best to assign an identity to Blondie Smurf’s companion. He hated how little he paid attention to his fellow students outside his teammates. And how his teammates were becoming less and less numerous by the day.
Is that…the slutty Bowie type androgynous French chick with the wigs...? What’s their face...?
You know better than that. It’s 2018 my guy—murder island or no, don’t misgender them.
It’s in Wyatt’s honor—shut the fuck up.
Now what was their fuckin' name again...?
He listened intently to the conversation at hand—they were talking about the game, the Best Kill Award. This person had won it. So…Erika? No, wait, she was German…Viola? He didn’t even think that was the name of a person who had won the award. Or in the school. It wasn’t Madison…
Holy shi—
He felt a gasp come up in his throat….
SHUT THE FUCK UP!
He swallowed it. Quickly. He felt like an idiot, but what else was new? How many other French kids were in George Hunter? It was pretty much LeBlanc and Blaise. How'd he not make that fuckin' connection...? Even after talking to Ivy about Blaise. They had such a flamboyant personality in the hallway—the fashion, the impressions. Shit, how'd he fuckin' miss this shit?! Sure, he never engaged with them personally, not really. Proximity alone though, made it hard to not have some sort of impression left upon him.
And yet, in spite of swearing vengeance against Blaise in Dante’s name for a week—he had never really made the leap of who Blaise was. He didn’t know them by name and hadn’t really until this exact moment known them by face. A pang of guilt came for him about Dante--not about letting him die...but by forgetting to feel guilty about him earlier. He was a bad friend and considering his inability to keep up with announcements or who killed who or won what...bad at this game.
He had frozen against Quinn. He had frozen against the boy with tire-iron. He had frozen against Tirzah…
And here was Blaise.
He felt the adrenaline in his body pump—but he remained quiet, circling away from facing the two to trying to position himself behind them. He moved slowly, carefully, quietly—outside and then circling around.
His adrenaline was pumping and his heart was beating non-stop.
He remained quiet and once he was in position, he remained still.
He thought of Tirzah popping out with that gun already pointed at him. He thought about that kid, whimpering in the corner before hitting Ace in the head and then the back.
Yeah.
When he hit Blaise—they wouldn’t see it coming. He guaranteed that.
Ace was bad with names. He was good with faces.
He remained still, except for his hands--his hands were trembling. He was scared, he knew it. He hated that weakness in himself. He had used fear as fuel too much in football. He was always scared on the field—scared of getting hurt, scared of getting hit. That fear caused him to move faster than he normally did. It did the same when he tried to save Meilin. It did the same when he ran off from a dying Jackson.
Running was what he did. His fight or flight--was normally firmly set to flight.
He had frozen up with Quinn. With the boy with the tire-iron. With Tirzah.
He remained still—frozen. Well, except for his hands. He squinted in the dark, looked at them by the fire and tried his best to assign an identity to Blondie Smurf’s companion. He hated how little he paid attention to his fellow students outside his teammates. And how his teammates were becoming less and less numerous by the day.
Is that…the slutty Bowie type androgynous French chick with the wigs...? What’s their face...?
You know better than that. It’s 2018 my guy—murder island or no, don’t misgender them.
It’s in Wyatt’s honor—shut the fuck up.
Now what was their fuckin' name again...?
He listened intently to the conversation at hand—they were talking about the game, the Best Kill Award. This person had won it. So…Erika? No, wait, she was German…Viola? He didn’t even think that was the name of a person who had won the award. Or in the school. It wasn’t Madison…
Holy shi—
He felt a gasp come up in his throat….
SHUT THE FUCK UP!
He swallowed it. Quickly. He felt like an idiot, but what else was new? How many other French kids were in George Hunter? It was pretty much LeBlanc and Blaise. How'd he not make that fuckin' connection...? Even after talking to Ivy about Blaise. They had such a flamboyant personality in the hallway—the fashion, the impressions. Shit, how'd he fuckin' miss this shit?! Sure, he never engaged with them personally, not really. Proximity alone though, made it hard to not have some sort of impression left upon him.
And yet, in spite of swearing vengeance against Blaise in Dante’s name for a week—he had never really made the leap of who Blaise was. He didn’t know them by name and hadn’t really until this exact moment known them by face. A pang of guilt came for him about Dante--not about letting him die...but by forgetting to feel guilty about him earlier. He was a bad friend and considering his inability to keep up with announcements or who killed who or won what...bad at this game.
