It wasn't that he wanted to fall back into the same habit that had kept him alive over the past eleven days, but it was more that when he'd stumbled upon the makeshift shelter that he'd created with Erika, Juliette and Faith, it had seemed like fate was calling to him. For all of the mental self-flagellation that he'd been putting himself through over the course of the last few hours, the fact still remained: hiding out and avoiding everyone was a perfectly reasonable strategy. Not only that?
It was effective!
The fact that it had worked so well only made him feel worse, the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn't going away anytime soon. He was angry with his own cowardice and instead of coming up with a plan of attack or a strategy for what to do if he were to run into someone who was too far gone — Erika likely came to mind, speaking of — he instead sat and wallowed. Leaning back against the trunk of a tree in his partially obscured shelter, Connor Lorenzen looked up towards the sky and wondered how long any of them truly had left. He would stay here as long as he could, but it frustrated him so.
It was such a waste; he couldn't help the thought. All of his effort, his preparation.
Wasted.
((Connor Lorenzen continued from After All the Hell We've Been Through, I'd Still Bet on You))
Every single plan that he had for his life after high school was carefully crafted and put together; so much time spent on carving out the right kind of existence for himself that would now only happen in a parallel universe. He could have made the team at Notre Dame, he knew that he would have. Connor knew their playbook as well as he knew the meagre George Hunter book and it didn't take a rocket scientist to know that the strength of their team's lines was the defence rather than the offence. The Carters and Jeff Greene were all strong, able players, game-breakers in their own right. While sure, Ace was undoubtedly a blue-chipper who could make some noise a few years down the line and Kayden was an able receiver, but the strength of their offence was the chemistry between the running back and the quarterback. Their offensive line was sometimes so soft they may as well have been made of melted cheese. If it weren't for the D, Connor would never have had the opportunity to make half of the plays that he did.
Playing behind a half-decent line in college, he could only dream of the things he could accomplish. The sky was truly the limit. At least, it would have been. But what of his teammates, now? Kayden, like a smattering of his other peers, had stayed home from the trip. He would survive. Like that strange topless girl from #Swiftball and like the fortunately unlucky Ross, he would go to college. He would grow old. They could get together at the high school reunion and he and Beau could trade stories of better days.
Wyatt, Bret and Jeff would not. They were already gone, their flame extinguished by a variety of people. What was worse? There was no retribution to be had. Even for angry old Jeff, there was nothing that could be done to avenge them, were he capable. Tirzah, Claudeson and Max were as dead as his teammates.
It all seemed so useless.
What of the speedy running back? His friend still lived, but by the number of times he'd heard the name 'Ace Ortega' on the announcements as the result of someone else's demise was beginning to make him think that Ace's fire had been extinguished as well. The lights were on, but Connor had no doubt that there was nobody home. Accidents happened in a life or death situation when people were twitchy at best, but three 'accidents'?
Fat chance.
Even back when he'd seen Erika at this very shelter, she had admitted to killing some of their classmates, and since she had only gone on more of what could be considered a rampage. There was perhaps no one as deadly as she still on the island, and while at one point, he'd have guessed that he could talk his way out of her inflicting any kind of pain upon him, he had no way of knowing just what kind of state she was in. She'd continued to kill, and so at what point did their classmates stop looking like people to her, when were they mere inconveniences, ants to be disposed of like pests?
Connor couldn't imagine that time hadn't already come and gone.
There were others whose names he hadn't heard yet, but aside from Faith, who had just abandoned him earlier that day, there was no one that immediately came to mind as someone that was remotely friendly. At this juncture, how could they be? Most of his classmates that still survived had seen horrors that he couldn't fathom. They had watched people die, seen gore and blood and been maimed by people they trusted.
He wasn't immune to it. Ms. Garcia had died in front of him.
Smartly, Connor had looked away, he'd shut his own eyes.
It wasn't until he'd stumbled upon Nathan's body that he'd truly seen the horror that had lurked around him. It was a horror that had been perpetrated by the woman that he loved, and it was a horror that had haunted his own dreams since he'd actually put eyes on it. The soulless, twisted and distorted features of George Hunter High's school class president — more of a mascot than the stupid costume Reuben had worn, if he were being honest with himself — had scarred him more than anything he'd ever seen.
