Poet of the Fall

[laZardo†]

((Damien continued from Land of Make Believe))
((Vesa continued from Carry Stress in the Jaw))

It's...almost...over...
Vesa Turunen had not been wandering long when he came across the first landmark from the hospital. He was not left in awe as much by its magnitude but by the fact that the school had been laid to waste, no doubt by events that had transpired in recent days but were only described nominally in announcements. Just as well, his body had been put under the same physical, emotional and psychological duress due to events he had personally partook, and he was almost limping as he made it to the school.

He knew he was one of the final 10...probably close to the final five now. The game was almost over, but he had sworn not to see it to the end. He had defiled his reputation enough by what he did, but if he was going to die, he would die with dignity, in the ways of the old warriors.

As he entered the classroom hoping it would be a place for him to rest and recover, he was surprised to find someone else there...probably a girl with slightly-frizzled black hair...reading a notebook of sorts and giggling. It didn't seem to be the sort of opponent he'd hoped to tangle with.

Damien Carter-Madison never thought he'd find himself back here, and most certainly didn't think that he'd find the place half collapsed from what appeared to be an internal explosion. Still, his vocal chords weren't the only thing quivering at the moment. Although somewhat properly bandaged, his arm randomly tingled and spasmed from the loss of blood flow to that area. It was still movable but not as mobile as his gun arm. He cradled his arm, and the gun was cradled in that, as he looked upon the open notebook on the table.

He had unslung the bat from his back (a very welcome relief after how it mutilated him earlier) and lay it across some chairs, slowly sitting down in another chair.

Vesa looked into the notebook, and his eyes scrolled down the crossed out names. Most were of students whose only memories were of names vaguely remembered in announcements. However, one of the crossed-out names caught Vesa's eye...and triggered a nerve of terror.

"Peter...Rosenthal...Peter is..."

Damien suddenly did a double-take, but maintained a grin. He didn't sincerely notice that there was someone behind him until Vesa spoke.
"Oh...yeah. He and his boyfriend. Dead in each others arms," Damien replied romantically.

Perhaps it was the resulting adrenalin rush from the injury, but the disturbingly cheerful way Damien replied caused Vesa to shout "Huoranpenikka!" (roughly equivalent to "You son-of-a-bitch!".) Damien didn't understand any Scandinavian tongue...but although the idea of him wasting Peter (instead of Peter wasting himself) was flattering, Damien outright knew that he was technically innocent of that accusation.

Still, the Finn easily outmatched Damien in any Tale of the Tape, causing the smaller androgyne to reach for his gun. And for all Vesa knew, Damien had probably enjoyed killing Peter and Andi, both of whom were his first acquaintances on the island, and the former being his pen pal. If he was going to even begin to redeem himself for their deaths, Vesa figured it would be through Damien's blood as well as his own. He grabbed the closest meleé weapon in an almost blind rage and took a swing.

Damien ducked Vesa's swing as he could easily see Vesa raising a weapon and swinging it, but just barely. His grin turned to surprise.
"I'm...not a monster!" Vesa shouted.
"I...don't care..." Damien growled in reply, instinctively getting up onto the tables so he could have a good swing with his baseball bat. His instincts however failed to remind him that his baseball bat was the weapon that Vesa grabbed, not the battle axe that was erstwhile readily available.

Damien's eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets as he received a substantial portion of the blow from the baseball bat to the ribcage, and he tumbled back into the grid of tables. Perhaps it was by a stroke of luck that his head didn't ricochet off the tables' edges, or that his neck wasn't broken. Or maybe the luck was that he had chanced to look through the forest of table legs and see the mangled and now decaying corpse of Elias McConnell, the person who had finally caused him to snap and rack up his own first kill.

It seemed to crane its mangled, loose-jawed head and whisper "Loser..."

Vesa wiped off some blood that had started to trickle from his own mouth. His body was also starting to succumb, but it was too early. Damien was proving to be a worthy adversary, yet it also pained him that he was on the winning side of this battle...and that it was starting to get easy. It would be too cumbersome to waddle through the tables, so he tossed the bat aside and drew out his Beretta.