He had frozen against Quinn. He had frozen against the boy with tire-iron. He had frozen against Tirzah…
And here was Blaise.
He felt the adrenaline in his body pump—but he remained quiet, circling away from facing the two to trying to position himself behind them. He moved slowly, carefully, quietly—outside and then circling around.
His adrenaline was pumping and his heart was beating non-stop.
He remained quiet and once he was in position, he remained still.
He thought of Tirzah popping out with that gun already pointed at him. He thought about that kid, whimpering in the corner before hitting Ace in the head and then the back.
Yeah.
When he hit Blaise—they wouldn’t see it coming. He guaranteed that.
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
-
Frozen Smoke
- Posts: 533
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 3:50 pm
- Location: Where I need to be
"Binoculars?"
His first guess came out quickly, more of an uncertain reaction to the question being posed than anything else, to which Blaise made a dismissive gesture with one hand, accompanied with a disgruntled noise. The search for the word continued. Parker thought for a few more seconds, before speaking again as he actually reflected on what they meant. Something that clipped on to the top of the rifle, something that they could aim with, he knew what it was in the back of his mind, but-
"A scope." he came out with suddenly, voice tinged with a certainty the previous suggestion hadn't held, as his mind hazily recalled memories of weapon customisation screens. Blaise seemed satisfied with that, and he was able to move on from the issue, glad to not have the itch of an unremembered phrase stuck in the back of his head as he considered the new information they had laid out for him.
It was disappointing, for sure. What concrete details Blaise was aware of went against the potential of abusing the zoning rules to their gain, even assuming the terrorists didn't decide to lean on the Rule 0 of their own fiat and threatening collar detonation for trying to be clever, but it had been worth exploring. Any information they had that he could use was useful, if only to rule out ideas like that, and push him onto more productive lines of thought. Still, he shook his head in momentary frustration, as no further questions came to him. It was early, and it had been a long morning, stretching from when Blaise had awoken him for his turn on watch to now.
He threw another spent wipe onto the ground, before inspecting his hands in contemplative silence, spreading them out in front of him as he looked for any traces of blood left in the cracks of his webbing of them. Eventually he drew them back, rubbing a thumb against one of his index fingers as he tried to push out some of the stubborn splotches of dark brown that stuck to the underside of his fingernails, before accepting the futility with a resentful sigh.
The silence continued to stretch, and Parker realised that Blaise was waiting for him to find another topic to continue the conversation onto, in order for the both of them to pass the time that they had left to burn. Potential destinations, potential tactics, potential plans - Those were all moot points until the next announcements came. Moving from previous dangerzone to previous dangerzone was the best way to try and ensure they stayed well the hell away from where other people had settled down, and there didn't seem to be any discernible pattern to how they were chosen, and without a fresh set of announcements Blaise had no new information where Lorenzo might be. It was the closest thing to downtime they really would have until the same period of time tomorrow.
Parker furrowed his brow as he gazed into the fire again, as if hoping the mesmerising visual of browns turning into grey and black at a barely perceptible rate would give him the right inspiration, but creativity had never been his strong suit. At least, not when he was sober.
Parker blinked, and turned over to look at Blaise curiously, as he realised that he didn't have to be sober. Or at least, not entirely unimpaired. There had to be some reason why Blaise smoked cigarettes beyond the aesthetic they provided, and the addiction they caused, judging by the way they'd carefully rationed them in his presence - Using them only when things were at their calmest. Parker opened his mouth, about to ask casually, before closing it and weighing his words more carefully. They were a precious, limited resource for them, obviously. It wouldn't be right to be flippant about that.
"Hey, Blaise - Do you mind if I take a cigarette? I've, uh, never actually smoked tobacco up until now. Feels like if I was ever going to try one, well..." he cocked his head to the side a few degrees and smirked at them before continuing. "Lung cancer doesn't seem like such a big deal now."
