((Bill Dover continued from Cancer Towers on Holy Road Hi-Way))
An overwhelming atmosphere of decay surrounded Bill as he trudged his way through what was likely once a beautiful garden, yet had now collapsed into ruins, with choking weeds strangling the life out of anything good that remained. Trash covered the walkway, and even the air seemed to smell stale, as weird as that sounded. Overall, not a place that he would recommend anyone to spend time visiting.
Unfortunately, he didn't exactly have any say about his own presence in this awful place. He didn't choose to be taken to this island, and he most certainly didn't choose to die here either. The miniature pity party that he was currently throwing for himself would definitely have moved him to tears, had he not already worn himself out from doing this half a dozen times over the past couple of days. As things stood, he just yearned desperately for a distraction, something to pull his mind away from his failure to render any help to anyone and, most pressingly, his own impending doom.
The distraction was soon rendered in the form of a bright gleam a few feet away. Bill's head perked up as he walked towards it, soon finding himself looking down at a strange, foliage covered bundle. He stared at it for a few moments, puzzled, wondering how it could have gotten there, and, for that matter, what was in it. It wasn't until he had bent down beside it and noticed the faint smell of blood that all the pieces finally clicked together in his head.
A loud yell of shock forced its way out of his throat as he quickly rose to his feet, nearly slipping on the muddy ground as he struggled to gain traction. He took several steps back, looking desperately around for any killers hiding in the tall grass, before directing his attention back at the covered body, desperately hoping that his instincts were wrong, yet at the same time not able to work up the courage to go check.
In the meanwhile, all he could do was stare as the crackle of the speakers filled the air.
We Drift Like Worried Fire
Day 4, Before Announcements, Private (For Now)
>> In the end, she returned to the scene of the crime.
It had not been Nia's preference, but an unfortunate bow to logistics led her back to the ring of houses where she and Alexander had spent the previous night. She had first made good on her meaningless and arbitrary word, trekking west toward the waterfall. It was not a particularly lengthy journey in terms of distance traveled, but it dragged endlessly regardless. The extra weight slowed her steps, though objectively she knew she was faster now than she had been while accompanied. But for once in her life, despite the endless companionship of the static sound of the storm, the lack of conversation felt oppressive. Nothing to fill the gaps but questions without answers. They came fast and thick as the rain itself.
When she finally reached the waterfall it did nothing for her but exist. She had seen a thousand waterfalls, as photos or video clips. The one before her held no special majesty. She had witnessed it for the sake of it, for the sake of a thing she had said to a boy who no longer existed, and it had been a waste of her time, and the light was dimming. There was a cave behind the waterfall, the map said, but such a position with no one to watch her sleep was impossibly unsafe.
She retraced her steps, instead. The questions followed. More than once she turned and moved her hand out to ask one and found no one there to answer.
The first house she arrived at would do. She was too tired, exhausted by her attempts to outrun her thoughts, to take proper care, to barricade entrances, to secure her position. She found the bed, drank some water, ate some bread, slept. Mechanical actions. The rest was due to follow. The rest had to follow.
She would be human again come morning.
The buzz and crackle of the speakers was not what woke her, as she had been expecting when she fell off into a deep and surprisingly peaceful sleep. It was difficult to approximate what time it was, though it must have been before announcements; the cloud cover made telling by the sun's position impossible. Nia bit her lip as she observed the room around her. A wide window that she could easily open. The door to the room was open. The front door, when she went to check, was still ajar. It was a miracle she hadn't been killed in her sleep. With the angle of the window to the bed someone could have shot through it from some distance, even. Mistake after mistake. Moronic, idiotic, stupid.
She had drifted in on a cloud of fog. It had lifted to reveal nothing but herself. Still here. Still alive.
She had plenty to think about, but she couldn't do it here. Rain or no, her best bet was to disappear into the woods for the time being. Recollect herself in the sort of solitude unlikely to face conflict. She still had no answers, but she only needed time and space. She would come to the most logical conclusion, as she always had.
Announcements would be soon. Nia considered waiting for them before leaving, her prior notes still neatly folded and tucked into her medical kit to keep them dry, the rest of her paper sandwiched in between her other belongings the best she could to protect them. There would be more. She chose to trust her memory, for the moment. She could commit the names to paper when she reached her destination.
She questioned that decision when the speakers came to life a few feet from the house's door, but she kept moving. She had been ambushed not far from this position, once. If she died making the same mistake a second time Alexander would never forgive her.
The gardens spread in front of her. She turned to ignore them, curve around behind the houses, head north. But she saw movement.
She heard names.
Clayton, the other blind boy. Parallels. Teresa, not a name she knew. Knife, not too dangerous, theoretically.
A figure in the garden. At a fair distance, unlikely to have seen her. The bright color of his shirt and her own anxiety, desperately warning against the possibility of an ambush, taking in all directions, were the only things that gave him away. She slid herself behind the nearest structurally-sound piece of garden furniture, the remnants of some kind of stone column. From a distance, it and the tall grass should be enough to disguise her presence.
Quinn, again. It bothered her more than ever that she had zero recollection of who Quinn was when she was rapidly becoming the most dangerous person on the island. Another question with no answers. Unlikely now that she'd ever know. Michael—
She peeked around the column. The boy looked... something had startled him.
Michael. Michael in the commissary, gunshots. Jeremiah. She knew something. He babbled pointlessly like Alexander had but without the substance that made her love him, had she loved him, another question without an answer. Michael. She didn't know Camila, so it didn't matter, not really, but Michael. She knew him.
There was a glint of silver in the grass. The boy kept looking back at it.
Poison, again. Erika, this time. She remembered the name and vaguely the silhouette. From the day before. Killers in patterns. Blaise again. Blaise. Blaise.
Alexander. Dolly. She had known Dolly. Dolly had been kind. Dolly had been patient and had known so much.
She recognized that glint.
Familiar names, Lorenzo, Violet, patterns on patterns. An easy list of people to avoid. Or hunt. All motivations were valid. Vengeance too. Still murder, but.
She had left Alexander's body where she thought it wouldn't be found. It had been less than a day.
Stepney.
The rest trailed off. Names and data still filed with neatness and precision in her brain, to be accessed at a later date. The danger zone was important. She had heard Bryan's name, and hadn't been surprised. He was a memory now, too. A blurry one, easily discarded. She had never cared to know him. That his name pricked at her was an unfortunate coincidence and nothing more.
Stepney had followed her. She'd heard her call his name until he faded into rough nothing and she told herself it was for the best.
He was a memory, too. Years of memories. Signs and stories. Laughter.
Her laughter.
She crumbled to her knees, laughing, her rough, dry laugh, too quiet to be audible even if the boy she observed had been much closer. She was right, after all, in the end, wasn't she? It was better, wasn't it? For her. It was better for her, that she hadn't seen him die, that he was gone. Stepney was gone. It didn't matter how much she cared about him, how afraid she was of seeing the light leave his eyes the way Jeremiah's had, it was gone already, far away, without her. He slipped from reality. That was all.
They all had. They were all gone. Every single one. Every person she had ever allowed a stake in her heart.
One by one.
Three days. It had only been three days. There was nothing left in her. There was nothing left to her.
She laughed. She was so empty.
Alexander was in the garden. She looked back beyond the column to the intruder, whoever he was, she didn't recognize him. It didn't matter much. He didn't belong here. She stood as if in a trance, walked toward him. He wasn't dangerous. She knew.
Pathetic. Her gun still in her waistband. She drew it, pointed. Tilted head. Who was he? She didn't need to know.
Curiosity poked through a fog of nothing.
She walked closer.
It had not been Nia's preference, but an unfortunate bow to logistics led her back to the ring of houses where she and Alexander had spent the previous night. She had first made good on her meaningless and arbitrary word, trekking west toward the waterfall. It was not a particularly lengthy journey in terms of distance traveled, but it dragged endlessly regardless. The extra weight slowed her steps, though objectively she knew she was faster now than she had been while accompanied. But for once in her life, despite the endless companionship of the static sound of the storm, the lack of conversation felt oppressive. Nothing to fill the gaps but questions without answers. They came fast and thick as the rain itself.
When she finally reached the waterfall it did nothing for her but exist. She had seen a thousand waterfalls, as photos or video clips. The one before her held no special majesty. She had witnessed it for the sake of it, for the sake of a thing she had said to a boy who no longer existed, and it had been a waste of her time, and the light was dimming. There was a cave behind the waterfall, the map said, but such a position with no one to watch her sleep was impossibly unsafe.
She retraced her steps, instead. The questions followed. More than once she turned and moved her hand out to ask one and found no one there to answer.
The first house she arrived at would do. She was too tired, exhausted by her attempts to outrun her thoughts, to take proper care, to barricade entrances, to secure her position. She found the bed, drank some water, ate some bread, slept. Mechanical actions. The rest was due to follow. The rest had to follow.
She would be human again come morning.
The buzz and crackle of the speakers was not what woke her, as she had been expecting when she fell off into a deep and surprisingly peaceful sleep. It was difficult to approximate what time it was, though it must have been before announcements; the cloud cover made telling by the sun's position impossible. Nia bit her lip as she observed the room around her. A wide window that she could easily open. The door to the room was open. The front door, when she went to check, was still ajar. It was a miracle she hadn't been killed in her sleep. With the angle of the window to the bed someone could have shot through it from some distance, even. Mistake after mistake. Moronic, idiotic, stupid.
She had drifted in on a cloud of fog. It had lifted to reveal nothing but herself. Still here. Still alive.
She had plenty to think about, but she couldn't do it here. Rain or no, her best bet was to disappear into the woods for the time being. Recollect herself in the sort of solitude unlikely to face conflict. She still had no answers, but she only needed time and space. She would come to the most logical conclusion, as she always had.
Announcements would be soon. Nia considered waiting for them before leaving, her prior notes still neatly folded and tucked into her medical kit to keep them dry, the rest of her paper sandwiched in between her other belongings the best she could to protect them. There would be more. She chose to trust her memory, for the moment. She could commit the names to paper when she reached her destination.
She questioned that decision when the speakers came to life a few feet from the house's door, but she kept moving. She had been ambushed not far from this position, once. If she died making the same mistake a second time Alexander would never forgive her.
The gardens spread in front of her. She turned to ignore them, curve around behind the houses, head north. But she saw movement.
She heard names.
Clayton, the other blind boy. Parallels. Teresa, not a name she knew. Knife, not too dangerous, theoretically.
A figure in the garden. At a fair distance, unlikely to have seen her. The bright color of his shirt and her own anxiety, desperately warning against the possibility of an ambush, taking in all directions, were the only things that gave him away. She slid herself behind the nearest structurally-sound piece of garden furniture, the remnants of some kind of stone column. From a distance, it and the tall grass should be enough to disguise her presence.
Quinn, again. It bothered her more than ever that she had zero recollection of who Quinn was when she was rapidly becoming the most dangerous person on the island. Another question with no answers. Unlikely now that she'd ever know. Michael—
She peeked around the column. The boy looked... something had startled him.
Michael. Michael in the commissary, gunshots. Jeremiah. She knew something. He babbled pointlessly like Alexander had but without the substance that made her love him, had she loved him, another question without an answer. Michael. She didn't know Camila, so it didn't matter, not really, but Michael. She knew him.
There was a glint of silver in the grass. The boy kept looking back at it.
Poison, again. Erika, this time. She remembered the name and vaguely the silhouette. From the day before. Killers in patterns. Blaise again. Blaise. Blaise.
Alexander. Dolly. She had known Dolly. Dolly had been kind. Dolly had been patient and had known so much.
She recognized that glint.
Familiar names, Lorenzo, Violet, patterns on patterns. An easy list of people to avoid. Or hunt. All motivations were valid. Vengeance too. Still murder, but.
She had left Alexander's body where she thought it wouldn't be found. It had been less than a day.
Stepney.
The rest trailed off. Names and data still filed with neatness and precision in her brain, to be accessed at a later date. The danger zone was important. She had heard Bryan's name, and hadn't been surprised. He was a memory now, too. A blurry one, easily discarded. She had never cared to know him. That his name pricked at her was an unfortunate coincidence and nothing more.
Stepney had followed her. She'd heard her call his name until he faded into rough nothing and she told herself it was for the best.
He was a memory, too. Years of memories. Signs and stories. Laughter.
Her laughter.
She crumbled to her knees, laughing, her rough, dry laugh, too quiet to be audible even if the boy she observed had been much closer. She was right, after all, in the end, wasn't she? It was better, wasn't it? For her. It was better for her, that she hadn't seen him die, that he was gone. Stepney was gone. It didn't matter how much she cared about him, how afraid she was of seeing the light leave his eyes the way Jeremiah's had, it was gone already, far away, without her. He slipped from reality. That was all.
They all had. They were all gone. Every single one. Every person she had ever allowed a stake in her heart.
One by one.
Three days. It had only been three days. There was nothing left in her. There was nothing left to her.
She laughed. She was so empty.
Alexander was in the garden. She looked back beyond the column to the intruder, whoever he was, she didn't recognize him. It didn't matter much. He didn't belong here. She stood as if in a trance, walked toward him. He wasn't dangerous. She knew.
Pathetic. Her gun still in her waistband. She drew it, pointed. Tilted head. Who was he? She didn't need to know.
Curiosity poked through a fog of nothing.
She walked closer.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Bill stood staring as the man on the other end of the speakers continued his mocking speech, barely even listening as name after name was rattled off. So many lives were cut short yesterday, friendly faces that he'd never get to see again. Which face lay under the sheet in front of him? Did he even want to know?
No. Whoever it was down there, they had been given a better resting place than most of their peers. To disturb that felt almost like a crime, a violation of basic human decency. Nothing good could come of pulling back the blanket. Walking away was the only good option.
As he turned to leave, he could swear he felt his heart stop as he found himself face to face with the barrel of a gun.
The pounding in his chest reverberated through his entire body as he looked up to stare at a face that was both familiar and alien at the same time. He couldn't place it, exactly, but something about Nia's expression sent a chill down his spine. She hadn't come here just to give a friendly greeting.
She was here to kill him, wasn't she?
Bill swallowed hard as the girl closed the distance. If that was the case, there was nothing that he could do about it. There was nowhere to take cover, and even if there was, he wouldn't have been fast enough to make it there. The only thing he could do was to try and play harmless, hoping that his initial impression was the wrong one. He raised his hands, showing that they were empty, and spoke in a shaky voice.
"Hi, Nia? Is... are you okay?"
No. Whoever it was down there, they had been given a better resting place than most of their peers. To disturb that felt almost like a crime, a violation of basic human decency. Nothing good could come of pulling back the blanket. Walking away was the only good option.
As he turned to leave, he could swear he felt his heart stop as he found himself face to face with the barrel of a gun.
The pounding in his chest reverberated through his entire body as he looked up to stare at a face that was both familiar and alien at the same time. He couldn't place it, exactly, but something about Nia's expression sent a chill down his spine. She hadn't come here just to give a friendly greeting.
She was here to kill him, wasn't she?
Bill swallowed hard as the girl closed the distance. If that was the case, there was nothing that he could do about it. There was nowhere to take cover, and even if there was, he wouldn't have been fast enough to make it there. The only thing he could do was to try and play harmless, hoping that his initial impression was the wrong one. He raised his hands, showing that they were empty, and spoke in a shaky voice.
"Hi, Nia? Is... are you okay?"
Her actions were, perhaps, poorly considered. Nia's bags lay where she'd left them, behind the pillar, fairly well-covered but in no way immune to the sudden appearance of a scavenger. She could have carried them with her but that would have unsteadied her aim, which frankly she had limited trust in to begin with. She had made good on her promise to herself to get in some target practice the night before, but she couldn't spare more than a few bullets for the job, and her primary success had been in learning in a more controlled environment what affect the recoil had on her hands and on the bullet's trajectory. She could correct for that now, slightly, though it was hardly a scientific process and she imagined it more than a little fallible.
She certainly did not trust her aim from a distance, and from her limited gun knowledge it seemed likely that even a more experienced marksman would have trouble making such a shot with the pistol she carried. Which had left two reasonable options: close the distance, or leave. Leaving would have been smart. He hadn't seen her, she could slink away into the tall grass and disappear, she would have, she was going to, that was the plan. Avoid trouble. Aggress only when necessary.
Necessary. What did that mean? They all had to die. That was necessary. Let them kill each other, hide away, wait for the dust to settle, pick off the rest, it sounded right, yes. Her name would stay off the announcements. She would not be seen as a threat, as though that mattered to someone like her, anymore.
Count. One, Alexander, dead. Two, the girl in the commissary, she didn't know. She didn't remember her name, couldn't check. Three, Nick, a murderer. Four, Jeremiah, dead. Five, Michael, a murderer.
Six, Bryan, dead. Seven, Ashlynn, alive, somehow. Not for long, she knew. She knew.
Eight, Stepney. Dead.
Nine, Blaise. A murderer.
Number ten stood before her a marked man. The specter of the shadow of death on her shoulder. It was ridiculous, of course, superstitious nonsense, superstitious nonsense with a disturbing success rate and a leaden weight in her chest and a hypothesis that needed testing. She had planned well, she had taken precautions at every step, she had always made the correct choice, reasoning and calculating and logical and all of her friends were dead.
Nia had expected him to turn around sooner; she was a bare few feet away when he finally turned and spotted her. He was rather larger than she'd thought, up close, though his stature hardly intimidated her considering the fear that contorted his face the moment he caught sight of her, the tremble in his voice. He was desperate to make himself look unthreatening.
What an odd strategy. Only liable to work on someone not inclined to attack to begin with. When encountering a mountain lion, make yourself look larger, wave your arms, scream, appear to be too dangerous to bother with. A predator did not accept surrender.
Her name sounded strange in his mouth. She didn't know his. He was familiar, looking at him, but in the way the creaking stair in the art block's western staircase was familiar. She would notice if it disappeared, one day, but that was all.
She glanced at Alexander's body, untouched, she could see now; he had noticed but not disturbed it, yet. She glanced back at him, unblinking, hands held steady. She couldn't communicate with him, of course. His interpretation of the subtle movement of her gaze would make for an interesting character study.
She didn't imagine he had much to teach her, yet. But he would.
She certainly did not trust her aim from a distance, and from her limited gun knowledge it seemed likely that even a more experienced marksman would have trouble making such a shot with the pistol she carried. Which had left two reasonable options: close the distance, or leave. Leaving would have been smart. He hadn't seen her, she could slink away into the tall grass and disappear, she would have, she was going to, that was the plan. Avoid trouble. Aggress only when necessary.
Necessary. What did that mean? They all had to die. That was necessary. Let them kill each other, hide away, wait for the dust to settle, pick off the rest, it sounded right, yes. Her name would stay off the announcements. She would not be seen as a threat, as though that mattered to someone like her, anymore.
Count. One, Alexander, dead. Two, the girl in the commissary, she didn't know. She didn't remember her name, couldn't check. Three, Nick, a murderer. Four, Jeremiah, dead. Five, Michael, a murderer.
Six, Bryan, dead. Seven, Ashlynn, alive, somehow. Not for long, she knew. She knew.
Eight, Stepney. Dead.
Nine, Blaise. A murderer.
Number ten stood before her a marked man. The specter of the shadow of death on her shoulder. It was ridiculous, of course, superstitious nonsense, superstitious nonsense with a disturbing success rate and a leaden weight in her chest and a hypothesis that needed testing. She had planned well, she had taken precautions at every step, she had always made the correct choice, reasoning and calculating and logical and all of her friends were dead.
Nia had expected him to turn around sooner; she was a bare few feet away when he finally turned and spotted her. He was rather larger than she'd thought, up close, though his stature hardly intimidated her considering the fear that contorted his face the moment he caught sight of her, the tremble in his voice. He was desperate to make himself look unthreatening.
What an odd strategy. Only liable to work on someone not inclined to attack to begin with. When encountering a mountain lion, make yourself look larger, wave your arms, scream, appear to be too dangerous to bother with. A predator did not accept surrender.
Her name sounded strange in his mouth. She didn't know his. He was familiar, looking at him, but in the way the creaking stair in the art block's western staircase was familiar. She would notice if it disappeared, one day, but that was all.
She glanced at Alexander's body, untouched, she could see now; he had noticed but not disturbed it, yet. She glanced back at him, unblinking, hands held steady. She couldn't communicate with him, of course. His interpretation of the subtle movement of her gaze would make for an interesting character study.
She didn't imagine he had much to teach her, yet. But he would.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Bill could feel his stomach drop as she closed the distance between them. He knew that she wasn't physically able to give a verbal response, but the fact that she hadn't even seemed to acknowledge his question at all made it clear that something was very, very wrong here. The way she was eyeing him was more akin to a predator staring down a piece of meat than one human meeting another.
Any hope that his initial interpretation of the situation was incorrect quickly died as he stared at the gun in Nia's hand. He wasn't dealing with a normal human being here, but something else. There was something about the way that she was acting that felt deeply wrong, animalistic, even. He took a step back, a quick prayer flashing through his mind, his previous resignation towards his fate overwhelmed with a sudden primitive desire to continue living.
God, please help me. There's no way that I can get out of here without some sort of miracle. Please don't let it all end here...
He raised his hands as he slowly continued to back away from the threat, speaking slowly and carefully.
"Nia, listen. I don't have a weapon. I'm not going to hurt you."
A brief pause filled the air with silence before being broken by one final sentence.
"Please don't do anything you're going to regret."
Any hope that his initial interpretation of the situation was incorrect quickly died as he stared at the gun in Nia's hand. He wasn't dealing with a normal human being here, but something else. There was something about the way that she was acting that felt deeply wrong, animalistic, even. He took a step back, a quick prayer flashing through his mind, his previous resignation towards his fate overwhelmed with a sudden primitive desire to continue living.
God, please help me. There's no way that I can get out of here without some sort of miracle. Please don't let it all end here...
He raised his hands as he slowly continued to back away from the threat, speaking slowly and carefully.
"Nia, listen. I don't have a weapon. I'm not going to hurt you."
A brief pause filled the air with silence before being broken by one final sentence.
"Please don't do anything you're going to regret."
No response.
Unsurprising. The boy didn't seem to Nia to be a paragon of perceptiveness, considering she could have put a half-dozen bullets in him before he'd noticed she was there, if that had been what she'd wanted. Would it be more or less fortuitous for him, if she had? A question of character she had not nearly enough information to answer. The question of a few more moments of life weighed against those moments being tainted, by fear, with pain. She knew her own choice, every time. She'd watched Alexander make his.
The boy would not see anything but the barrel of her gun. That was his downfall, though she supposed in the end it didn't matter much. She was no sphinx, she came bearing no riddle. There was no magic word to sway her from her path, though she noted his attempt to use one regardless. A universal one. Regret. Quite a concept to invoke when her lifespan measured in days if not hours. What time was there, in those hours, for regret? What room was there to pontificate on things that couldn't be changed? She, of course, was guilty of doing so, but she at least recognized her fault, sought to erase it.
She wondered if he had regrets. She wondered as to his story. Any account of any person on the island, living or dead, would make for a fascinating anthropological study. She would be tempted to do that sort of work herself if she wasn't so certain anything she wrote would be burned or left to rot with every other bit of garbage on the island.
Something to work on when she got home.
It didn't matter. She didn't even know his name. She would, come morning. Asking would be redundant, even if it was possible.
She watched his face. Lined currently with nothing but terror, she watched for a change as she lowered her gun.
A moment of relief, she thought, which made it all the more interesting when she pulled the trigger.
Unsurprising. The boy didn't seem to Nia to be a paragon of perceptiveness, considering she could have put a half-dozen bullets in him before he'd noticed she was there, if that had been what she'd wanted. Would it be more or less fortuitous for him, if she had? A question of character she had not nearly enough information to answer. The question of a few more moments of life weighed against those moments being tainted, by fear, with pain. She knew her own choice, every time. She'd watched Alexander make his.
The boy would not see anything but the barrel of her gun. That was his downfall, though she supposed in the end it didn't matter much. She was no sphinx, she came bearing no riddle. There was no magic word to sway her from her path, though she noted his attempt to use one regardless. A universal one. Regret. Quite a concept to invoke when her lifespan measured in days if not hours. What time was there, in those hours, for regret? What room was there to pontificate on things that couldn't be changed? She, of course, was guilty of doing so, but she at least recognized her fault, sought to erase it.
She wondered if he had regrets. She wondered as to his story. Any account of any person on the island, living or dead, would make for a fascinating anthropological study. She would be tempted to do that sort of work herself if she wasn't so certain anything she wrote would be burned or left to rot with every other bit of garbage on the island.
Something to work on when she got home.
It didn't matter. She didn't even know his name. She would, come morning. Asking would be redundant, even if it was possible.
She watched his face. Lined currently with nothing but terror, she watched for a change as she lowered her gun.
A moment of relief, she thought, which made it all the more interesting when she pulled the trigger.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Bill was only vaguely aware of a loud noise filling the air as a sudden impact took his legs out from under him, sending his large body on a rapid trajectory towards the muddy ground. He collided with it with a wet thud, remaining still for a few seconds as his brain began to process what had just happened to him.
Fortunately, he didn't have to wait very long, as a spike of pain ripped its way through his leg, making it crystal clear what had happened.
His heart pounded in his chest as he frantically began to struggle to his feet, shedding the duffel bags wrapped around his shoulders in a desperate attempt to lighten his load. A brief pang of regret flashed across his mind as he let go of Drew's bag, quickly drowned out by an overwhelming desire to avoid taking an immediate trip to meet his maker.