"Come out, you little sicko!" he bellowed. There was no response save for a few creaks and groans, and perhaps a shuffle or two. "You will pay for what you did to my friends!" He advanced toward the tables, pointing his gun where he'd seen Damien fall. He could just spot Damien's sneakers wiggling as he approached the edge of the tables and aimed his gun. The blood loss was taking its toll on his coordination, but with Damien immobilized, it wasn't like he was hitting a difficult target.

Wait a minute...didn't he fall in the other direction? No matter.

A shot rang out...but not from Vesa's gun. The shot caused Vesa to crumple onto the floor screaming in pain, and there was a bit of a rumbling from the building's weakened frame as he hit the ground, clutching his leg. The baseball bat clattered to the floor, stained once again with his adversary's blood. As soon as his vision cleared slightly, he too looked under the forest of table legs to find Damien crawling toward him, almost like Gollum going for the Ring. He appeared to have a gun in one hand and something shiny in the other, and he didn't want to know what the latter object was. His mobility was limited by his blown-out shin, though.

"Hrrrg...Kullin...lutkuttaja..."
(translation: "hrrrg...that cocksucker...")

Damien raised the combat knife as he let his revolver free to make one last pull out of the forest of legs. It had been taken from one giant, now it would slay another as it fell upon what he hoped was a critical vein...or whatever exposed area the blade would fall upon.

In the span of five seconds the floor in front of Vesa, along with much of Damien's face and upper body was thoroughly stained with many different shades of red, as the knife sliced into the Finn where the neck met the top of the torso. Vesa's initial response was a violent choking...followed by a single broken word...

"Fl...ag..." Vesa appeared to be reaching in a different direction...toward his bag of supplies. There appeared to be something blue and white and folded just sticking out of the bag, which had dropped onto the floor when he'd had his rage triggered.

Damien was thankfully oriented enough to make out the "L" in that word...but wasn't sure what he meant at first. That and he was too concentrated on getting the blood out of his eyes as he raised himself to a kneel. Seeing as how Vesa had not been on his list (though he did know Peter...), he figured that perhaps he could make that gesture...though it was because there was too much blood that it ruined the pleasure for him.

Without another word, and with one final burst of strength, Damien slung the flag over Vesa's body. It wasn't much of a gesture nor did it properly cover his entire body. Spots of red started to appear and grow on the white and blue as the blood soaked into it. With two blood-stained fingers, Damien also closed Vesa's eyes...albeit grinning all the while. He half-wanted the last thing Vesa saw to be his sadistic smile.

Peter...Matt...Andi...I'm coming home...

Vesa had gotten his wish. He had fallen in battle with a worthy (if not somewhat diminuitive) adversary, and as such the gates of Valhalla would await him. But it was a tainted wish granted despite the final display of patriotism.

He would never return to New Jersey or Finland. He would never prove that he was the sparkling athlete who deserved to be given a second chance. And yet somehow, he might have proved to those of his compatriots watching the program that he was not a monster underneath the stained cross of blue on white, dying with at least his dignity in the heat of battle.

Valhalla, after all, was a heaven of eternal battle.

B23 - TURUNEN, V - WASTED!

As soon as he watched Vesa Turunen's body finally succumb to rigor mortis, Damien's burst of strength dissipated, and he rolled face-up and went limp. He lay on the floor, eyes squinted shut from the blood, as the sun poured in through the shattered windows. He took erratic breaths as he tried to - metaphorically and literally - piece himself back together. Every now and then his breaths were interrupted by a cough that forced some blood out of his throat, and some sobbing.

It was somehow ironic that the large corpse that lay in front of Damien reminded him of the other large target he had encountered nigh two days ago - the same one that had left his arm in its tingling state. The same one that had caused him to break down in a screaming, childish fit. And given that he was back in the mangled remains of the great instution that was once a school, the literary implications were surprising.

Grendel had come back from the marshes and slew Beowulf in the king's great hall. And now he had to go kill his own mother. Perhaps not Nicole, it didn't fit the scene perfectly. Reneé fit the role more...no pun intended.

There was only one problem...as far as he could remember, Beowulf found Grendel's corpse in the cave of his mother. Which meant for all he knew, Reneé would kill him...and given that this contest was now in its final stages...fate would make its decision very soon.

But for now...he needed to get cleaned up.

((Continued in The Field of Dreams))