His first guess came out quickly, more of an uncertain reaction to the question being posed than anything else, to which Blaise made a dismissive gesture with one hand, accompanied with a disgruntled noise. The search for the word continued. Parker thought for a few more seconds, before speaking again as he actually reflected on what they meant. Something that clipped on to the top of the rifle, something that they could aim with, he knew what it was in the back of his mind, but-
"A scope." he came out with suddenly, voice tinged with a certainty the previous suggestion hadn't held, as his mind hazily recalled memories of weapon customisation screens. Blaise seemed satisfied with that, and he was able to move on from the issue, glad to not have the itch of an unremembered phrase stuck in the back of his head as he considered the new information they had laid out for him.
It was disappointing, for sure. What concrete details Blaise was aware of went against the potential of abusing the zoning rules to their gain, even assuming the terrorists didn't decide to lean on the Rule 0 of their own fiat and threatening collar detonation for trying to be clever, but it had been worth exploring. Any information they had that he could use was useful, if only to rule out ideas like that, and push him onto more productive lines of thought. Still, he shook his head in momentary frustration, as no further questions came to him. It was early, and it had been a long morning, stretching from when Blaise had awoken him for his turn on watch to now.
He threw another spent wipe onto the ground, before inspecting his hands in contemplative silence, spreading them out in front of him as he looked for any traces of blood left in the cracks of his webbing of them. Eventually he drew them back, rubbing a thumb against one of his index fingers as he tried to push out some of the stubborn splotches of dark brown that stuck to the underside of his fingernails, before accepting the futility with a resentful sigh.
The silence continued to stretch, and Parker realised that Blaise was waiting for him to find another topic to continue the conversation onto, in order for the both of them to pass the time that they had left to burn. Potential destinations, potential tactics, potential plans - Those were all moot points until the next announcements came. Moving from previous dangerzone to previous dangerzone was the best way to try and ensure they stayed well the hell away from where other people had settled down, and there didn't seem to be any discernible pattern to how they were chosen, and without a fresh set of announcements Blaise had no new information where Lorenzo might be. It was the closest thing to downtime they really would have until the same period of time tomorrow.
Parker furrowed his brow as he gazed into the fire again, as if hoping the mesmerising visual of browns turning into grey and black at a barely perceptible rate would give him the right inspiration, but creativity had never been his strong suit. At least, not when he was sober.
Parker blinked, and turned over to look at Blaise curiously, as he realised that he didn't have to be sober. Or at least, not entirely unimpaired. There had to be some reason why Blaise smoked cigarettes beyond the aesthetic they provided, and the addiction they caused, judging by the way they'd carefully rationed them in his presence - Using them only when things were at their calmest. Parker opened his mouth, about to ask casually, before closing it and weighing his words more carefully. They were a precious, limited resource for them, obviously. It wouldn't be right to be flippant about that.
"Hey, Blaise - Do you mind if I take a cigarette? I've, uh, never actually smoked tobacco up until now. Feels like if I was ever going to try one, well..." he cocked his head to the side a few degrees and smirked at them before continuing. "Lung cancer doesn't seem like such a big deal now."
Criticism or thoughts on my writing are welcome and appreciated - always looking to improve! Feel free to poke me on Discord or via PM.
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
It was fortunate that Blaise kept a measure of restraint even in this laid back climate, as the initial impulse drawn out by Parker's request was to make the sort of face more appropriate if he had requested violent unprotected intercourse with their mother.
Not a single person they had robbed so far had thought to pack cigarettes into their bags, which in Blaise's opinion was idiotically short-sighted of all of them. Still it meant that their own supply was dangerously low with days or even weeks left stretching on ahead of them. The thought of going that far without a smoke was...unpalatable, to say the least. Asking for one of their precious few demanded a firm response no less severe than a gut shot.
Blaise looked at Parker still working his way through clean-up, then at the meat sizzling over his fire. Their stomach growled.
Ugh.
The sacrifices they make for partnership. No one could ever call them uncharitable after this.
With a sigh their hand crossed in front of their dress, past the strap of their gun and over their neckline to brush against their wig. When it came over the other side a cigarette was clenched between their pointer and middle fingers. They did not offer an explanation before walking over to Parker with their hand extended. "Don't waste it," they warned with a half smile, "I have killed for less."
Hmm.
The line had been a force of habit, just something one said over an inoffensive debt. It could be argued it was accurate now, no?
Not a single person they had robbed so far had thought to pack cigarettes into their bags, which in Blaise's opinion was idiotically short-sighted of all of them. Still it meant that their own supply was dangerously low with days or even weeks left stretching on ahead of them. The thought of going that far without a smoke was...unpalatable, to say the least. Asking for one of their precious few demanded a firm response no less severe than a gut shot.