A low groan slipped out of his lips as he finally managed to pull himself upright, tottering unsteadily on a leg with a uncomfortable non-zero number of holes in it. He could feel a deep sinking feeling in his gut as the full gravity of his predicament weighed down on him. Even normally, he'd have a hard time outrunning anyone, but now...
He was completely at her mercy.
Bill's eyes filled with tears as he looked back at Nia's cold, unfeeling face and made one last futile appeal to whatever humanity remained within his attacker's heart.
"Please."
Fortunately, he didn't have to wait very long, as a spike of pain ripped its way through his leg, making it crystal clear what had happened.
His heart pounded in his chest as he frantically began to struggle to his feet, shedding the duffel bags wrapped around his shoulders in a desperate attempt to lighten his load. A brief pang of regret flashed across his mind as he let go of Drew's bag, quickly drowned out by an overwhelming desire to avoid taking an immediate trip to meet his maker.
A low groan slipped out of his lips as he finally managed to pull himself upright, tottering unsteadily on a leg with a uncomfortable non-zero number of holes in it. He could feel a deep sinking feeling in his gut as the full gravity of his predicament weighed down on him. Even normally, he'd have a hard time outrunning anyone, but now...
He was completely at her mercy.
Bill's eyes filled with tears as he looked back at Nia's cold, unfeeling face and made one last futile appeal to whatever humanity remained within his attacker's heart.
"Please."
The human body was a funny thing. Fickle, transient. Inconstant. The very idea of a "safe place" to be shot was laughable due simply to that reality. The body was lined with so many tiny blood vessels that laid end to end one person's would circumnavigate the earth four times over, and the wrong one being nicked the wrong way would cause death, quick or slow, painless or miserable. There were options that were safer than others, of course. The foot or the hand would almost certainly destroy the appendage in question to the point of uselessness but would be relatively unlikely to lead to a fatality, though nothing was ever certain and that relied on the ability to successfully and quickly staunch the bleeding.
Not an ability that could be taken for granted, in this situation. Would it be possible, in an environment this unsanitary and lacking in more than the most basic of medical supplies, to survive a gunshot at all? It wasn't a chance Nia would be particularly interested in taking, as though it was likely to be offered to her as a choice. It was possible, theoretically, if quick action was taken, if the wound was clean, if, if, if a million factors lined up perfectly.
And even then, it could never be truly stabilized. At the very least it would prove painful and burdensome for the remainder of the victim's short life.
Nia hadn't aimed for the foot or hand; there was too much room for error, there, even at a short distance, and if she had missed and the boy had ran it would be both irksome and a waste of more bullets than necessary. She hadn't aimed for the head because that too was a tricky proposition, and it would ruin the learning opportunity besides. She hadn't aimed for the center of mass because of the speed at which it would incapacitate the boy and because of the lack of hope it would leave him. She, of course, knew that a non-fatal wound in this situation would only cause more suffering. But he might believe otherwise, for a few more moments.
How far would one have to be pushed to the edge before they knew? Where was the line where one knew, not accepted but understood, that death was the only remaining step? Jeremiah could not express it. Alexander could, mere moments after realizing he'd been shot, he knew. He knew.
She wondered. And so she had shot him in the leg.
She had aimed for the knee, though the boy fell quickly and the blood spread with enough speed that it was hard to say how well she'd hit her mark. She had recognized the pained expression that swept over his features at the moment of impact; she imagined that, more than any other, the human expression of suffering was universal. It was near-entirely instinctive, after all; it couldn't be molded into socially and culturally correct boxes by one's upbringing. The boy's face twisted like Jeremiah's had, like Alexander's had, and it was a tick mark on a checklist, and she felt nothing at all.
It was for the best, evidently, that she chose to wait a moment before approaching him, as he took surprisingly little time to get back to his feet, unsteady as he clearly was, blood flowing freely from his leg. If she left now, she thought, head tilted, observing the wound and not the face, he would die. Almost certainly. It was not a clean shot, not at all, it was bleeding too strongly. She imagined shattered bone fragments. The imagined the bullet trapped inside. He would bleed to death. Fairly slowly, most likely, but he would. Right here, and alone.
Please, he said, as though leaving him now would be a mercy. It was laughable. It was laughable, and there were tears in his eyes, and it was pathetic. It was very sad, wasn't it, to die like this. Wasn't it? The victims of a war crime or a concentration camp or a genocide, read about in a textbook years later by bored students going oh, how sad, it was the same. It was the same. All of her friends were dead and suddenly she didn't care what the boy's story was. He was someone else's dead friend, and he was someone else's problem.
Please, he said, as though any of them had a choice.
As though she could feel things like guilt anymore.
She took a step back before pulling the trigger again.
A step back, a third shot.
She turned and ran back to her hiding spot. The noise would attract attention. Best to be cautious.
She had more than enough firsthand experience watching the light leave a person's eyes.
Not an ability that could be taken for granted, in this situation. Would it be possible, in an environment this unsanitary and lacking in more than the most basic of medical supplies, to survive a gunshot at all? It wasn't a chance Nia would be particularly interested in taking, as though it was likely to be offered to her as a choice. It was possible, theoretically, if quick action was taken, if the wound was clean, if, if, if a million factors lined up perfectly.
And even then, it could never be truly stabilized. At the very least it would prove painful and burdensome for the remainder of the victim's short life.
Nia hadn't aimed for the foot or hand; there was too much room for error, there, even at a short distance, and if she had missed and the boy had ran it would be both irksome and a waste of more bullets than necessary. She hadn't aimed for the head because that too was a tricky proposition, and it would ruin the learning opportunity besides. She hadn't aimed for the center of mass because of the speed at which it would incapacitate the boy and because of the lack of hope it would leave him. She, of course, knew that a non-fatal wound in this situation would only cause more suffering. But he might believe otherwise, for a few more moments.
How far would one have to be pushed to the edge before they knew? Where was the line where one knew, not accepted but understood, that death was the only remaining step? Jeremiah could not express it. Alexander could, mere moments after realizing he'd been shot, he knew. He knew.
She wondered. And so she had shot him in the leg.
She had aimed for the knee, though the boy fell quickly and the blood spread with enough speed that it was hard to say how well she'd hit her mark. She had recognized the pained expression that swept over his features at the moment of impact; she imagined that, more than any other, the human expression of suffering was universal. It was near-entirely instinctive, after all; it couldn't be molded into socially and culturally correct boxes by one's upbringing. The boy's face twisted like Jeremiah's had, like Alexander's had, and it was a tick mark on a checklist, and she felt nothing at all.
It was for the best, evidently, that she chose to wait a moment before approaching him, as he took surprisingly little time to get back to his feet, unsteady as he clearly was, blood flowing freely from his leg. If she left now, she thought, head tilted, observing the wound and not the face, he would die. Almost certainly. It was not a clean shot, not at all, it was bleeding too strongly. She imagined shattered bone fragments. The imagined the bullet trapped inside. He would bleed to death. Fairly slowly, most likely, but he would. Right here, and alone.
Please, he said, as though leaving him now would be a mercy. It was laughable. It was laughable, and there were tears in his eyes, and it was pathetic. It was very sad, wasn't it, to die like this. Wasn't it? The victims of a war crime or a concentration camp or a genocide, read about in a textbook years later by bored students going oh, how sad, it was the same. It was the same. All of her friends were dead and suddenly she didn't care what the boy's story was. He was someone else's dead friend, and he was someone else's problem.
Please, he said, as though any of them had a choice.
As though she could feel things like guilt anymore.
She took a step back before pulling the trigger again.
A step back, a third shot.
She turned and ran back to her hiding spot. The noise would attract attention. Best to be cautious.
She had more than enough firsthand experience watching the light leave a person's eyes.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
No sooner had his final words left Bill's mouth than he found himself yet again falling through the air, a strange, weightless feeling spreading through his normally heavy body. His vision blurred and all sound passing through his ears was swallowed up by the sound of explosions, leaving him for a few moments alone in a world completely separate from the muddy garden that he had been standing in.
It took a few more seconds before he finally became aware of the fact that he was again lying on his back, sinking slightly into the mud. It was clear this time, however, that he was not going to arise from this position. He wasn't sure exactly where he was hit this time, but judging by the fact that he couldn't move or feel anything in most of his body meant that it was bad enough.
There was something strange about the whole situation, though. Shouldn't he be in pain? After all, his wounds were definitely bad enough to warrant it, but instead he felt nothing but numbness. A strange calm began to wash over him as the reality of the situation began to sink in, his senses slowly beginning to dull and the world around him slowly fading away. He was going home, not to his parents' house back in Tennessee, but his real home, to a room that had already been prepared for him long in advance. It wasn't the end, but the beginning to the first chapter in a book in which his entire life until now formed merely the cover and title page.
He hoped that his family wasn't watching him right now. They would be sad that he was gone, regardless, but he didn't want their most recent memory of him to be of their brother and son bleeding out in the dirt. Besides, it wouldn't be the end, anyway. This separation was only temporary; they would meet again before long. What was a few decades in the face of eternity? If anything, he was the lucky one, getting to spend a few extra years with grandma all to himself. He would have chuckled at the thought, if he was physically able to.
And as for Nia... He didn't blame her. He couldn't. She was probably just as scared as anyone else. It wasn't her fault that she was here, that she had been convinced that the only way out was to take the lives of her fellow classmates. If anything, she deserved pity, not hatred. If he could speak, he would have told her that he forgave her, and that he wished she would find some form of peace down the line. As things stood, however, all he could do was pray that her story would have a happy ending.
Anyway, he had been lying here for long enough. He had a bus to catch, and the sooner he got on it, the sooner he'd reach his destination. It was time to go.
B072: William "Bill" Dover - DECEASED
The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning.
- C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle
It took a few more seconds before he finally became aware of the fact that he was again lying on his back, sinking slightly into the mud. It was clear this time, however, that he was not going to arise from this position. He wasn't sure exactly where he was hit this time, but judging by the fact that he couldn't move or feel anything in most of his body meant that it was bad enough.
There was something strange about the whole situation, though. Shouldn't he be in pain? After all, his wounds were definitely bad enough to warrant it, but instead he felt nothing but numbness. A strange calm began to wash over him as the reality of the situation began to sink in, his senses slowly beginning to dull and the world around him slowly fading away. He was going home, not to his parents' house back in Tennessee, but his real home, to a room that had already been prepared for him long in advance. It wasn't the end, but the beginning to the first chapter in a book in which his entire life until now formed merely the cover and title page.
He hoped that his family wasn't watching him right now. They would be sad that he was gone, regardless, but he didn't want their most recent memory of him to be of their brother and son bleeding out in the dirt. Besides, it wouldn't be the end, anyway. This separation was only temporary; they would meet again before long. What was a few decades in the face of eternity? If anything, he was the lucky one, getting to spend a few extra years with grandma all to himself. He would have chuckled at the thought, if he was physically able to.
And as for Nia... He didn't blame her. He couldn't. She was probably just as scared as anyone else. It wasn't her fault that she was here, that she had been convinced that the only way out was to take the lives of her fellow classmates. If anything, she deserved pity, not hatred. If he could speak, he would have told her that he forgave her, and that he wished she would find some form of peace down the line. As things stood, however, all he could do was pray that her story would have a happy ending.
Anyway, he had been lying here for long enough. He had a bus to catch, and the sooner he got on it, the sooner he'd reach his destination. It was time to go.
B072: William "Bill" Dover - DECEASED
The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning.
- C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle
Nia waited.
If she assumed rationality, there was no good reason for a passerby to run toward the sound of gunshots. Ideally the commotion would cause anyone close by enough to hear it to flee. But assuming rationality was to assume an unacceptable level of risk. There was always the danger of any given hero-type immediately heading for the nearest sign of danger, hoping to pointlessly render assistance to the injured or vengeance to the injurer. Or alternatively, the sort that had already notched a body count might be tempted toward an opportunity to add one more to their list. Humans loved to watch numbers go up. One way or another.
Or perhaps useless sentimentality. Fear that any gunshot might have a loved one on the other side. What happened, then, when the victim was a nobody, when you now stood in the crosshairs yourself? People so often didn't think that far.
Nia waited.
But no one came.
The boy didn't move. She had gained no insight as to his identity from his final moments, though she could paint what she imagined would be a fairly accurate picture on the basis of her observations. He had stood alone in no cover in the middle of the garden. He had seemed paralyzed by something when she first spotted him, perhaps the announcements, perhaps one of the early names was meaningful to him, or perhaps it had been Alexander's body that had startled him, wrapped and covered but still obviously human-shaped. If she were to speculate it would be the latter; the former would likely elicit more than shock. That implied he hadn't witnessed much violence, or at least no bodies, yet, and that he was sensitive enough for such a thing to paralyze him completely. Regardless of her speculation he was clearly careless and unthinking, stopping where he had, reacting so slowly to her approach.
He hadn't attacked her, hadn't threatened her, hadn't bargained, hadn't even really begged until she had already crossed the point of no return. He had been afraid but polite, as though he was more concerned with the consequences her actions would have on her than on him. Even his last word, he couldn't be so foolish as to think that her mercy at that stage would mean anything but more suffering for him, even in that moment he may have been thinking more of the consequences she would face than his own death. He hadn't screamed, had hardly cried.
He wasn't afraid enough. He wasn't angry. He didn't fight. He didn't care. Perhaps he believed in an afterlife, perhaps he was just apathetic.
Either way he was a walking corpse on an island full of them.
She was guilty of nothing at all.
Nia approached after what she would approximate as five minutes, though it might well be more or less; she heard no footsteps, straining her ears, no sounds she'd consider unusual. She was still cautious, eyes darting over her surroundings, moving slowly. She brought her bags, this time, as there were more supplies to scavenge. Satisfied, as she stood for a moment beside the fresh corpse and heard and saw nothing, she looked down. Nudged the boy with her foot. Nothing. Hard to tell exact positioning with the spread of the bloodstains and the bulk of his body, but one gunshot had gone in under the ribs, near enough to the right kidney. The other had pierced a lung, possibly the heart. The boy had died quickly, not that that was her concern.
His things were more important. Two bags which, to her utmost fascination, both had numbers on them. Had this milquetoast individual stolen someone's things? Or, even more interesting, scored a kill himself? There were a few killers whose descriptions she did not know, unfortunately, but she highly doubted this boy was one of them, unless he had suffered some sort of mental break since performing a kill or had done so accidentally. More likely was that he had an ally, or had scavenged a bag. If it was the former, it had hardly helped him, had it?
She laughed. Staring blankly through a still-warm body, she laughed. It was funny. It was allowed to be funny. If he didn't care enough to fight for his life, why should she? Why should anyone feel anything at all?
She thought to kick him. It. It, the unnamed corpse. It was an irrational impulse that went away when she ignored it. The impulse, not the corpse. She giggled again.
Two bags. Both filled with supplies, though much of the food stores were depleted. She imagined a boy the size of the unknown corpse needed more to eat than she did. There were still some energy bars to scavenge, slipping them into Jeremiah's still mostly-empty bag as her own was filled to bursting. The remaining bread and crackers from both bags were scattered, smashed into the dirt, the water bottles emptied and tossed after she drank her fill from one that remained sealed. She considered going through the medical kits, finding something poisonous, maybe squeezing some of the alcohol pads into the water or something similar, but it felt like too much effort for too little gain. Some part of her envied those who had been assigned poison. It would at least give her some more interesting options.
More interesting were the unique items both bags carried. One bag carried a pair of tekagi-shuko gloves, as noted by a slip of paper left in the bag; the name meant little to her, but an included manual indicated that they were more useful for climbing than for combat. She hardly wanted to find herself in a situation where hand-to-hand combat would be necessary, anyway, but some help in climbing might be useful. Of course attempting to climb a tree was a risk in and of itself, with her lack of experience in the matter, but it might be a useful defensive maneuver. Worth an attempt in a relatively safe environment.
The other bag contained a bottle of caffeine pills, and that was far more immediately and obviously useful. Sleep deprivation could easily kill, particularly if she was to continue travelling alone with no one to watch her back when she attempted to sleep at night. The bottle was full; the boy hadn't used any, it seemed. She popped two immediately, washed down with her own water, and placed the rest in her bag. The gloves went on her hands, her fingers flexing, ensuring the added burden wouldn't impede her. They seemed comfortable enough, for the time being.
And that was all.
No, it wasn't. The corpse. Was she meant to do something with it? It was far bigger than Alexander's, and uncovered, almost gaudy in how it stood out from its environment. She had no duty to the unnamed boy, and certainly none to the slab of meat he had become, but something pricked at her brain as she looked at it, head tilted, thoughtful.
Ah, yes.
She had an idea.
Efficiency was important to her. Efficacy just as much so. She knew what a gun could do, she had known before she had used it herself. Jeremiah's hammer swung from her waistband. It was hers, she felt its power in her arm but there was no point in practicing with it the way she had the night before with the pistol. Aiming was not the problem. The problem was in not knowing how much force she could actually exert. It was all too possible that in the heat of the moment, forced to fight at close range, she would swing the hammer and do next to nothing. It would be in that moment that she would die.
She needed a test subject.
Nia dropped down next to the body, eyeing it with clinical expertise. The trouble, of course, was that most of her classmates were much thinner than the unnamed boy. An attack that did nothing to him might well break a rib on someone not so well-padded; a practice swing to his midsection would be poor proof of anything. She'd start with something simpler.
She took a breath, steadied her aim. Swung her arm down.
... Not much. She wasn't trying hard enough. Again.
Again.
The fourth time, there was an ugly crunch and it sounded familiar and corpse's hand was mangled. Blood didn't flow. Surreal to watch, a bit, but she'd heard broken bones, confirmed them by touching the hand, feeling things shift that should not.
It had worked. It had taken too long. She wasn't trying. She looked at its face.
She looked at its face.
She looked at his face.
He hadn't fought, he hadn't begged, he hadn't ran, he wasn't angry, he had made it this far.
He'd outlived Alexander. He'd outlived Jeremiah.
He was lucky.
Why? Why had he been so fortunate? It felt at moments like the angel of death followed her alone, like he had simply had the good fortune to avoid her until this moment, like it didn't matter how much the people she loved kicked and screamed and clung onto life and she refused. She refused to be blamed. Life was arbitrary and unfair. Nothing went how it was supposed to. Least of all here.
He was lucky until he wasn't.
He didn't deserve it.
His skull cracked like anyone else's would.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
>> She decided the hammer worked just fine.
If she assumed rationality, there was no good reason for a passerby to run toward the sound of gunshots. Ideally the commotion would cause anyone close by enough to hear it to flee. But assuming rationality was to assume an unacceptable level of risk. There was always the danger of any given hero-type immediately heading for the nearest sign of danger, hoping to pointlessly render assistance to the injured or vengeance to the injurer. Or alternatively, the sort that had already notched a body count might be tempted toward an opportunity to add one more to their list. Humans loved to watch numbers go up. One way or another.
Or perhaps useless sentimentality. Fear that any gunshot might have a loved one on the other side. What happened, then, when the victim was a nobody, when you now stood in the crosshairs yourself? People so often didn't think that far.
Nia waited.
But no one came.
The boy didn't move. She had gained no insight as to his identity from his final moments, though she could paint what she imagined would be a fairly accurate picture on the basis of her observations. He had stood alone in no cover in the middle of the garden. He had seemed paralyzed by something when she first spotted him, perhaps the announcements, perhaps one of the early names was meaningful to him, or perhaps it had been Alexander's body that had startled him, wrapped and covered but still obviously human-shaped. If she were to speculate it would be the latter; the former would likely elicit more than shock. That implied he hadn't witnessed much violence, or at least no bodies, yet, and that he was sensitive enough for such a thing to paralyze him completely. Regardless of her speculation he was clearly careless and unthinking, stopping where he had, reacting so slowly to her approach.
He hadn't attacked her, hadn't threatened her, hadn't bargained, hadn't even really begged until she had already crossed the point of no return. He had been afraid but polite, as though he was more concerned with the consequences her actions would have on her than on him. Even his last word, he couldn't be so foolish as to think that her mercy at that stage would mean anything but more suffering for him, even in that moment he may have been thinking more of the consequences she would face than his own death. He hadn't screamed, had hardly cried.
He wasn't afraid enough. He wasn't angry. He didn't fight. He didn't care. Perhaps he believed in an afterlife, perhaps he was just apathetic.
Either way he was a walking corpse on an island full of them.
She was guilty of nothing at all.
Nia approached after what she would approximate as five minutes, though it might well be more or less; she heard no footsteps, straining her ears, no sounds she'd consider unusual. She was still cautious, eyes darting over her surroundings, moving slowly. She brought her bags, this time, as there were more supplies to scavenge. Satisfied, as she stood for a moment beside the fresh corpse and heard and saw nothing, she looked down. Nudged the boy with her foot. Nothing. Hard to tell exact positioning with the spread of the bloodstains and the bulk of his body, but one gunshot had gone in under the ribs, near enough to the right kidney. The other had pierced a lung, possibly the heart. The boy had died quickly, not that that was her concern.
His things were more important. Two bags which, to her utmost fascination, both had numbers on them. Had this milquetoast individual stolen someone's things? Or, even more interesting, scored a kill himself? There were a few killers whose descriptions she did not know, unfortunately, but she highly doubted this boy was one of them, unless he had suffered some sort of mental break since performing a kill or had done so accidentally. More likely was that he had an ally, or had scavenged a bag. If it was the former, it had hardly helped him, had it?
She laughed. Staring blankly through a still-warm body, she laughed. It was funny. It was allowed to be funny. If he didn't care enough to fight for his life, why should she? Why should anyone feel anything at all?
She thought to kick him. It. It, the unnamed corpse. It was an irrational impulse that went away when she ignored it. The impulse, not the corpse. She giggled again.
Two bags. Both filled with supplies, though much of the food stores were depleted. She imagined a boy the size of the unknown corpse needed more to eat than she did. There were still some energy bars to scavenge, slipping them into Jeremiah's still mostly-empty bag as her own was filled to bursting. The remaining bread and crackers from both bags were scattered, smashed into the dirt, the water bottles emptied and tossed after she drank her fill from one that remained sealed. She considered going through the medical kits, finding something poisonous, maybe squeezing some of the alcohol pads into the water or something similar, but it felt like too much effort for too little gain. Some part of her envied those who had been assigned poison. It would at least give her some more interesting options.
More interesting were the unique items both bags carried. One bag carried a pair of tekagi-shuko gloves, as noted by a slip of paper left in the bag; the name meant little to her, but an included manual indicated that they were more useful for climbing than for combat. She hardly wanted to find herself in a situation where hand-to-hand combat would be necessary, anyway, but some help in climbing might be useful. Of course attempting to climb a tree was a risk in and of itself, with her lack of experience in the matter, but it might be a useful defensive maneuver. Worth an attempt in a relatively safe environment.
The other bag contained a bottle of caffeine pills, and that was far more immediately and obviously useful. Sleep deprivation could easily kill, particularly if she was to continue travelling alone with no one to watch her back when she attempted to sleep at night. The bottle was full; the boy hadn't used any, it seemed. She popped two immediately, washed down with her own water, and placed the rest in her bag. The gloves went on her hands, her fingers flexing, ensuring the added burden wouldn't impede her. They seemed comfortable enough, for the time being.
And that was all.
No, it wasn't. The corpse. Was she meant to do something with it? It was far bigger than Alexander's, and uncovered, almost gaudy in how it stood out from its environment. She had no duty to the unnamed boy, and certainly none to the slab of meat he had become, but something pricked at her brain as she looked at it, head tilted, thoughtful.
Ah, yes.
She had an idea.
Efficiency was important to her. Efficacy just as much so. She knew what a gun could do, she had known before she had used it herself. Jeremiah's hammer swung from her waistband. It was hers, she felt its power in her arm but there was no point in practicing with it the way she had the night before with the pistol. Aiming was not the problem. The problem was in not knowing how much force she could actually exert. It was all too possible that in the heat of the moment, forced to fight at close range, she would swing the hammer and do next to nothing. It would be in that moment that she would die.
She needed a test subject.
Nia dropped down next to the body, eyeing it with clinical expertise. The trouble, of course, was that most of her classmates were much thinner than the unnamed boy. An attack that did nothing to him might well break a rib on someone not so well-padded; a practice swing to his midsection would be poor proof of anything. She'd start with something simpler.
She took a breath, steadied her aim. Swung her arm down.
... Not much. She wasn't trying hard enough. Again.
Again.
The fourth time, there was an ugly crunch and it sounded familiar and corpse's hand was mangled. Blood didn't flow. Surreal to watch, a bit, but she'd heard broken bones, confirmed them by touching the hand, feeling things shift that should not.
It had worked. It had taken too long. She wasn't trying. She looked at its face.
She looked at its face.
She looked at his face.
He hadn't fought, he hadn't begged, he hadn't ran, he wasn't angry, he had made it this far.
He'd outlived Alexander. He'd outlived Jeremiah.
He was lucky.
Why? Why had he been so fortunate? It felt at moments like the angel of death followed her alone, like he had simply had the good fortune to avoid her until this moment, like it didn't matter how much the people she loved kicked and screamed and clung onto life and she refused. She refused to be blamed. Life was arbitrary and unfair. Nothing went how it was supposed to. Least of all here.
He was lucky until he wasn't.
He didn't deserve it.
His skull cracked like anyone else's would.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
>> She decided the hammer worked just fine.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."