He couldn’t do it.
He just… he couldn’t find the ability to pull the trigger. Not even to provide covering fire, not in case he, like, nicked a vital artery or shot so wildly that he managed to pepper Michael’s entire face and torso with bullet holes. He could move his finger onto the trigger. He just couldn’t move it any further than that. It wasn’t so much a wall he was facing. Just a locked door that he’d lost the key for.
There had to be another door, though. There had to be some other way to help Arizona out, he couldn’t just sit here and watch and wait and hope that luck was on his side this time around. She yelled at him, in between bursts of gunfire, in between the cracks and thuds of shotgun shells impacting with fabric and stuffing. He tried to catch her eye and nod, but he couldn’t tell if she saw it. He took a deep breath, knowing there was every chance he’d catch a stray bullet right in the face. Then he poked his head around the side of the chair, hoping his angle was better than Arizona’s.
There he was. Garren couldn’t see all of him, just a lock of blonde, a flash of gunmetal. But it was enough, enough to get a sense of where he was, and the distance between where that and where Arizona was shooting.
“I see him! He’s to the right, the right of where you’re-”
He saw something else as well. Above and behind where Michael was cowering. A window, wide open, the perfect escape route. If he managed to scramble out of it while Arizona was reloading, he’d be scot free; you didn’t need to be a total goddamn gun nut to know how shit a shotgun was at long range. All the other boy had to do was wait things out, or rush and hope he took Arizona by surprise, and this whole thing would have been fucking pointless, and Garren would have been left in the sidelines, doing nothing as good people and bad ideals clashed, once again.
Or.
Or he could be the surprise factor as well. Or he could actively do something. Make sure that Michael didn’t get away. He knew he couldn’t shoot. But he could still do something, make something happen, be something worthwhile.
There was about a 90% chance Michael would turn and react and shoot him, like, seventeen times in the torso, but. But. But but but.
…
Aw fuck it. Do it now, or he’d psyche himself out.
He threw the shotgun to the ground, pushing himself up off the floor, running out from behind cover, over to the window, heart thudding as loud as his footsteps, arm outstretched, ready to slam the glass shut.
There was an earsplitting crack. A punch in the ribs. His outstretched hand shook as he ran on water for a moment. Then the floorboards grabbed him and pulled him down and his head smacked against them with another sickening crack. Everything was white for a moment. He blinked. Then he looked down. And everything was red.
Look at the Cleanse, look at the moves!
Open - Late Day 9
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
The couch exploded again. Arizona was saying something, but Michael couldn't make out the words.
Something swooped around the corner. Michael kind of half-flopped onto his side, and pointed his gun at the intruder. Garren? Garren.
Man, Garren didn't even have his gun. He was going for the window. Michael, actually, had forgotten about that up until now.
Another explosion, and Garren fell. Michael sat in shock for a moment, stare alternating between Garren and his own gun.
He hadn't fired.
...
...Oh. Of course.
He didn't know what to do, so he just scrambled for the window and dove through. Then, he did what he always did.
((He ran and tried not to look back.))
Something swooped around the corner. Michael kind of half-flopped onto his side, and pointed his gun at the intruder. Garren? Garren.
Man, Garren didn't even have his gun. He was going for the window. Michael, actually, had forgotten about that up until now.
Another explosion, and Garren fell. Michael sat in shock for a moment, stare alternating between Garren and his own gun.
He hadn't fired.
...
...Oh. Of course.
He didn't know what to do, so he just scrambled for the window and dove through. Then, he did what he always did.
((He ran and tried not to look back.))
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Garren called out where Michael was.
Arizona snapped her around and saw him, the flash of blonde hair. She slid closer, looking for a better shot.
Her aim was right on him, she was leading the shot slightly.
That was when Garren appeared right in front of her, right in her shot.
She was too amped up to properly react. Her finger, already on the trigger hitched and pulled.
The sound of the shot rang out and Garren fell.
She froze.
Michael froze, then he bolted out the window.
She ran to where he had been, leaping over Garren's fallen form.
Michael was sprinting across the grass, Arizona knew she could have caught up to him. For a moment she thought about pursuing him. But then she let the pancor drop, turned, and stepped back to Garren.
The pancor was tossed aside and she opened her bag, looking for supplies, something to help him.
"I'm sorry Garren," She said, forcing herself to speak. "I need you to talk to me, try and stay conscious. I'll try to patch you up."
Arizona snapped her around and saw him, the flash of blonde hair. She slid closer, looking for a better shot.
Her aim was right on him, she was leading the shot slightly.
That was when Garren appeared right in front of her, right in her shot.
She was too amped up to properly react. Her finger, already on the trigger hitched and pulled.
The sound of the shot rang out and Garren fell.
She froze.
Michael froze, then he bolted out the window.
She ran to where he had been, leaping over Garren's fallen form.
Michael was sprinting across the grass, Arizona knew she could have caught up to him. For a moment she thought about pursuing him. But then she let the pancor drop, turned, and stepped back to Garren.
The pancor was tossed aside and she opened her bag, looking for supplies, something to help him.
"I'm sorry Garren," She said, forcing herself to speak. "I need you to talk to me, try and stay conscious. I'll try to patch you up."
This, uh. This hurt. This hurt a lot. Like, yeah, that wasn’t exactly a mindblowing statement, that getting shot in the goddamn side hurt like a bitch, this wasn’t some newfound revelation that he and he alone was experiencing. It was just. God. Fuck. He couldn’t fucking overstate how godawful it felt. It was like someone had grabbed hold of his ribs and was yanking them apart, over and over again, letting him heal like he was fucking Prometheus before cracking his side open again.
God. He wasn’t Prometheus. He was just some fuckin’ dude.
It hurt too much to even cry out, it felt as though the sound was lodged in his throat instead. His eyes were screwed shut; out of pain or out of a desperate desire to avoid seeing the red mess plastering his body, he wasn’t sure which was more predominant. He wasn’t lying on the floor anymore. He couldn’t remember sitting himself up. His head hurt. The static was back. He could feel the ghosts circling him.
He could hear footsteps, too, and then Arizona’s voice, along with the sound of a bag unzipping, rummaging and searching. He gave a weak nod. His hand was damp, pressed into the wound. He couldn’t remember putting it there, either.
“Okay… yeah, I-fuck, okay…”
His head was a fishbowl, and he desperately, weakly sifted through the silt to find memories, thoughts, words to say. He wondered if there was blood in his mouth. That was what people who were dying in anime looked like, wasn’t it? It had always looked kinda cool. Not that he’d wanted to experience it first hand, obviously. But. You know. It was a thought. He hadn’t said it out loud. He grabbed for a different one.
“Arizona? Did you… You-fff fuck… you got him, right? We… stopped him?”
They had, hadn’t they? Of course they had. Arizona had hated him more than anything on the planet, he had seen it in her glare. She wouldn’t have stopped at anything to kill him. If she was here, Michael was dead.
That made sense. Yeah. That made sense.
God. He wasn’t Prometheus. He was just some fuckin’ dude.
It hurt too much to even cry out, it felt as though the sound was lodged in his throat instead. His eyes were screwed shut; out of pain or out of a desperate desire to avoid seeing the red mess plastering his body, he wasn’t sure which was more predominant. He wasn’t lying on the floor anymore. He couldn’t remember sitting himself up. His head hurt. The static was back. He could feel the ghosts circling him.
He could hear footsteps, too, and then Arizona’s voice, along with the sound of a bag unzipping, rummaging and searching. He gave a weak nod. His hand was damp, pressed into the wound. He couldn’t remember putting it there, either.
“Okay… yeah, I-fuck, okay…”
His head was a fishbowl, and he desperately, weakly sifted through the silt to find memories, thoughts, words to say. He wondered if there was blood in his mouth. That was what people who were dying in anime looked like, wasn’t it? It had always looked kinda cool. Not that he’d wanted to experience it first hand, obviously. But. You know. It was a thought. He hadn’t said it out loud. He grabbed for a different one.
“Arizona? Did you… You-fff fuck… you got him, right? We… stopped him?”
They had, hadn’t they? Of course they had. Arizona had hated him more than anything on the planet, he had seen it in her glare. She wouldn’t have stopped at anything to kill him. If she was here, Michael was dead.
That made sense. Yeah. That made sense.
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
Once again she had blood on her hands.
It was innocent blood, that was the difference. Previously, it had been Quinn's blood. She'd ended up with Quinn's blood splattered on her hands and face.
Garren's blood was everywhere. The pancor had punched bloody holes in his side. His hand covered one of them but there were others that the blood seeped out of. She wasn't sure how much she could do. There were adhesive bandages in the first-aid kit and she had stuck them where she could. Once that task was done she planned to wrap Garren in bandages. Outside of that there wasn't much more she thought she could do. A pack of ibuprofen lay on the floor, the packing slowly absorbing blood, leaving the cardboard soggy.
Garren asked if she had managed to kill Michael. There was a pause as she bit her lip, before eventually shaking her head.
"No," She said, voice shaky. "I missed and...hit you."
She looked away from Garren and opened up the ibuprofen packet, popping out a tablet before discarding the rest.
Her hands also found and opened a water bottle.
"Here," She said, "Swallow this for me."
It was innocent blood, that was the difference. Previously, it had been Quinn's blood. She'd ended up with Quinn's blood splattered on her hands and face.
Garren's blood was everywhere. The pancor had punched bloody holes in his side. His hand covered one of them but there were others that the blood seeped out of. She wasn't sure how much she could do. There were adhesive bandages in the first-aid kit and she had stuck them where she could. Once that task was done she planned to wrap Garren in bandages. Outside of that there wasn't much more she thought she could do. A pack of ibuprofen lay on the floor, the packing slowly absorbing blood, leaving the cardboard soggy.
Garren asked if she had managed to kill Michael. There was a pause as she bit her lip, before eventually shaking her head.
"No," She said, voice shaky. "I missed and...hit you."
She looked away from Garren and opened up the ibuprofen packet, popping out a tablet before discarding the rest.
Her hands also found and opened a water bottle.
"Here," She said, "Swallow this for me."
“Oh.”
He was silent, even after he opened his mouth and swallowed the ibuprofen on the third attempt. The sound of his ragged, shallow breathing was the only sign he was still there, still conscious. The static was gone, but it was just blank in his head now. The ghosts were still. It seemed even they were unsure of what to do with this information.
So that was it. After all that, after trying his goddamn best to make a change for the good, to do what he was convinced was right and righteous, he’d gone and put his foot in it and fucked it all up. Fitting, really. As if that wasn’t just an ugly metaphor for his entire life. As soon as he dedicated himself to a decision, he found out it was the wrong one. It should have felt good this time, knowing that at least he’d committed himself to the right one, one he could be proud of.
“Hey… Hey, it’s… okay…”
No, it really wasn’t, and no, he really couldn’t. He could feel himself slipping, and he didn’t want to let go, he wasn’t anywhere close to letting go, but it was like clinging onto a ledge in a downpour. It was a matter of when, not if, at this point.
There had to be something, there had to be something to grab hold of, if not to rescue himself but to stop himself from being terrified in these last few moments. He thought, desperately, as his mind filled to the brim with water, as his side burned, as his throat clogged up. He thought. He thought he thought he thought he thought, and he thought of the hug he’d gotten from Declyn, out of the blue. And he thought of how he’d talked with Myles and with Ivy. And he thought about how Arizona had given up her vengeance to try and patch him up. And he thought about every step he could have taken where none of that would have happened, where he’d end up with blood on his hands that wasn’t his own, where he was lying alone in a ditch somewhere around the time of day 3.
Little thoughts. Little comforts. Little things were all he had.