Blaise looked at Parker still working his way through clean-up, then at the meat sizzling over his fire. Their stomach growled.
Ugh.
The sacrifices they make for partnership. No one could ever call them uncharitable after this.
With a sigh their hand crossed in front of their dress, past the strap of their gun and over their neckline to brush against their wig. When it came over the other side a cigarette was clenched between their pointer and middle fingers. They did not offer an explanation before walking over to Parker with their hand extended. "Don't waste it," they warned with a half smile, "I have killed for less."
Hmm.
The line had been a force of habit, just something one said over an inoffensive debt. It could be argued it was accurate now, no?
Blaise was moving.
Oh shit.
Blaise was moving.
Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.
No.
Ace was still, except for, well, you know.
C’mon. C’mon. C’mon. C’mon. COME. THE. FUCK. ON.
Not yet!
Something in his gut told him that this wasn’t the moment. Something in his heart told him to focus on patience. A voice in the back of his mind told him not to freeze--he could feel himself freezing as he heard it. He melted away that ice in his veins with a fire in his belly.
He was here. They didn’t see him. He had the finger on the trigger, the target in his sight. It was too late to back down. He couldn’t back down again. This was for Dante, this was for Ramsey, this was for Meilin, this was for Wyatt and Toby and Jackson and everybody else he had failed. This wasn't the same as yesterday. Blaise wasn't the same as Tirzah. Tirzah was a friend of his who had murdered friends of his.
Blaise?
Go pee or something blondie, try to get a view…please…please…please…
He didn’t shoot, not yet.
He didn’t want to admit it, but this felt like a game. When his football coaches would compare the sport to war, he thought it was corny motivational speak—but he felt the tension in the air and the certainity that chaos was going to ensue. This was the same feeling lining up behind Connor and facing a 300lb DT. Ace could plan and he could envision all he wanted…but he knew when Connor hiked the ball, what would matter? The only thing that would matter was who’s vision was stronger. Did his desire to score outweigh the DT’s desire to obliterate his solar plexus?
Did his desire to live and do right outweigh their desire to kill and keep doing wrong?
Was what he was doing right? Vigilante justice?
”Just move, c’mon, please, just fuckin’ move…please…”
Oh shit.
Blaise was moving.
Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.
No.
Ace was still, except for, well, you know.
C’mon. C’mon. C’mon. C’mon. COME. THE. FUCK. ON.
Not yet!
Something in his gut told him that this wasn’t the moment. Something in his heart told him to focus on patience. A voice in the back of his mind told him not to freeze--he could feel himself freezing as he heard it. He melted away that ice in his veins with a fire in his belly.
He was here. They didn’t see him. He had the finger on the trigger, the target in his sight. It was too late to back down. He couldn’t back down again. This was for Dante, this was for Ramsey, this was for Meilin, this was for Wyatt and Toby and Jackson and everybody else he had failed. This wasn't the same as yesterday. Blaise wasn't the same as Tirzah. Tirzah was a friend of his who had murdered friends of his.
Blaise?
He swallowed his doubts and he stared at the short kid from the gym.Ivy wrote: "Blaise is a monster, they were long before they got here, anyway."
Go pee or something blondie, try to get a view…please…please…please…
He didn’t shoot, not yet.
He didn’t want to admit it, but this felt like a game. When his football coaches would compare the sport to war, he thought it was corny motivational speak—but he felt the tension in the air and the certainity that chaos was going to ensue. This was the same feeling lining up behind Connor and facing a 300lb DT. Ace could plan and he could envision all he wanted…but he knew when Connor hiked the ball, what would matter? The only thing that would matter was who’s vision was stronger. Did his desire to score outweigh the DT’s desire to obliterate his solar plexus?
Did his desire to live and do right outweigh their desire to kill and keep doing wrong?
Was what he was doing right? Vigilante justice?
Not today.“We friggin’ had ‘em man,” he said bitterly, “I screwed it up Pops, I let ‘em off the hook…”
“I know Papo, I know…”
“On the goddamn goal line,” he choked, “What kinda shit is that…?”