Right there, had been the moment when he'd understood. Every best-laid plan that Connor Lorenzen had for his own future was gone, right then and there. They had all died with Nathan Coleman, it had just taken him so many days to realize it.
So he'd hidden away, that had been the play — the only plan at all — for himself. It was almost funny, thinking of a man who stood almost six and a half feet tall trying to make himself completely invisible. For someone who thrived in the spotlight, trying to avoid it felt wrong.
Therein lay the rub, of course. Nothing about any of this was right.
He wondered if that fat kid from the first day was still alive — Matthew. The thought drew a grim smile.
"As if we needed any other reason to know this ain't right," he mumbled, but he heard a crackle a few meters ahead of him and quickly realized his mistake. Eyes widening, he leaned over to peer out from beneath the makeshift shelter. Shit! It was a stupid mistake because someone was there, and they had heard him.
The person was standing a few meters away from him, clear as day, and the two locked eyes. Any other day, he'd have been thrilled. Instead, his stomach turned into knots and his body was filled with dread. Inhaling, Connor knew what he had to do. Climbing to his feet, he poked his head out from underneath the shelter.
"Well, shit. Ain't you a sight for sore eyes. Am I glad to see you," he grinned, and beckoned the person over, his body language relaxing and a palpable sense of relief washing over his features. Connor wore a smile that was almost as large as he was.
It was a shame that the rest of him didn't feel the same way.
The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows
Day 11 evening; private.
“Oh shit,” his voice a hoarse whisper, “That’s my quarterback.”
An inside joke, an outdated reference specific to the shared bond between the two. It was often said with exuberance and excitement—now it was said with a weariness and inescapable exhaustion that was palpable in the evening air. Green eyes met green eyes and Ace couldn’t help letting his instincts get the better of him. A weak grin made its way to his face, yellowed teeth crowned by a wispy black mustache returned Connor’s greeting. His trademark hat was backwards on his head, doing a decent job of concealing the bandages wrapped 'round his ear. His torso was bulky with the wrap under his blue shirt. His duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, the BR-18 strap over the other. One pistol in one pocket, one pistol in the other, another in his waistband. Beats held onto the BR-18 like it was the pigskin itself and he was trying not to fumble. Even after all these days, he still resembled more boy than soldier. Least he thought so.
“Wish I could say the same Cap’n,” Ace offered, lowering the weapon in his hand, “I gotta be honest, was kinda hopin’ that the last time was the last time.”
But what did that matter? He had said that the last time and the time before that. What Ace wanted and wished for didn’t really matter anymore. Prolly never had. It was less about what he wanted to do and more about what he had to do. Beats had suffered and struggled in an unrelenting misery Olympics and had placed gold several times over. A trail of bodies both of his direct and indirect causing punctuated his medal ceremony.
Ace wanted to live. He didn’t want to see anybody else die.
But what did that matter? He had said that the last time and the time before that.
In the south, football was a religion and if the coach was the pastor than the quarterback was at least a deacon or something. In many respects, Ace had always been both in awe and in envy of Connor. Connor was a natural born leader. The type with the ability to look in a man’s eyes and convey the thought that whatever he was saying was for the benefit of the us as opposed to the benefit of the me. Football was war and the alliance between Ace and Connor had been forged in blood, sweat and tears. Ace had trusted his dreams in Connor’s hands and Connor the same in Ace. If you got my back, I got your back. If you go to war, we go to war together. That’s just the way it was, that was just the way it had been. So much had changed, it was wrong to expect this to remain the same.
The message sent by Connor’s eyes didn’t match the one sent by his smile and posture. Beats recognized Connor's expression in himself. A familiar fear and reticence. He didn't like it. The look in Connor’s eyes froze the fire in his Ace's belly as much as the welcoming familiarity of his smile beckoned Ace to walk forward.
“What you doin' Connor?”
An inside joke, an outdated reference specific to the shared bond between the two. It was often said with exuberance and excitement—now it was said with a weariness and inescapable exhaustion that was palpable in the evening air. Green eyes met green eyes and Ace couldn’t help letting his instincts get the better of him. A weak grin made its way to his face, yellowed teeth crowned by a wispy black mustache returned Connor’s greeting. His trademark hat was backwards on his head, doing a decent job of concealing the bandages wrapped 'round his ear. His torso was bulky with the wrap under his blue shirt. His duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, the BR-18 strap over the other. One pistol in one pocket, one pistol in the other, another in his waistband. Beats held onto the BR-18 like it was the pigskin itself and he was trying not to fumble. Even after all these days, he still resembled more boy than soldier. Least he thought so.
“Wish I could say the same Cap’n,” Ace offered, lowering the weapon in his hand, “I gotta be honest, was kinda hopin’ that the last time was the last time.”
But what did that matter? He had said that the last time and the time before that. What Ace wanted and wished for didn’t really matter anymore. Prolly never had. It was less about what he wanted to do and more about what he had to do. Beats had suffered and struggled in an unrelenting misery Olympics and had placed gold several times over. A trail of bodies both of his direct and indirect causing punctuated his medal ceremony.
Ace wanted to live. He didn’t want to see anybody else die.
But what did that matter? He had said that the last time and the time before that.
[ Ace Ortega Continued From: you can plan a pretty picnic but you can’t predict the weather ]
In the south, football was a religion and if the coach was the pastor than the quarterback was at least a deacon or something. In many respects, Ace had always been both in awe and in envy of Connor. Connor was a natural born leader. The type with the ability to look in a man’s eyes and convey the thought that whatever he was saying was for the benefit of the us as opposed to the benefit of the me. Football was war and the alliance between Ace and Connor had been forged in blood, sweat and tears. Ace had trusted his dreams in Connor’s hands and Connor the same in Ace. If you got my back, I got your back. If you go to war, we go to war together. That’s just the way it was, that was just the way it had been. So much had changed, it was wrong to expect this to remain the same.
The message sent by Connor’s eyes didn’t match the one sent by his smile and posture. Beats recognized Connor's expression in himself. A familiar fear and reticence. He didn't like it. The look in Connor’s eyes froze the fire in his Ace's belly as much as the welcoming familiarity of his smile beckoned Ace to walk forward.
“What you doin' Connor?”
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
"Not," Connor held his empty hands up in front of him, "so much."
He let the words stretch out, his tone playful even though by the look of him and by the pit in his stomach he knew neither of them were in a remotely friendly way. This may have been a teammate and a boy that he would have sworn up and down he trusted with his life, but that was before things had irrevocably changed. Ace had lowered his weapon, so with any luck, maybe they hadn't changed entirely.
Glancing down at his makeshift shelter, Connor moved a patch of brush aside and stepped out of it. Part of him wanted to go and pull Ace into a hug, but that was the old Ace. The one that he'd come upon days before who hadn't lost his boyish smile. The look in his eyes was hollow, haunted, and Connor imagined that he had a similar one. While his was the result of fatigue and a constant attempt to dodge oncoming dread, he knew that Ace's empty eyes were thanks to a deal that he'd made with the devil.
No matter. His movements were casual and comfortable even if his mind felt entirely the opposite. The years of practiced social niceties were proving themselves to be entirely handy for something more than college recruitment interviews. Now standing beside the shelter, he leaned against a tree. Keeping the distance between them seemed prudent, if not for the sake of caution but for the sake of his own safety.
His friend looked like a wild dog and for all intents and purposes, that was how he'd treat him.
"Ain't much to do right now, I reckon. Just sittin' here and," he paused, a sadness poking through his put-upon casual smile, "enjoying the fresh air."
They both knew that was bullshit, of course. Connor found himself in a state that was unheard of; covered head-to-toe in dirt and grease, his hair matted and oily from weeks of not showering. What little beard he could grow had fully grown in, the dirty curled hairs occasionally tickling the top of his lip. Anyone who looked at him wouldn't see a quarterback, the well-to-do son of an oil magnate. He looked like a vagrant.
On the plus side, so did Ace.
"You look like hell, man. Why don't you come in and take a load off?"
Connor gestured to the shelter as though it were his own home. It was an eerie parallel, he'd said those exact words to his friends; Ace included, back in Chattanooga. While his parents lived in a house that was enormous — a mansion, really — he always went out of his way to make sure that his friends felt welcome, that his house was a place that they could go. Steven Lorenzen had always told his son that if they were going to misbehave, they were best to do it somewhere that they didn't risk causing a scene, or worse — some sort of accident that could end up in someone getting hurt.
Erasing the sadness from his face, he shrugged at Ace and allowed himself a laugh. The sound wasn't any different than his normal laugh but it felt out of place; wrong somehow. About as wrong as Ace admitting that he'd hoped not to see Connor again. The hell was that supposed to mean?
He ignored it, put it to the side.
"Seriously though, take a minute. Y'all know there ain't many friendly faces... left."
The grimace that his own words brought to the surface was motivated as much by fear as it was by plain fact. At this point, there was very little left to say. The time for geniality was about over.
Not quite yet, he hoped and shrugged at his friend.
He let the words stretch out, his tone playful even though by the look of him and by the pit in his stomach he knew neither of them were in a remotely friendly way. This may have been a teammate and a boy that he would have sworn up and down he trusted with his life, but that was before things had irrevocably changed. Ace had lowered his weapon, so with any luck, maybe they hadn't changed entirely.
Glancing down at his makeshift shelter, Connor moved a patch of brush aside and stepped out of it. Part of him wanted to go and pull Ace into a hug, but that was the old Ace. The one that he'd come upon days before who hadn't lost his boyish smile. The look in his eyes was hollow, haunted, and Connor imagined that he had a similar one. While his was the result of fatigue and a constant attempt to dodge oncoming dread, he knew that Ace's empty eyes were thanks to a deal that he'd made with the devil.
No matter. His movements were casual and comfortable even if his mind felt entirely the opposite. The years of practiced social niceties were proving themselves to be entirely handy for something more than college recruitment interviews. Now standing beside the shelter, he leaned against a tree. Keeping the distance between them seemed prudent, if not for the sake of caution but for the sake of his own safety.
His friend looked like a wild dog and for all intents and purposes, that was how he'd treat him.
"Ain't much to do right now, I reckon. Just sittin' here and," he paused, a sadness poking through his put-upon casual smile, "enjoying the fresh air."
They both knew that was bullshit, of course. Connor found himself in a state that was unheard of; covered head-to-toe in dirt and grease, his hair matted and oily from weeks of not showering. What little beard he could grow had fully grown in, the dirty curled hairs occasionally tickling the top of his lip. Anyone who looked at him wouldn't see a quarterback, the well-to-do son of an oil magnate. He looked like a vagrant.
On the plus side, so did Ace.
"You look like hell, man. Why don't you come in and take a load off?"
Connor gestured to the shelter as though it were his own home. It was an eerie parallel, he'd said those exact words to his friends; Ace included, back in Chattanooga. While his parents lived in a house that was enormous — a mansion, really — he always went out of his way to make sure that his friends felt welcome, that his house was a place that they could go. Steven Lorenzen had always told his son that if they were going to misbehave, they were best to do it somewhere that they didn't risk causing a scene, or worse — some sort of accident that could end up in someone getting hurt.
Erasing the sadness from his face, he shrugged at Ace and allowed himself a laugh. The sound wasn't any different than his normal laugh but it felt out of place; wrong somehow. About as wrong as Ace admitting that he'd hoped not to see Connor again. The hell was that supposed to mean?
He ignored it, put it to the side.
"Seriously though, take a minute. Y'all know there ain't many friendly faces... left."
The grimace that his own words brought to the surface was motivated as much by fear as it was by plain fact. At this point, there was very little left to say. The time for geniality was about over.
Not quite yet, he hoped and shrugged at his friend.
“I would if I could,” Ace said with a degree of hesitation, “But I can’t so I won’t.”
A part of Ace wanted nothing more than to throw down his weaponry and hole up in the shelter with Connor. Just look at his teammate in the eye and be like ‘What’s the move?’, ‘What’s the plan?’. Connor was smart, Connor was savvy. The golden boy, the big man on campus. There was never a homework assignment too difficult, a girl that was too hot, a guy who was too big. Lorenzen could handle anything and anybody. Connor was pampered, privileged and provided for and he held all the power and confidence that came with that.
Connor had been born lucky and Ace had been lucky to be born.
Football was an American Game and it held it’s traditions close. One tradition, started by the Alabama Crimson Tide and then quickly adopted by teams all over the nation was a simple gesture. At the beginning of the fourth quarter at every home game, players and fans could be seen holding up four fingers. The meaning was clear: winning was done in that final quarter. You could only win a game in the fourth, it was near impossible to win it in the first.
Ace flashed the four at Connor, as if that was the only needed explanation.
“I’m lookin’ for someone bro,” he finally said with a degree of vulnerability, “And I can’t rest till I pop his ass,” that was said with a degree of harshness, “That’s fine, I ain’t trippin’—prolly only two days left on this hellhole anyway and then it’s all done.”
He swallowed.
“I can rest when it’s time to rest in peace,” his eyes found Connor’s, “I’m fightin’ to live but I’m ready to die man,” he was talking like a man—he felt so much like a boy, “Too many people have died for me, too many people have died because of me.”
He closed his eyes.
“It can’t be for nuthin’.”
He opened them again.
“I won’t fuckin’ let it.”
A part of Ace wanted nothing more than to throw down his weaponry and hole up in the shelter with Connor. Just look at his teammate in the eye and be like ‘What’s the move?’, ‘What’s the plan?’. Connor was smart, Connor was savvy. The golden boy, the big man on campus. There was never a homework assignment too difficult, a girl that was too hot, a guy who was too big. Lorenzen could handle anything and anybody. Connor was pampered, privileged and provided for and he held all the power and confidence that came with that.
Connor had been born lucky and Ace had been lucky to be born.
Football was an American Game and it held it’s traditions close. One tradition, started by the Alabama Crimson Tide and then quickly adopted by teams all over the nation was a simple gesture. At the beginning of the fourth quarter at every home game, players and fans could be seen holding up four fingers. The meaning was clear: winning was done in that final quarter. You could only win a game in the fourth, it was near impossible to win it in the first.
Ace flashed the four at Connor, as if that was the only needed explanation.
He shook his head and grimaced at the memory, but to his credit, he did sling the duffel bag off of his shoulder. It landed on the forest floor with a plop and with the weight of an anchor, tying Ace to this location for the moment. The weight off his bad shoulder felt good and Ace rolled his arm in relief. Beats didn’t want to stay with Connor. Staying with Connor wasn’t a long term plan. It would end like it had ended with Meilin, with Aliya, with Ivy and Myles--like it had with Saku. Beats knew that. Only one person could go home. Ace wanted to live, he didn’t want to see Connor die. Ace wanted to win—and victory wasn't free.Saku wrote: “You've got to start thinking ahead a bit, game's ending soon."
“I’m lookin’ for someone bro,” he finally said with a degree of vulnerability, “And I can’t rest till I pop his ass,” that was said with a degree of harshness, “That’s fine, I ain’t trippin’—prolly only two days left on this hellhole anyway and then it’s all done.”
He swallowed.
“I can rest when it’s time to rest in peace,” his eyes found Connor’s, “I’m fightin’ to live but I’m ready to die man,” he was talking like a man—he felt so much like a boy, “Too many people have died for me, too many people have died because of me.”
He closed his eyes.
“It can’t be for nuthin’.”
He opened them again.
“I won’t fuckin’ let it.”
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
As soon as Ace flashed four fingers at Connor, his carefully practiced expression fell, replaced by a wistful smile. He closed his eyes and let his head sink down, the ground in full view when he reopened them. It was a shared memory, a private little gesture between friends who knew that it was time to do whatever it took. The win was in reach and even if the coach didn't want them on the field, they would take the game over and grind out a win. Ace didn't even need to follow it up with anything. Connor just knew.
Yet it meant that there was still some Ace left in there, after all.
His relief was short-lived, though. Even though Ace denied his offer of respite, he still took the pack off his shoulder and seemed to relax a little. What came next was an honesty that he didn't expect. The pit in his stomach hadn't gone away, but it punched at him from the inside. Ace was a killer. Ace had done things — awful things — that paled in comparison to anything that he had seen personally.
Almost.
"Of course," he started, choosing his words carefully. He wore his team captaincy once more, his tone soft but understanding. What Ace was doing, he didn't understand, but he could certainly try. "It can't be for nothin', you're absolutely right. All of this," he nudged at some grass with the toe of his shoe, "is a lot."
It was logical, in truth. Someone, over the course of the last eleven days, had wronged Ace to the point where he'd sworn vengeance. Obviously, someone close to him had died. Who were his friends? Whom did Ace spend his time with when he wasn't chumming around with the team?
To his slightly panicked chagrin, he couldn't come up with a name. He was deprived and exhausted, his mind couldn't have been working at full speed. It didn't matter. Connor was wearing his captain's hat and he needed to set an example. It all felt completely artificial, but he was very practiced at not letting it show. In truth, there was only one thing that he wanted to do, and that was sprint as fast as he could in the other direction.
But Ace was a friend. No matter what he had done, or what he claimed he had to do, he was that above all else.
"Who is it; who got hurt?"
The teammate that he'd known was a kind boy, so that he was on a quest for vengeance wasn't completely outside of his character. It was a secret that probably wasn't worth sharing, though Connor knew that he could be a powerful ally; at least he could have been, back at home. That was what everyone thought, and he tried desperately to live within his delusion. He adjusted his posture to convey calm confidence and looked at Ace with the eyes of a collaborator.
Yet it meant that there was still some Ace left in there, after all.
His relief was short-lived, though. Even though Ace denied his offer of respite, he still took the pack off his shoulder and seemed to relax a little. What came next was an honesty that he didn't expect. The pit in his stomach hadn't gone away, but it punched at him from the inside. Ace was a killer. Ace had done things — awful things — that paled in comparison to anything that he had seen personally.
Almost.
"Of course," he started, choosing his words carefully. He wore his team captaincy once more, his tone soft but understanding. What Ace was doing, he didn't understand, but he could certainly try. "It can't be for nothin', you're absolutely right. All of this," he nudged at some grass with the toe of his shoe, "is a lot."
It was logical, in truth. Someone, over the course of the last eleven days, had wronged Ace to the point where he'd sworn vengeance. Obviously, someone close to him had died. Who were his friends? Whom did Ace spend his time with when he wasn't chumming around with the team?
To his slightly panicked chagrin, he couldn't come up with a name. He was deprived and exhausted, his mind couldn't have been working at full speed. It didn't matter. Connor was wearing his captain's hat and he needed to set an example. It all felt completely artificial, but he was very practiced at not letting it show. In truth, there was only one thing that he wanted to do, and that was sprint as fast as he could in the other direction.
But Ace was a friend. No matter what he had done, or what he claimed he had to do, he was that above all else.
"Who is it; who got hurt?"
The teammate that he'd known was a kind boy, so that he was on a quest for vengeance wasn't completely outside of his character. It was a secret that probably wasn't worth sharing, though Connor knew that he could be a powerful ally; at least he could have been, back at home. That was what everyone thought, and he tried desperately to live within his delusion. He adjusted his posture to convey calm confidence and looked at Ace with the eyes of a collaborator.
“Shit—Meilin got hurt, Aliya got hurt, Dante got hurt, Saku got hurt—fuck,” he paused, “I’ve been hurt! This shit ain’t stoppin’ bro, not for nobody or nuthin’.”
That wasn’t what Connor was asking. Connor was looking at Ace with the same stare he had in the huddle. Ace might as well have told Connor that the linebacker was actually a QB spy or something. It made Ace feel both good and angry. It was all just another game. Just another play--except it wasn't. Ace so desperately wanted Connor to have an answer or a plan that was better than his own. The Captain and the Prom King. Connor would know what to do. While Ace had struggled and fought and killed—Connor had been waiting and conserving his energy. Planning. Marshalling his resources. When the time came to make a play, Connor would make the play. That’s what Lorenzen had been shaped to do. That’s what the QB had always done.
“Justin Greene— the chubby-murdering-pencil-dicked-fuck,” Ace spat, “I’ve had his ass dead to rights three fuckin’ times and three times he’s killed a friend, given me the slip and scampered the fuck away,” he thought for a moment, "He shot off my fuckin' ear man--he's killed like ten fuckin' people, including like...," he thought of Saku, he shook his head and swallowed his guilt, “It’s personal with that motherfucker. Plain and fuckin’ simple. That one is bigger than this game. Bigger than me.”
Mantras and meditations. Goals and dreams. Fake it till you make it. Ace wanted to win. Ace wanted to go home. Ace needed to kill Justin Greene. It was about as much all-encompassing in his soul as the desire to go home was. It was vengeance, it was competition—it was justice. What did Ace want? Ace wanted it all. Everything and anything. He wasn’t gonna let someone like Justin take it from him.
He looked away from Connor…
“You got a plan? Like, for how this whole shit ends?”
What he meant to ask was ‘You got a better one than I do?’
That wasn’t what Connor was asking. Connor was looking at Ace with the same stare he had in the huddle. Ace might as well have told Connor that the linebacker was actually a QB spy or something. It made Ace feel both good and angry. It was all just another game. Just another play--except it wasn't. Ace so desperately wanted Connor to have an answer or a plan that was better than his own. The Captain and the Prom King. Connor would know what to do. While Ace had struggled and fought and killed—Connor had been waiting and conserving his energy. Planning. Marshalling his resources. When the time came to make a play, Connor would make the play. That’s what Lorenzen had been shaped to do. That’s what the QB had always done.
“Justin Greene— the chubby-murdering-pencil-dicked-fuck,” Ace spat, “I’ve had his ass dead to rights three fuckin’ times and three times he’s killed a friend, given me the slip and scampered the fuck away,” he thought for a moment, "He shot off my fuckin' ear man--he's killed like ten fuckin' people, including like...," he thought of Saku, he shook his head and swallowed his guilt, “It’s personal with that motherfucker. Plain and fuckin’ simple. That one is bigger than this game. Bigger than me.”
Mantras and meditations. Goals and dreams. Fake it till you make it. Ace wanted to win. Ace wanted to go home. Ace needed to kill Justin Greene. It was about as much all-encompassing in his soul as the desire to go home was. It was vengeance, it was competition—it was justice. What did Ace want? Ace wanted it all. Everything and anything. He wasn’t gonna let someone like Justin take it from him.
He looked away from Connor…
“You got a plan? Like, for how this whole shit ends?”
What he meant to ask was ‘You got a better one than I do?’
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slowly nodding as the list of names poured from Ace's mouth, Connor kept his expression grim. He was right, of course. People were getting hurt on what was likely an hourly basis, either by the horrors they witnessed or the pain inflicted upon them by their peers. The biggest wound he had suffered on his own was the discovery of Nathan's body, and that was a wound that had been inflicted by proxy, courtesy of his own girlfriend. Raising his head up, he gave Ace a once-over. The wounds were obvious now that he was looking for them, but hearing that it was Justin Greene who had earned his friend's ire, he couldn't help but stare at what he'd just assumed was a sort of headband.
"Christ," he muttered, realizing that he was staring and composing himself. "That rat-fuck bastard."
The worst part was, he could barely picture what Justin Greene looked like. He'd tried to think of it before, days ago while sticking with Faith, but the surname evoked the name of his late teammate Jeff, while the first name left about as much of an impression upon him as any other nondescript classmate could. Justin Greene was the kind of person who would have come up to Connor, years down the line, at an autograph signing or an event. He would have held his hat in his hands and stammered out the fact that they'd gone to school together, as though it would make any difference in the grand scheme of his life. Connor would have beamed a broad smile and clapped the man on the shoulder, recited a few age-old platitudes about George Hunter, and sent him on his way.
Justin would have had his story, Connor would have never given him a second thought.
That future was never to happen, a chapter in a story never to be written, for Justin had thrust himself from obscurity and nothingness into one of the biggest villains of their actual story. Was that his intent from the get-go? Not content with being a faceless teenager, he tried to make a name for himself and leave a trail of bodies behind? Ace's vitriol was unusual for him, back home it had been saved for only the biggest of assholes and was almost always warranted in some fashion.
Connor didn't think Ace would be as easy to calm down now as he had been. So Connor didn't even try. As for his own plan? When Ace followed his fury up with a more measured query, it only served to twist his gut some more. He was the captain right now, and the captain always had an answer or a solution. So instead of giving him an answer; a plan, Connor did the next best thing.
He stepped around the oncoming tackler and looked further down the field.
"He ain't right in the head; sounds like he's beyond saving — not that he deserves it in the first place. Ain't no one going to shed a tear over him after what he's done."
Inhaling, Connor looked Ace over for a second, and then off into the trees. He knew what his instinct was to do in this situation, but that was just it. His brain was still firing on a Chattanooga philosophy, not a Survival of the Fittest one. If he'd likened Ace to a rabid dog, he might not be able to approach him without getting bitten, but he also knew that this was someone he trusted. His body was filled with terror, but he kept on projecting confidence.
Fake it 'til you make it was more than just an idle saying — often, it worked.
Connor casually walked over to Ace and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping that he didn't have some hidden wound to exacerbate.
"If it's personal, ain't no one stopping you from what needs to be done. He's hurt people, good people and he needs to pay. Besides," he looked Ace in the eyes, trying to create as much confidence to convey as he could. He knew exactly the right thing to say. Here, at least.
"You mess with one of us, you mess with all of us."
"Christ," he muttered, realizing that he was staring and composing himself. "That rat-fuck bastard."
The worst part was, he could barely picture what Justin Greene looked like. He'd tried to think of it before, days ago while sticking with Faith, but the surname evoked the name of his late teammate Jeff, while the first name left about as much of an impression upon him as any other nondescript classmate could. Justin Greene was the kind of person who would have come up to Connor, years down the line, at an autograph signing or an event. He would have held his hat in his hands and stammered out the fact that they'd gone to school together, as though it would make any difference in the grand scheme of his life. Connor would have beamed a broad smile and clapped the man on the shoulder, recited a few age-old platitudes about George Hunter, and sent him on his way.
Justin would have had his story, Connor would have never given him a second thought.
That future was never to happen, a chapter in a story never to be written, for Justin had thrust himself from obscurity and nothingness into one of the biggest villains of their actual story. Was that his intent from the get-go? Not content with being a faceless teenager, he tried to make a name for himself and leave a trail of bodies behind? Ace's vitriol was unusual for him, back home it had been saved for only the biggest of assholes and was almost always warranted in some fashion.
Connor didn't think Ace would be as easy to calm down now as he had been. So Connor didn't even try. As for his own plan? When Ace followed his fury up with a more measured query, it only served to twist his gut some more. He was the captain right now, and the captain always had an answer or a solution. So instead of giving him an answer; a plan, Connor did the next best thing.
He stepped around the oncoming tackler and looked further down the field.
"He ain't right in the head; sounds like he's beyond saving — not that he deserves it in the first place. Ain't no one going to shed a tear over him after what he's done."
Inhaling, Connor looked Ace over for a second, and then off into the trees. He knew what his instinct was to do in this situation, but that was just it. His brain was still firing on a Chattanooga philosophy, not a Survival of the Fittest one. If he'd likened Ace to a rabid dog, he might not be able to approach him without getting bitten, but he also knew that this was someone he trusted. His body was filled with terror, but he kept on projecting confidence.
Fake it 'til you make it was more than just an idle saying — often, it worked.
Connor casually walked over to Ace and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping that he didn't have some hidden wound to exacerbate.
"If it's personal, ain't no one stopping you from what needs to be done. He's hurt people, good people and he needs to pay. Besides," he looked Ace in the eyes, trying to create as much confidence to convey as he could. He knew exactly the right thing to say. Here, at least.
"You mess with one of us, you mess with all of us."
Ace wanted everything. Ace wanted it all.
What he wanted at this moment? To believe Connor. