Ilya had to convince himself that giving Max the beating he so richly deserved felt as wonderful as he hoped it would be. He managed to convince himself that Max deserved the beating in the first place, didn't he? But no, he kept on punching and punching and punching, trying to convince himself that the endorphins and good feelings would kick in at the next punch. Instead, what ended up kicking in was the feeling of smashing his knuckles against the hard surface of Max's skull.
No, Ilya would not be feeling good about this, or anything ever again. He screamed himself hoarse as he looked over his ruined joints. The grotesque swelling hinted at fractured bone, and he could forget about ever moving them for weeks on end.
What finally distracted him from the pain was more pain, Max's jaws clamped tight over the tip of his nose and ripping into it like a dog with a strap of leather, no, with actual prey. He could feel those teeth cutting into him, sawing through skin and cartilage, all the way through to severing the tip.. As blood flowed down the side of his tilted face, he gasped and kept on screaming, cursing himself on the inside for giving in to his id and acting like certain wrestling heels. He was better than that! He read classic literature, debated whether or not post-modernism was a legitimate movement (it wasn't) and he got into the top ten percent of his class.
And what did he do to prove his superiority? Immediately resort to violence instead of going for Max's gun, of course! By the time he noticed it, Max was feet ahead of him and he couldn't possibly reach it in time. So when Max pulled the trigger and nicked his heart, Ilya had leaned forward with an outstretched arm, and collapsed in that position.
What a fucking waste. He couldn't have pretended to be surprised by this, given his career aspirations past and present. He ended up jumping to the violent option first and foremost, jobbing out of life.
Not everyone could end up being Heavyweight Champion, after all.
B069: ILYA VOLKOV-DECEASED
Hollow Stars
Private
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Solitair. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
((Lydia Robbins continued from What's Up, Dock?))
"So," Lydia said as they approached the hotel, "I guess it's just that singing with other people makes it all add up to so much more than just one voice. That's part of why I like it. It's a good way to do things."
She and Chase were near the hotel, and it was the third day, and things were still terrible but now they were bearable. It had been really tough, but she and Chase had talked more, eventually, and that was for the best. There were more people dead, more people she'd known and passed in the halls, and nice people were doing terrible things. Summer had gone and killed someone. That had rested heavily on Lydia, because she could have stopped it if only she'd known. They'd been right there, and she'd seen the weapon that must have done poor Naomi in.
She'd walked away, because it had felt right and Summer had seemed so nice, so normal. Was it wrong to trust in people?
Her faith in her classmates was waning by the moment, and what they came across next didn't help. They'd been walking around the edge of the hotel, staying close to the walls, looking for a way in. Lydia had thought the back end would be better, because the lobby might have jumpy people in it. It'd be better to just sneak in quietly, grab some supplies, scope things out, then decide whether to interact or not.
But just then, as she heard the bang, as the pool area came fully into view and she saw Ilya Volkov crumple, as she saw Max Sawyer standing there, three bodies in easy view around him, she wished she could've been anywhere else. Her purpose, well, the Lord worked in mysterious ways, but there wasn't much subtlety here.
Max was battered, bloodied, his own or someone else's she couldn't tell. His face was bruised and he had a crazy look about him, and just for a moment Lydia wondered if everyone in Hell looked like that.
"Oh," she said, and she blinked. She felt, for a moment, like she could and should just walk backwards around the corner, rewind her way back to to some other, better place and let all this flow from her mind.
But of course, that would be running, and she'd decided that that was not in the cards. Instead, she held up her left hand, to keep Chase back. She didn't need him, and she didn't want him too close. Max was obviously very dangerous.
And yet, that made it better and easier to do what came next.
Lydia raised her voice and her shotgun, and she broke into a jog. She didn't think Max could see her yet. He was doing something, wiping the blood from his face, it looked like, cleaning himself up. Whatever the case, he was distracted. That was good, because the closer she got, the more menacing she would be, and the more likely she would be to accomplish what needed doing.
"Drop the gun," she shouted, skidding to a halt and leveling her shotgun at the bloody boy. Her heart was hammering, every pulse pounding in her ears, but it was going to be okay. She would take his gun and then would figure out what came next. Stopping a killer was the important thing here, stopping him from killing again.
This was clear. It was easy. This wasn't Summer's smiles, wasn't vague and directionless. If Max had been defending himself, if in some way this could somehow be justified, well, he could tell her when the gun was on the ground.
Somehow, though, she didn't think that was what had happened here.
"So," Lydia said as they approached the hotel, "I guess it's just that singing with other people makes it all add up to so much more than just one voice. That's part of why I like it. It's a good way to do things."
She and Chase were near the hotel, and it was the third day, and things were still terrible but now they were bearable. It had been really tough, but she and Chase had talked more, eventually, and that was for the best. There were more people dead, more people she'd known and passed in the halls, and nice people were doing terrible things. Summer had gone and killed someone. That had rested heavily on Lydia, because she could have stopped it if only she'd known. They'd been right there, and she'd seen the weapon that must have done poor Naomi in.
She'd walked away, because it had felt right and Summer had seemed so nice, so normal. Was it wrong to trust in people?
Her faith in her classmates was waning by the moment, and what they came across next didn't help. They'd been walking around the edge of the hotel, staying close to the walls, looking for a way in. Lydia had thought the back end would be better, because the lobby might have jumpy people in it. It'd be better to just sneak in quietly, grab some supplies, scope things out, then decide whether to interact or not.
But just then, as she heard the bang, as the pool area came fully into view and she saw Ilya Volkov crumple, as she saw Max Sawyer standing there, three bodies in easy view around him, she wished she could've been anywhere else. Her purpose, well, the Lord worked in mysterious ways, but there wasn't much subtlety here.
Max was battered, bloodied, his own or someone else's she couldn't tell. His face was bruised and he had a crazy look about him, and just for a moment Lydia wondered if everyone in Hell looked like that.
"Oh," she said, and she blinked. She felt, for a moment, like she could and should just walk backwards around the corner, rewind her way back to to some other, better place and let all this flow from her mind.
But of course, that would be running, and she'd decided that that was not in the cards. Instead, she held up her left hand, to keep Chase back. She didn't need him, and she didn't want him too close. Max was obviously very dangerous.
And yet, that made it better and easier to do what came next.
Lydia raised her voice and her shotgun, and she broke into a jog. She didn't think Max could see her yet. He was doing something, wiping the blood from his face, it looked like, cleaning himself up. Whatever the case, he was distracted. That was good, because the closer she got, the more menacing she would be, and the more likely she would be to accomplish what needed doing.
"Drop the gun," she shouted, skidding to a halt and leveling her shotgun at the bloody boy. Her heart was hammering, every pulse pounding in her ears, but it was going to be okay. She would take his gun and then would figure out what came next. Stopping a killer was the important thing here, stopping him from killing again.
This was clear. It was easy. This wasn't Summer's smiles, wasn't vague and directionless. If Max had been defending himself, if in some way this could somehow be justified, well, he could tell her when the gun was on the ground.
Somehow, though, she didn't think that was what had happened here.
...Oh come on.
He was staring down a barrel again, just like in the record store, but this time he had steel too and he made sure the intruder got the same view. Who was this bitch? He'd stopped the blood and done something for his blackening eye but for a moment she was still a vague shape in a spinning void that had become the world. The shape clarified but didn't become more meaningful, some cow he'd never even really given the time of day back in reality. She sang on choir, didn't she? L-something?
This cow had horns, though, and recognising her took a back seat to the huge shotgun held ready to blast him apart. The inside of his head throbbed and pulsed, setting a churning in his stomach that didn't let him forget everyone else he'd seen so far. Being held up in a store, being kneed in the face and wrestling around in filthy water until the other stopped struggling, getting the living shit punched out of him before a lucky (and literal) break.
Not again. Blood became ice and shaky arms steadied best they could, holding the Anaconda over the middle of her torso. It wasn't a small target, and the weight of his and Ilya's and Amy's packs steadied him somehow, grounded him, anchored him in the world beyond the spinning and aching and desire to puke out every little thing he'd eaten in the past month. Every single time, he'd tried talk, tried niceness, tried cool and where had it got him? People were stupid, there was a body against a doorframe and in the water and on the concrete with its blood turning the ground a murky brown-red to prove it.
He wasn't just a body. He wasn't meat for the worms. He narrowed his eyes and straightened up. Make yourself look bigger so other predators don't fuck with you.
"You first," he dared through teeth red from the last person who thought they could touch him. His finger was already too familiar with the trigger, resting gently once the hammer cocked back, ready to do its work. "Lydia, right? Put that goddamn thing down and there - urk - there won't be any trouble. Gun and bag, on the floor, now!"
Despite the world twisting round again for a second, he put all his force and authority into barking that last. Some people were born to rule, and this cow was going to know her goddamn place.
He was staring down a barrel again, just like in the record store, but this time he had steel too and he made sure the intruder got the same view. Who was this bitch? He'd stopped the blood and done something for his blackening eye but for a moment she was still a vague shape in a spinning void that had become the world. The shape clarified but didn't become more meaningful, some cow he'd never even really given the time of day back in reality. She sang on choir, didn't she? L-something?
This cow had horns, though, and recognising her took a back seat to the huge shotgun held ready to blast him apart. The inside of his head throbbed and pulsed, setting a churning in his stomach that didn't let him forget everyone else he'd seen so far. Being held up in a store, being kneed in the face and wrestling around in filthy water until the other stopped struggling, getting the living shit punched out of him before a lucky (and literal) break.
Not again. Blood became ice and shaky arms steadied best they could, holding the Anaconda over the middle of her torso. It wasn't a small target, and the weight of his and Ilya's and Amy's packs steadied him somehow, grounded him, anchored him in the world beyond the spinning and aching and desire to puke out every little thing he'd eaten in the past month. Every single time, he'd tried talk, tried niceness, tried cool and where had it got him? People were stupid, there was a body against a doorframe and in the water and on the concrete with its blood turning the ground a murky brown-red to prove it.
He wasn't just a body. He wasn't meat for the worms. He narrowed his eyes and straightened up. Make yourself look bigger so other predators don't fuck with you.
"You first," he dared through teeth red from the last person who thought they could touch him. His finger was already too familiar with the trigger, resting gently once the hammer cocked back, ready to do its work. "Lydia, right? Put that goddamn thing down and there - urk - there won't be any trouble. Gun and bag, on the floor, now!"
Despite the world twisting round again for a second, he put all his force and authority into barking that last. Some people were born to rule, and this cow was going to know her goddamn place.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Slayer.
-
VysePresident
- Posts: 166
- Joined: Thu Sep 13, 2018 9:14 am
((Chase Rodriguez continued from: What's up, Dock?))
For one moment, it almost was peaceful.
Chase had been nodding along as Lydia talked about choir, and even chatting a little himself, because that the morning announcements easier to deal with. There was a companionship to be found in mutual misery that hadn't been there before. If the first announcement had been hard to listen to because of the impersonality of it all, the second was even worse because it hit so close to home. Why had Yukiko been on that list, not as a victim, like he'd thought for one painful moment, but a killer? How was he supposed to deal with that?
It was funny to think how, in a way, his relationship with Lydia had quietly reversed itself. Whether it was a deliberate effort on her part to help him cope with the confusion and misery the same way he'd consistently failed to help her, or just a natural reaction, he'd been all too glad of the distraction. The walls that had separated them emotionally before had lowered, just a little, and they'd talked about the little things, things like choir, and home, and everything else that served to remind them they were still human on this demonic isle.
For one moment, it was almost peaceful.
Then that feeling was shattered beyond recall.
As they turned around the bend, they came upon Max, standing bloodied and triumphant over two of their fellow classmates. Chase hesitated for one crucial moment, torn between shock and fear, and then, as if to emphasize his uselessness, it was Lydia who stood in front this time, it was Lydia who'd gone to confront the murderer, to his utter shame. He'd forced his unwilling feet forward, following her hard jog with his reluctant dash, because he wasn't about to fail again. He'd promised himself that he would there for her as a friend, because she'd needed one, and everything he'd done up to now had been counterproductive and useless. Not this time, not here, not now.
Please not now.
He finally caught up to see Lydia and Max threatening each other, and to see that they were already too late. Whether Max had murdered, or simply been defending himself, there was nothing left of the two former classmates except their corpses, and if he didn't hurry, didn't stop things from getting further out of hand, he knew there would soon be a third body on those cold and empty floors.
"Lydia, don't do this. We need to go. There's nothing left we can do here."
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
It was tough, because Lydia wanted nothing more than to listen to Chase and to Max, to give in to her temptations and not make a stand. It would be easy to mumble some apology and back away, and even if she didn't lower the gun and drop her bag, well, surely Max would not follow after them to cause trouble when she could cause it right back at him. There were many easy ways out of this situation, and many reasons to take them. By staying, she was putting herself and Chase in danger, and he was absolutely right when he said that there was nothing else they could directly do here, no way they could help the dead.
Lydia couldn't even say for sure that Max had killed them all, now that she had a second to think about things. She'd caught the tail end of what had happened with Ilya, but the person floating in the pool, that could've been anything. Maybe Ilya had killed her and Max had taken revenge. Maybe it had been the other way. All she knew was it had gone down in the short space since the last announcement. She simply was less inclined to be too forgiving in her initial impression of Max because he'd been on that announcement.
And the last body, that was probably the boy who had fallen from the balcony over a day ago, now that she had a better look at it. Her resolve was shaken a little, by the authoritative bark of Max's voice and by the realization that she had no true idea of what had transpired and by Chase behind her, trying to talk her down.
"No," she said, and her voice wavered just a little. She was speaking to both Chase and Max, but she faced the other armed student, and the rest of her speech was for his benefit. "You first. You've killed at least two people, so you first."
Her grip tightened on the gun, as more ideas went whirling through her head. Max wasn't going to drop his weapon. He wasn't going to stand down easily. If she wasn't going to back down and let Chase dictate this encounter, if she wasn't going to make the same mistake as with Summer again, then she had to make sure everyone knew she meant business. Maybe she should take a warning shot, show the gun was ready and loaded?
But just as quickly as that idea took root in her head, she knew she couldn't pursue it. A warning shot would be firing the gun in Max's direction, and she didn't know how large a spread its pellets would make. And whatever Max had done, whatever harm he had caused, she couldn't open fire on him.
Thou shall not kill. That was the one of the first rules she had ever been taught, one so ingrained in her psyche and in those of so many others, even the ones who didn't go to church or believe in anything after death. Words to live by, and she would not give that up in some attempt to bring justice, because it was not her place to judge. Max would face the music after his death, and until then it was simply a matter of trying to reduce the pain and suffering others would experience. Lydia had turned the safety on the shotgun on days ago, and she made no move to disengage it now.
She was doing what she was doing because it was right, and if ever there had been a moment in which Lydia had burned with fiery resolve, this was it. Nobody would take her choices away from her this time. She'd made her line in the sand, knew how far she would push and what she would and would not do. The rest was up to Max and Chase and God.
Lydia couldn't even say for sure that Max had killed them all, now that she had a second to think about things. She'd caught the tail end of what had happened with Ilya, but the person floating in the pool, that could've been anything. Maybe Ilya had killed her and Max had taken revenge. Maybe it had been the other way. All she knew was it had gone down in the short space since the last announcement. She simply was less inclined to be too forgiving in her initial impression of Max because he'd been on that announcement.
And the last body, that was probably the boy who had fallen from the balcony over a day ago, now that she had a better look at it. Her resolve was shaken a little, by the authoritative bark of Max's voice and by the realization that she had no true idea of what had transpired and by Chase behind her, trying to talk her down.
"No," she said, and her voice wavered just a little. She was speaking to both Chase and Max, but she faced the other armed student, and the rest of her speech was for his benefit. "You first. You've killed at least two people, so you first."
Her grip tightened on the gun, as more ideas went whirling through her head. Max wasn't going to drop his weapon. He wasn't going to stand down easily. If she wasn't going to back down and let Chase dictate this encounter, if she wasn't going to make the same mistake as with Summer again, then she had to make sure everyone knew she meant business. Maybe she should take a warning shot, show the gun was ready and loaded?
But just as quickly as that idea took root in her head, she knew she couldn't pursue it. A warning shot would be firing the gun in Max's direction, and she didn't know how large a spread its pellets would make. And whatever Max had done, whatever harm he had caused, she couldn't open fire on him.
Thou shall not kill. That was the one of the first rules she had ever been taught, one so ingrained in her psyche and in those of so many others, even the ones who didn't go to church or believe in anything after death. Words to live by, and she would not give that up in some attempt to bring justice, because it was not her place to judge. Max would face the music after his death, and until then it was simply a matter of trying to reduce the pain and suffering others would experience. Lydia had turned the safety on the shotgun on days ago, and she made no move to disengage it now.
She was doing what she was doing because it was right, and if ever there had been a moment in which Lydia had burned with fiery resolve, this was it. Nobody would take her choices away from her this time. She'd made her line in the sand, knew how far she would push and what she would and would not do. The rest was up to Max and Chase and God.
She thought she could argue with him? She thought she knew him, had the right to talk back? He could have laughed. That wasn't how things worked. You questioned the boss back home, you got fired, plain as day. Good luck feeding your family with God and your opinions, peasant. How didn't she see that?
"I'm not fucking arguing with you, here." His words were a growl, a rattle of a tail, a reminder that God wouldn't snatch a bullet out of the air if she pushed him. Chase was behind her, good ol' Chase. They'd run and played together as kids, and he was always good people, even if sometimes they weren't as close as they'd once been. He looked to his friend for a second, tired, pleading. "Chase, talk sense into this bitch, get her to back down. You know me."
He thought he did anyway, but who knew anyone here, where there was no rule but strength? He knew Becca was catty but not a murderer, until she'd tried to blow his head off yesterday, he knew sweet little Yukiko was someone you could trust until she pushed Stacey off a cliff, he knew Aurora was above these games until everyone he ran into seemed all too happy to hop into the mayhem and rip each other apart. He knew he knew nothing but the dull heat that crushed down on him even through the clouds, and the swimming in his head and the metal in his hands.
He knew he wanted to sleep, to find somewhere safe to clean himself up and shut out Hell for a while. He knew these idiots weren't letting him do it even though they should be interested in doing the same. Idiots, idiots all of them. But he wasn't Danya's monkey, he wasn't going to mow people down just for the hell of it. He wasn't going to play God.
Not if they didn't make him. He kept the steel hovering over Lydia, and his finger tightened on the trigger, eyes fixed on her and her hands round that shotgun. If he so much as saw a twitch... "Last chance, drop your shit and get the hell out of here. You too, Chase - sorry man, but I'm really not in the mood for guests."
"I'm not fucking arguing with you, here." His words were a growl, a rattle of a tail, a reminder that God wouldn't snatch a bullet out of the air if she pushed him. Chase was behind her, good ol' Chase. They'd run and played together as kids, and he was always good people, even if sometimes they weren't as close as they'd once been. He looked to his friend for a second, tired, pleading. "Chase, talk sense into this bitch, get her to back down. You know me."
He thought he did anyway, but who knew anyone here, where there was no rule but strength? He knew Becca was catty but not a murderer, until she'd tried to blow his head off yesterday, he knew sweet little Yukiko was someone you could trust until she pushed Stacey off a cliff, he knew Aurora was above these games until everyone he ran into seemed all too happy to hop into the mayhem and rip each other apart. He knew he knew nothing but the dull heat that crushed down on him even through the clouds, and the swimming in his head and the metal in his hands.
He knew he wanted to sleep, to find somewhere safe to clean himself up and shut out Hell for a while. He knew these idiots weren't letting him do it even though they should be interested in doing the same. Idiots, idiots all of them. But he wasn't Danya's monkey, he wasn't going to mow people down just for the hell of it. He wasn't going to play God.
Not if they didn't make him. He kept the steel hovering over Lydia, and his finger tightened on the trigger, eyes fixed on her and her hands round that shotgun. If he so much as saw a twitch... "Last chance, drop your shit and get the hell out of here. You too, Chase - sorry man, but I'm really not in the mood for guests."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Slayer.
-
VysePresident
- Posts: 166
- Joined: Thu Sep 13, 2018 9:14 am
There was a time, long ago when he was still just a kid, that Chase had stopped two friends from fighting each other. One of them had accused the other of stealing his new ball, and it was clear they were preparing to fight over it. Both boys were intimidating in size, and none of the other students had wanted to get involved, until Chase stepped up, because he hadn't wanted to see either of his friends get hurt. Somehow, he'd managed to convince the two of them to search for the ball together, and everything had worked out because it had just been lost.
It was things like that that had slowly earned Chase the respect of his friends and classmates as somebody who was always calm and fair, and somebody to turn to, who one could trust to mediate in a fight.
But that was back home, where all they'd fought were small and meaningless little fights, over little things. Here they still fought meaningless fights, but now they were for everything, and nothing he'd said had swayed Lydia in the slightest. There was just too much going on, and he wasn't calm, and this time, now that the fight was with guns and not fists, over a murder instead of a silly ball, and words fell only on deaf ears, he felt completely helpless. He met Max's eyes, and wanted to answer his plea, though whether with anger or sympathy he didn't even know anymore.
There was only one clear thought left in his mind. He couldn't let this come down to a fight. They needed to leave now, because soon, at least one of them wouldn't ever be leaving. Whether Max had committed murder, or merely self-defense, it didn't matter because there was nothing left for them to do. Max had offered him a small opening to work with, had showed some signs that perhaps he could still be reasoned with, that a compromise might be found if only he could talk Lydia into backing down. They'd leave with their stuff intact and alive, and so would Max with his. That had to work.
He had to stay calm. That was the only way.
"Max", he said, because he was darned if he was going to take the other boy's side in this either, "Lydia, let's all just back off. Look, none of us have anything to gain from this, and everything to lose. We'll take our stuff and go our way, and you go yours.
Then he turned to Lydia because he knew her to be as innocent as was possible up to now, and despite what Max said, Chase didn't know him. He'd thought he'd known Max back in Seattle, even if they weren't close friends, but the battered and bloodied boy standing over the bodies of their former classmates was somebody different, a stranger, and Chase held no trust in him. How could he?
"Look, you don't even know what happened here, any more than I do. They might even have attacked him, for all we know. It doesn't really matter thought because there's nothing left we can do for them, and even if it was murder, vengeance gives them nothing. There's no good for us to accomplish here, and if we stay, we'll just be leaving somebody else on the floor."
"We need to go, Lydia."
But it wasn't enough. He could feel he was rapidly losing the argument to fear and anger, and there was nothing left. He'd made his case, and it hadn't swayed anybody. He'd failed with logic, and so he let the mask of calm drop briefly. In that last moment, before everything burst into fire and fear, his eyes spoke for him, as he made one last, desperate plea.
"Please...please just trust me, okay?"
It was things like that that had slowly earned Chase the respect of his friends and classmates as somebody who was always calm and fair, and somebody to turn to, who one could trust to mediate in a fight.
But that was back home, where all they'd fought were small and meaningless little fights, over little things. Here they still fought meaningless fights, but now they were for everything, and nothing he'd said had swayed Lydia in the slightest. There was just too much going on, and he wasn't calm, and this time, now that the fight was with guns and not fists, over a murder instead of a silly ball, and words fell only on deaf ears, he felt completely helpless. He met Max's eyes, and wanted to answer his plea, though whether with anger or sympathy he didn't even know anymore.
There was only one clear thought left in his mind. He couldn't let this come down to a fight. They needed to leave now, because soon, at least one of them wouldn't ever be leaving. Whether Max had committed murder, or merely self-defense, it didn't matter because there was nothing left for them to do. Max had offered him a small opening to work with, had showed some signs that perhaps he could still be reasoned with, that a compromise might be found if only he could talk Lydia into backing down. They'd leave with their stuff intact and alive, and so would Max with his. That had to work.
He had to stay calm. That was the only way.
"Max", he said, because he was darned if he was going to take the other boy's side in this either, "Lydia, let's all just back off. Look, none of us have anything to gain from this, and everything to lose. We'll take our stuff and go our way, and you go yours.
Then he turned to Lydia because he knew her to be as innocent as was possible up to now, and despite what Max said, Chase didn't know him. He'd thought he'd known Max back in Seattle, even if they weren't close friends, but the battered and bloodied boy standing over the bodies of their former classmates was somebody different, a stranger, and Chase held no trust in him. How could he?
"Look, you don't even know what happened here, any more than I do. They might even have attacked him, for all we know. It doesn't really matter thought because there's nothing left we can do for them, and even if it was murder, vengeance gives them nothing. There's no good for us to accomplish here, and if we stay, we'll just be leaving somebody else on the floor."
"We need to go, Lydia."
But it wasn't enough. He could feel he was rapidly losing the argument to fear and anger, and there was nothing left. He'd made his case, and it hadn't swayed anybody. He'd failed with logic, and so he let the mask of calm drop briefly. In that last moment, before everything burst into fire and fear, his eyes spoke for him, as he made one last, desperate plea.
"Please...please just trust me, okay?"
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
And still they talked, and still they thought they could convince her, and still it was so very tempting, but Lydia knew it to be wrong. In her mind, she was searching, listening, wishing for some other voice to tell her what to do, to stay the course, even to take their side. She yearned for some confirmation, because her resolve, bright as it had burned, had never been much for withstanding such a concerted attack.
And still, there was nothing. She was alone. But what else had she expected?
When you talk to God, it's faith. When he talks back, it's schizophrenia.
Who had said that again?
And still she did not back down, because they were all missing the point. Max could leave with his gun if he was truly innocent, if he proved that by maybe showing them a little trust, but if they just unleashed him on the island without taking the time to check, that was shirking their responsibility and prioritizing their own safety over that of everyone else. Lydia could accept a lot of things, could even accept the idea of her own death, but she could not accept responsibility for the murders of others, not when she had a chance to make a difference. It was just as out of the question as shooting Max.
And Chase was asking her to trust him. And she wanted to, she really did, but how could he ask what he did not provide in turn? If it was just their lives on the line, then Lydia would've backed down sheepishly, and if they'd died for it that would have even been okay, she wouldn't even have gloated or rubbed in that she'd been right, because it would've been a choice she had accepted. But here, with the lives of unknown others at stake, others like the friends Chase wanted so badly to find, Lydia knew that there was something more important than trusting her friend, maybe even more important than trusting in God. There were no signs, no hints, and that was clue enough in itself: Lydia had to trust in herself.
"Sorry," Lydia said, not that she was sure who she was apologizing to. It could be both of them. "I can't let him go unless I know he can't kill anyone else."
And then she took a deep breath and tightened her grip, and she knew the trigger wouldn't pull but Max didn't and maybe even Chase didn't and they sure didn't need to.
"You drop it," she shouted, finally letting anger seep into her voice, finally raising her pitch. If that was how Max talked, well, clearly he thought it would make an impact. Maybe it would work turned back at him.
And still, there was nothing. She was alone. But what else had she expected?
When you talk to God, it's faith. When he talks back, it's schizophrenia.
Who had said that again?
And still she did not back down, because they were all missing the point. Max could leave with his gun if he was truly innocent, if he proved that by maybe showing them a little trust, but if they just unleashed him on the island without taking the time to check, that was shirking their responsibility and prioritizing their own safety over that of everyone else. Lydia could accept a lot of things, could even accept the idea of her own death, but she could not accept responsibility for the murders of others, not when she had a chance to make a difference. It was just as out of the question as shooting Max.
And Chase was asking her to trust him. And she wanted to, she really did, but how could he ask what he did not provide in turn? If it was just their lives on the line, then Lydia would've backed down sheepishly, and if they'd died for it that would have even been okay, she wouldn't even have gloated or rubbed in that she'd been right, because it would've been a choice she had accepted. But here, with the lives of unknown others at stake, others like the friends Chase wanted so badly to find, Lydia knew that there was something more important than trusting her friend, maybe even more important than trusting in God. There were no signs, no hints, and that was clue enough in itself: Lydia had to trust in herself.
"Sorry," Lydia said, not that she was sure who she was apologizing to. It could be both of them. "I can't let him go unless I know he can't kill anyone else."
And then she took a deep breath and tightened her grip, and she knew the trigger wouldn't pull but Max didn't and maybe even Chase didn't and they sure didn't need to.
"You drop it," she shouted, finally letting anger seep into her voice, finally raising her pitch. If that was how Max talked, well, clearly he thought it would make an impact. Maybe it would work turned back at him.
"No."
It was all that needed saying. She wasn't listening, she had the gall to lift that gun at him instead of putting it down. The brain had failed so the muscles took over and his finger pulled back without thought. There was fire and a roar that knocked him a step back, then the ringing of his ears.
Would God catch the bullet, or would she?
It was all that needed saying. She wasn't listening, she had the gall to lift that gun at him instead of putting it down. The brain had failed so the muscles took over and his finger pulled back without thought. There was fire and a roar that knocked him a step back, then the ringing of his ears.
Would God catch the bullet, or would she?
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Slayer.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
At the impact, Lydia's finger clenched on the trigger and she had enough presence of mind to be thankful that she had left the safety on. She was, after all, about to die. There were few worse times to damn oneself by accidentally committing the greatest of sins. She stumbled backwards two steps and her left leg gave way, dropping her to one knee. The shotgun she had been given fell to the ground.
It was then that the pain and fear came, washing everything else away.
With horses, it was very important to find a rhythm, and to never let any fear show. They looked to their riders for guidance, and if they found panic, it was in their nature to panic as well, to seek safety. If instead they found control, then they could stand strong, even in the most dire of situations.
Once, Lydia had been pretty good at staying in control, if only when it came to horses.
She screamed and tried to stand and instead rolled over onto her side. Her chest was burning, blood flowing from a hole in her shirt and in her and running down over her skirt. She pushed against the ground and made it to her knees as the pain came on stronger, but every movement felt like she was tearing more holes in herself. Her ribs felt tight against her skin and her insides, and everything was swaying and swirling.
She couldn't see Max or Chase, couldn't see much of anything except dirt and bodies and water and blue, and then there was black, black for a long time with a light at the end of a tunnel.
Lydia blinked. The black was her eyes closing, and the light was her staring straight into the sun. She had tipped over again, onto her back. She was still moving her mouth like she was screaming, but only a raspy gurgling sound was coming out, along with some bubbles that tasted very, very salty.
It smelled, here. That was something she hadn't noticed in her initial approach, so high had her adrenaline been running, but it absolutely reeked. It wasn't the stench of death—sure, there was a little of that, but it was far away—but rather of the water. It had a smell to it she couldn't quite put words to, because she usually described odors in flavors and it smelled like nothing she would ever allow near her mouth. It was the smell of vegetation and stagnation, and she wanted something else, some whiff of ethereal flowers or of spices and perfume, but nothing came.
She rolled to her knees once more, started to crawl away from that place though she knew she would never make it far enough. She'd have to crawl all the way across the sea to a hospital in Seattle, and it had been almost two thousand years since someone had walked on water.
And there, at the back of her mind, under the pain, there lurked those niggling doubts, and they were beyond words now, but she knew they were in her heart, could feel them. She wanted the space and peace and serenity to push them aside, to drag her faith to the fore and to sing a quiet little song as she painlessly bled against a tree, to close her eyes and maybe be with her sister making amends, or back at school with friends, or a little girl again, even working a Sudoku puzzle she couldn't understand and throwing her pencil down in frustration. That was what death was supposed to be like, a quiet little bow, a dignified exit, a thing faced with bravery, but here she was turning tail and crawling with droplets of blood and tears and who knew what else leaking from her, and now there were words echoing through her brain, still from yesterday and from that record store—never gonna keep me down, never gonna keep me down, never gonna keep me down.
She'd made it perhaps five feet in perhaps as many seconds. The brightness abated a little as something came up behind her.
There was no more time to make peace. There was no more time to preserve dignity. There was no more time to say goodbye.
Something impacted the back of her head, and she crumpled forward, flat on what was left of her face.
There was no more time.
It was then that the pain and fear came, washing everything else away.
With horses, it was very important to find a rhythm, and to never let any fear show. They looked to their riders for guidance, and if they found panic, it was in their nature to panic as well, to seek safety. If instead they found control, then they could stand strong, even in the most dire of situations.
Once, Lydia had been pretty good at staying in control, if only when it came to horses.
She screamed and tried to stand and instead rolled over onto her side. Her chest was burning, blood flowing from a hole in her shirt and in her and running down over her skirt. She pushed against the ground and made it to her knees as the pain came on stronger, but every movement felt like she was tearing more holes in herself. Her ribs felt tight against her skin and her insides, and everything was swaying and swirling.
She couldn't see Max or Chase, couldn't see much of anything except dirt and bodies and water and blue, and then there was black, black for a long time with a light at the end of a tunnel.
Lydia blinked. The black was her eyes closing, and the light was her staring straight into the sun. She had tipped over again, onto her back. She was still moving her mouth like she was screaming, but only a raspy gurgling sound was coming out, along with some bubbles that tasted very, very salty.
It smelled, here. That was something she hadn't noticed in her initial approach, so high had her adrenaline been running, but it absolutely reeked. It wasn't the stench of death—sure, there was a little of that, but it was far away—but rather of the water. It had a smell to it she couldn't quite put words to, because she usually described odors in flavors and it smelled like nothing she would ever allow near her mouth. It was the smell of vegetation and stagnation, and she wanted something else, some whiff of ethereal flowers or of spices and perfume, but nothing came.
She rolled to her knees once more, started to crawl away from that place though she knew she would never make it far enough. She'd have to crawl all the way across the sea to a hospital in Seattle, and it had been almost two thousand years since someone had walked on water.
And there, at the back of her mind, under the pain, there lurked those niggling doubts, and they were beyond words now, but she knew they were in her heart, could feel them. She wanted the space and peace and serenity to push them aside, to drag her faith to the fore and to sing a quiet little song as she painlessly bled against a tree, to close her eyes and maybe be with her sister making amends, or back at school with friends, or a little girl again, even working a Sudoku puzzle she couldn't understand and throwing her pencil down in frustration. That was what death was supposed to be like, a quiet little bow, a dignified exit, a thing faced with bravery, but here she was turning tail and crawling with droplets of blood and tears and who knew what else leaking from her, and now there were words echoing through her brain, still from yesterday and from that record store—never gonna keep me down, never gonna keep me down, never gonna keep me down.
She'd made it perhaps five feet in perhaps as many seconds. The brightness abated a little as something came up behind her.
There was no more time to make peace. There was no more time to preserve dignity. There was no more time to say goodbye.
Something impacted the back of her head, and she crumpled forward, flat on what was left of her face.
There was no more time.
G034, Lydia Robbins: DECEASED
-
VysePresident
- Posts: 166
- Joined: Thu Sep 13, 2018 9:14 am
No.
That was it. Against the impregnable wall of that single word, put up by Lydia and echoed by Max, all others were rendered meaningless, and Chase could only watch as events unfolded exactly as he'd feared. The sound of the gunshot was still ringing in his ears, along with Lydia's dying screams. Those still seemed just as loud now, even though both had stopped so long ago.
For whatever reason, he'd taken a step forward in that moment before thought and reason had taken over and held him back. There was nothing he could do, but stand there and watch as Lydia bled out on the concrete. There was no more time. No more chances to reason, to persuade, and so he just stood there.
Lydia died, and he did nothing.
She wasn't somebody he'd cared about in particular, not like Miriam, nor a close friend like Yukiko. But that didn't matter. She was a fellow person, who'd been scared and ready to break down when he met her, and that was enough.
He wanted to go back, to rewind time and take some other path, yet it had never been his decision, had it? It had been Lydia's choice to stay, Max's choice to become a murderer, and Chase wasn't technically guilty of anything. And yet that didn't help, didn't stop the flood of guilt now that promises were broken, old friends had become murderers, and blood was splattered on the floor. There was little rhyme or reason to his thoughts, only the knowledge that he'd failed to make a difference, that he'd failed the one, simple, tiny little thing he promised himself he'd try to do. If he'd only been faster, could he have stopped Lydia from initiating this fatal encounter?
Even now, he wondered if he shouldn't do something, that maybe, if he were quick enough, he could grab Lydia's shotgun and stop Max, and to heck with all the advice he'd been offering to Lydia not a minute ago. Better late than never. That way, at least Max would never again threaten another person. Perhaps this was what Lydia had felt in those last few seconds before the gunshot that had ended her life. But no, his feet were already betraying him. All these thoughts had flashed by in seconds, though it felt like years, and he'd started by taking one reluctant step backward, and then another, until he'd broken into a full run, fleeing fear and broken promises.
She died and he'd done nothing.
That was it. Against the impregnable wall of that single word, put up by Lydia and echoed by Max, all others were rendered meaningless, and Chase could only watch as events unfolded exactly as he'd feared. The sound of the gunshot was still ringing in his ears, along with Lydia's dying screams. Those still seemed just as loud now, even though both had stopped so long ago.
For whatever reason, he'd taken a step forward in that moment before thought and reason had taken over and held him back. There was nothing he could do, but stand there and watch as Lydia bled out on the concrete. There was no more time. No more chances to reason, to persuade, and so he just stood there.
Lydia died, and he did nothing.
She wasn't somebody he'd cared about in particular, not like Miriam, nor a close friend like Yukiko. But that didn't matter. She was a fellow person, who'd been scared and ready to break down when he met her, and that was enough.
He wanted to go back, to rewind time and take some other path, yet it had never been his decision, had it? It had been Lydia's choice to stay, Max's choice to become a murderer, and Chase wasn't technically guilty of anything. And yet that didn't help, didn't stop the flood of guilt now that promises were broken, old friends had become murderers, and blood was splattered on the floor. There was little rhyme or reason to his thoughts, only the knowledge that he'd failed to make a difference, that he'd failed the one, simple, tiny little thing he promised himself he'd try to do. If he'd only been faster, could he have stopped Lydia from initiating this fatal encounter?
Even now, he wondered if he shouldn't do something, that maybe, if he were quick enough, he could grab Lydia's shotgun and stop Max, and to heck with all the advice he'd been offering to Lydia not a minute ago. Better late than never. That way, at least Max would never again threaten another person. Perhaps this was what Lydia had felt in those last few seconds before the gunshot that had ended her life. But no, his feet were already betraying him. All these thoughts had flashed by in seconds, though it felt like years, and he'd started by taking one reluctant step backward, and then another, until he'd broken into a full run, fleeing fear and broken promises.
She died and he'd done nothing.
((Chase Rodriguez continued in: Wild Goose Chase))
Let Chase run. Of course he ran, because he was the only one among them with any damn sense. Max had done what he had to do as he was assailed on all sides by screeching harpies unwilling to listen to reason for three seconds straight.
And where did it leave them? Dead around him, and Max still standing, aching perhaps, but still standing. So he picked up Lydia's shotgun and bag, glanced around to make sure nobody else was going to jump out of nowhere and try for a piece of him, then gathered the other bags and weapons strewn throughout the area. He could sort and compile them later. Nobody was coming to check out the noise, or they'd've been here by now, and abandoning resources was foolish. Inefficient. Not the Sawyer way.
((Max Sawyer continued in Everyone Dies))
And where did it leave them? Dead around him, and Max still standing, aching perhaps, but still standing. So he picked up Lydia's shotgun and bag, glanced around to make sure nobody else was going to jump out of nowhere and try for a piece of him, then gathered the other bags and weapons strewn throughout the area. He could sort and compile them later. Nobody was coming to check out the noise, or they'd've been here by now, and abandoning resources was foolish. Inefficient. Not the Sawyer way.
((Max Sawyer continued in Everyone Dies))