Not now.“We coulda won. I coulda won it. I coulda been the hero...it was my moment...and I came up short…”
”Just move, c’mon, please, just fuckin’ move…please…”
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
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Frozen Smoke
- Posts: 533
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 3:50 pm
- Location: Where I need to be
There was a leftover impulse to roll his eyes at that dramatically, from a time when that wasn't a very real possibility of having been true, as he plucked the cigarette from their outstretched hands. The topic of their motivation for previous murders had been one he hadn't pressed on yet, something that felt like it was best left in the past, at least until became relevant. He rolled the cylinder in between a thumb and forefinger, trying to find a way of holding it that felt both comfortable and secure, given that another was unlikely to be forthcoming.
"Thanks." He murmured to them, perhaps a moment too late to be entirely courteous, as he leaned to the side and dug around in his pocket for a lighter.
Parker pushed the cigarette between his lips, holding it there tightly as he brought the lighter up, using his free hand to cup the end of it from the slight breeze that was whipping the smoke of their fire away. A few strokes of his thumb against the steel wheel of the thing, and the flame came into being, as close as he could hold it to the end of the thing without setting it ablaze. This part, at least, he knew.
He breathed in, and pulled his hands away, the end of it glowing an angry orange-red in the periphery of his vision as he took a long drag on it. Thick smoke filled his mouth, then down into his lungs, where it settled. It felt hotter than anything he'd ever smoked before, scratching as it worked its way down his throat, bringing with it an uncontrollable urge to breathe. His eyes widened, and he quickly snatched the thing away from his face, before buckling forwards and beginning to cough uncontrollably. Every heave of his chest pushed the stuff out of his nose and mouth, before the equally involuntary sucking of air back into his system held the fumes inside, demanding a new wave of convulsions.
His eyes were red and watering by the time he'd regained enough composure to speak, wordlessly presenting the cigarette back to Blaise with his left hand, not looking in their direction as he did so. He didn't particularly feel like seeing all the enjoyment that their face probably held right now.
"I guess- " His thought was interrupted as his body demanded more oxygen, racking itself with another round of coughing that made the offered hand shake, even as it was outstretched.
"Fuck." he grunted in annoyance, before spitting on the ground, his mouth full of all the phlegm the fit had hacked up.
"I guess it's an acquired taste, huh?" he offered weakly, trying to apologise for himself.
"Thanks." He murmured to them, perhaps a moment too late to be entirely courteous, as he leaned to the side and dug around in his pocket for a lighter.
Parker pushed the cigarette between his lips, holding it there tightly as he brought the lighter up, using his free hand to cup the end of it from the slight breeze that was whipping the smoke of their fire away. A few strokes of his thumb against the steel wheel of the thing, and the flame came into being, as close as he could hold it to the end of the thing without setting it ablaze. This part, at least, he knew.
He breathed in, and pulled his hands away, the end of it glowing an angry orange-red in the periphery of his vision as he took a long drag on it. Thick smoke filled his mouth, then down into his lungs, where it settled. It felt hotter than anything he'd ever smoked before, scratching as it worked its way down his throat, bringing with it an uncontrollable urge to breathe. His eyes widened, and he quickly snatched the thing away from his face, before buckling forwards and beginning to cough uncontrollably. Every heave of his chest pushed the stuff out of his nose and mouth, before the equally involuntary sucking of air back into his system held the fumes inside, demanding a new wave of convulsions.
His eyes were red and watering by the time he'd regained enough composure to speak, wordlessly presenting the cigarette back to Blaise with his left hand, not looking in their direction as he did so. He didn't particularly feel like seeing all the enjoyment that their face probably held right now.
"I guess- " His thought was interrupted as his body demanded more oxygen, racking itself with another round of coughing that made the offered hand shake, even as it was outstretched.
"Fuck." he grunted in annoyance, before spitting on the ground, his mouth full of all the phlegm the fit had hacked up.
"I guess it's an acquired taste, huh?" he offered weakly, trying to apologise for himself.
Criticism or thoughts on my writing are welcome and appreciated - always looking to improve! Feel free to poke me on Discord or via PM.
He wasn't moving.
"C'mon man...please...just hurry the fuck up, move! Please. Please. Please. Please."
He wasn't moving.
He was smoking. They were going to be there for awhile. The moment was going to pass him by. Blaise was going to turn around. He was going to mess this up. Blaise was going to turn around and he was going to freeze and then he was going to get shot dead. Then it would be for nothing. Everything and everyone would've been for nothing.
Not now...
If not now...when?
I dunno if I can...
If not you...then who?
He wasn't moving.
"Fuckin'--shit! C'mon! Please! Please! Get water--something!"
You're choking.
"Fuck it."
He closed his eyes.
He pulled the trigger.
He kept them closed as he moved the BR-18 from left to right and attempted to coat their camp in bullets.
"C'mon man...please...just hurry the fuck up, move! Please. Please. Please. Please."
He wasn't moving.
He was smoking. They were going to be there for awhile. The moment was going to pass him by. Blaise was going to turn around. He was going to mess this up. Blaise was going to turn around and he was going to freeze and then he was going to get shot dead. Then it would be for nothing. Everything and everyone would've been for nothing.
Not now...
If not now...when?
I dunno if I can...
If not you...then who?
He wasn't moving.
"Fuckin'--shit! C'mon! Please! Please! Get water--something!"
You're choking.
"Fuck it."
He closed his eyes.
He pulled the trigger.
He kept them closed as he moved the BR-18 from left to right and attempted to coat their camp in bullets.
BRRAT-BRRAT!!
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
-
Frozen Smoke
- Posts: 533
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 3:50 pm
- Location: Where I need to be
A lot of things happened in a short space of time, as the first round zipped past the both of them and into the distance, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
His immediate reaction was panic. Parker dropped the cigarette he'd been holding, and it landed and sizzled in the dirt. His legs began to move beneath him, almost without thought, as his head whipped around towards where the sound had come from. Where he thought the sound had come from. He couldn't see anything, and as another quick crack emanated from the same place, he looked away - Eyes still scrambling for purpose.
Cover. He needed to find cover. He could feel his heartbeat spiking, mouth going dry, stomach dropping as all he saw was trees and bushes.
The last thing that went through Parker's mind was a bullet.
B017: Parker Green
Deceased
His immediate reaction was panic. Parker dropped the cigarette he'd been holding, and it landed and sizzled in the dirt. His legs began to move beneath him, almost without thought, as his head whipped around towards where the sound had come from. Where he thought the sound had come from. He couldn't see anything, and as another quick crack emanated from the same place, he looked away - Eyes still scrambling for purpose.
Cover. He needed to find cover. He could feel his heartbeat spiking, mouth going dry, stomach dropping as all he saw was trees and bushes.
The last thing that went through Parker's mind was a bullet.
B017: Parker Green
Deceased
Criticism or thoughts on my writing are welcome and appreciated - always looking to improve! Feel free to poke me on Discord or via PM.
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
Blaise could not recall a time when they did not feel they were an aberration. It was not a word they would have used the first time they felt it. That would come with years of pretension and performance, but was that not the point? In moments of pure, unobscured self-reflection(appreciative or not of how rare those moments had become), they learned to be the way they were through an inescapable truth: the world was not designed with the way they saw it in mind. Rigor and labels, definition, stability, these were not things that came naturally to them. It was not that they made no attempt so much as it was that they made too many. Adolescence brought revelation that there was no place for them but the one they made for themself, and the opportunity to invent that place without bonds outside their parents when they transplanted so far away it might well have been another world. What began as exploration turned to a way of life, one that kept them safe from the expectations of others. No barb could touch them or obligation fetter them if they remained ebullient in both senses, overflowing with a satisfaction too agitating to be captured. Untouchable. As unconcerned with the world around them or any damage they caused it as it fundamentally was with them.
It would be gross supposition to say that Parker understood that better than most. To the contrary much of their relationship hinged on a lack of understanding. A sort of symbiosis where Parker possessed too little expression and Blaise far too much, and with enough exercise they might level each other out. Blaise evaded doubts by refusing to give them shape within their mind, but one that stubbornly clung to form between them was that if they ever ceased to tease his curiosity he would be done with them. It would not be so traumatic a thing. They had other pursuits. Still, he was one of the few people who demanded nothing but entertainment from them and provided the same in return. They did not jeopardize that relationship by giving him any answers that would not inspire more questions. Good business, nothing more. It worked, no? Among all circumstances when they should have been at each other's throats they had found a level of comfort and certainty that had eluded them both elsewhere. An ease demonstrably not in their imagination from how free Parker was to not only fail but admit failure in front of them. He showed weakness while being one of the only people who could comprehend what that meant around them, and in their normal dynamic this would be a moment to seize dominance. They would snatch their cigarette back with a remark measured between cruelty and fondness, perhaps play a trick with the smoke and contort his comment on taste. The outline of it was clear in their mind, something about how the act was not acquisition but conquest. A mastery of inhibition through will. One he was not ready for, but perhaps they could assist him.
Some bullshit like that.
Yeah. Bullshit. They said it again in their head, acknowledged the facade for the span of a thought and then another. There was another path in front of them without all their, for the third expanded time, complete and utter bullshit. Neither of them had shown interest in exploring it back home, in dropping all the games and just kind of seeing what it was like to be with each other. No motives, no bullshit, just two kids who felt afraid and out of place feeling each other out because it was nice to be accepted despite how much they'd messed up along the way. Blaise never took that bet. They weren't sure it had been put on the table for them before. It might not be on the table now. It'd be a blunder if they went all in and returned the same vulnerability Parker was showing just for it to turn out to be another ploy that they misread. The kind of loss that wouldn't anger them, and it wouldn't excite them. It would just...hurt.
When someone could hurt them, Blaise always struck first. It'd been a pretty effective strategy. As far as they allowed themself to believe they had been safe for years. Untouched.
They were so alone.
While they were entertaining doubts, they should acknowledge one more. That they might not leave. So they had to ask themself: under all the bullshit, were they satisfied? Or did they want to be touched, just once, and see how it felt?
Blaise smiled at Parker with nothing behind it and reached for him.
It burned.
First in the bottom of their outstretched left hand. Next across the top of their ear exposed by their jerky tilt towards the movement. Then across their entire body when Parker dropped to the ground and they realized it was not sound tactics that made him fall but an oozing circle drilled through his head.
They looked into the distance but found no more solid form in their perception than their was in the scream that tore out of their throat, or their intent that raised the rifle. They pulled the trigger and expected nothing, because even under duress only a fool would make the same mistake twice in so short a span.
It would be gross supposition to say that Parker understood that better than most. To the contrary much of their relationship hinged on a lack of understanding. A sort of symbiosis where Parker possessed too little expression and Blaise far too much, and with enough exercise they might level each other out. Blaise evaded doubts by refusing to give them shape within their mind, but one that stubbornly clung to form between them was that if they ever ceased to tease his curiosity he would be done with them. It would not be so traumatic a thing. They had other pursuits. Still, he was one of the few people who demanded nothing but entertainment from them and provided the same in return. They did not jeopardize that relationship by giving him any answers that would not inspire more questions. Good business, nothing more. It worked, no? Among all circumstances when they should have been at each other's throats they had found a level of comfort and certainty that had eluded them both elsewhere. An ease demonstrably not in their imagination from how free Parker was to not only fail but admit failure in front of them. He showed weakness while being one of the only people who could comprehend what that meant around them, and in their normal dynamic this would be a moment to seize dominance. They would snatch their cigarette back with a remark measured between cruelty and fondness, perhaps play a trick with the smoke and contort his comment on taste. The outline of it was clear in their mind, something about how the act was not acquisition but conquest. A mastery of inhibition through will. One he was not ready for, but perhaps they could assist him.
Some bullshit like that.
Yeah. Bullshit. They said it again in their head, acknowledged the facade for the span of a thought and then another. There was another path in front of them without all their, for the third expanded time, complete and utter bullshit. Neither of them had shown interest in exploring it back home, in dropping all the games and just kind of seeing what it was like to be with each other. No motives, no bullshit, just two kids who felt afraid and out of place feeling each other out because it was nice to be accepted despite how much they'd messed up along the way. Blaise never took that bet. They weren't sure it had been put on the table for them before. It might not be on the table now. It'd be a blunder if they went all in and returned the same vulnerability Parker was showing just for it to turn out to be another ploy that they misread. The kind of loss that wouldn't anger them, and it wouldn't excite them. It would just...hurt.
When someone could hurt them, Blaise always struck first. It'd been a pretty effective strategy. As far as they allowed themself to believe they had been safe for years. Untouched.
They were so alone.
While they were entertaining doubts, they should acknowledge one more. That they might not leave. So they had to ask themself: under all the bullshit, were they satisfied? Or did they want to be touched, just once, and see how it felt?
Blaise smiled at Parker with nothing behind it and reached for him.
It burned.
First in the bottom of their outstretched left hand. Next across the top of their ear exposed by their jerky tilt towards the movement. Then across their entire body when Parker dropped to the ground and they realized it was not sound tactics that made him fall but an oozing circle drilled through his head.
They looked into the distance but found no more solid form in their perception than their was in the scream that tore out of their throat, or their intent that raised the rifle. They pulled the trigger and expected nothing, because even under duress only a fool would make the same mistake twice in so short a span.
His position and posture nearly had him falling on his ass.
Did I get ‘em…?
A few seconds and that was that. Camp littered in bullets.
He opened his eyes. Panicked. Pupils dilated in the dark.
Did I at least get Blaise…?
Fear, doubt—familiar friends.
He had answered their every protest with gunfire.
In his heart of hearts he knew there would be a moment in the future to marinate and ponder his action—that moment was not now. Green eyes peered out into the dark blue and searched for answers. Had the blonde kid moved in time? Had Blaise? Had he gunned them both down? Just one? Was retaliation imminent? What had he done and what did it mean?
His heart was beating out of his chest. His brow and body coated in a cold sweat.
Fear, doubt—familiar friends.
They were answered with gunfire.
“Fuck! Shit!”
He yelped and cursed and ducked on the ground. His duffle bag and everything banging into his body. He tried to scoot and scramble—the BR-18 had no strap (that had been used to strangle Ramsey, shit—there was another familiar friend, guilt). He couldn’t let the weapon go. He tried to point it at the camp towards the gunshots and squeeze again in response to his own designated rebuttal.
Only to remember that he needed to reload.
His mind raced.
Run. Reload. Run. Reload. Run. Reload. Run. Reload. Run. Reload. Run. Reload.
And, as if by prophecy--he stood still. Except for his hands--they hadn't stopped trembling yet.
“God fuckin’ damn it! What the fuck! What the fuck!”
Did I get ‘em…?
A few seconds and that was that. Camp littered in bullets.
He opened his eyes. Panicked. Pupils dilated in the dark.
Did I at least get Blaise…?
Fear, doubt—familiar friends.
He had answered their every protest with gunfire.
In his heart of hearts he knew there would be a moment in the future to marinate and ponder his action—that moment was not now. Green eyes peered out into the dark blue and searched for answers. Had the blonde kid moved in time? Had Blaise? Had he gunned them both down? Just one? Was retaliation imminent? What had he done and what did it mean?
His heart was beating out of his chest. His brow and body coated in a cold sweat.
Fear, doubt—familiar friends.
They were answered with gunfire.
“Fuck! Shit!”
He yelped and cursed and ducked on the ground. His duffle bag and everything banging into his body. He tried to scoot and scramble—the BR-18 had no strap (that had been used to strangle Ramsey, shit—there was another familiar friend, guilt). He couldn’t let the weapon go. He tried to point it at the camp towards the gunshots and squeeze again in response to his own designated rebuttal.
Only to remember that he needed to reload.
His mind raced.
Run. Reload. Run. Reload. Run. Reload. Run. Reload. Run. Reload. Run. Reload.
And, as if by prophecy--he stood still. Except for his hands--they hadn't stopped trembling yet.
“God fuckin’ damn it! What the fuck! What the fuck!”
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
It had a voice. With a voice came recognition. With recognition came a face. With a face came a name.
Stop. They filed but did not recognize this information. It was not clear it would be worth considering. They started over.
It had a voice. With a voice came recognition. With recognition came a target.
They said nothing. Neither their aim nor their path forward were particularly straight, but they would get there.
Fuck its name. Fuck its face. Fuck its weapon. Fuck its purpose. Any questions they left it too marred to answer would be addressed in a few hours. Its final exclamation drew them to movement.
Their left hand flinched away with the recoil. Something wet splattered against their leg.
Stop. They filed but did not recognize this information. It was not clear it would be worth considering. They started over.
It had a voice. With a voice came recognition. With recognition came a target.
They said nothing. Neither their aim nor their path forward were particularly straight, but they would get there.
Fuck its name. Fuck its face. Fuck its weapon. Fuck its purpose. Any questions they left it too marred to answer would be addressed in a few hours. Its final exclamation drew them to movement.
Their left hand flinched away with the recoil. Something wet splattered against their leg.