“You know,” he mumbled. He wasn’t sure if Arizona could hear him. He could barely hear himself. “I think… what I regret most is… ruining this shirt… really liked it a - fffuck - like it a lot… sorry Umaru-chan…”
He gave a weak laugh. It drowned halfway.
C’mon. One last chance. One last time he could say something cool.
“See you… sp… spuh… space…”
Close enough. Close enough.
B052 - GARREN MORTIMER: DECEASED
He was silent, even after he opened his mouth and swallowed the ibuprofen on the third attempt. The sound of his ragged, shallow breathing was the only sign he was still there, still conscious. The static was gone, but it was just blank in his head now. The ghosts were still. It seemed even they were unsure of what to do with this information.
So that was it. After all that, after trying his goddamn best to make a change for the good, to do what he was convinced was right and righteous, he’d gone and put his foot in it and fucked it all up. Fitting, really. As if that wasn’t just an ugly metaphor for his entire life. As soon as he dedicated himself to a decision, he found out it was the wrong one. It should have felt good this time, knowing that at least he’d committed himself to the right one, one he could be proud of.
“Hey… Hey, it’s… okay…”
No, it really wasn’t, and no, he really couldn’t. He could feel himself slipping, and he didn’t want to let go, he wasn’t anywhere close to letting go, but it was like clinging onto a ledge in a downpour. It was a matter of when, not if, at this point.
There had to be something, there had to be something to grab hold of, if not to rescue himself but to stop himself from being terrified in these last few moments. He thought, desperately, as his mind filled to the brim with water, as his side burned, as his throat clogged up. He thought. He thought he thought he thought he thought, and he thought of the hug he’d gotten from Declyn, out of the blue. And he thought of how he’d talked with Myles and with Ivy. And he thought about how Arizona had given up her vengeance to try and patch him up. And he thought about every step he could have taken where none of that would have happened, where he’d end up with blood on his hands that wasn’t his own, where he was lying alone in a ditch somewhere around the time of day 3.
Little thoughts. Little comforts. Little things were all he had.
“You know,” he mumbled. He wasn’t sure if Arizona could hear him. He could barely hear himself. “I think… what I regret most is… ruining this shirt… really liked it a - fffuck - like it a lot… sorry Umaru-chan…”
He gave a weak laugh. It drowned halfway.
C’mon. One last chance. One last time he could say something cool.
“See you… sp… spuh… space…”
Close enough. Close enough.
B052 - GARREN MORTIMER: DECEASED
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
It didn't take Arizona long to realize she was performing first-aid on a corpse.
Silently, she packed everything away. Another failure, this one directly her fault. The sickening feeling that she had dragged Garren into his death. The bandages she had in her hands were turned into a makeshift towel as she wiped away at the blood on her hands and knees. Once they were soaked red they too were discarded, thrown across the room. Her hand searched out the pancor and gripped it tight. She stood and took one last look at the boy then turned to the window.
There was a loud crash as the butt of the pancor smashed the glass. The shards fell, shimmering, to the floor around her feet. Using the end of the gun, she took out the stubborn shards that remained in place. Then she climbed through the newly cleared portal and out of the manor.
She knew which way Michael had run.
So that was where she was going.
((Arizona Butler continued elsewhere...))
Silently, she packed everything away. Another failure, this one directly her fault. The sickening feeling that she had dragged Garren into his death. The bandages she had in her hands were turned into a makeshift towel as she wiped away at the blood on her hands and knees. Once they were soaked red they too were discarded, thrown across the room. Her hand searched out the pancor and gripped it tight. She stood and took one last look at the boy then turned to the window.
There was a loud crash as the butt of the pancor smashed the glass. The shards fell, shimmering, to the floor around her feet. Using the end of the gun, she took out the stubborn shards that remained in place. Then she climbed through the newly cleared portal and out of the manor.
She knew which way Michael had run.
So that was where she was going.
((Arizona Butler continued elsewhere...))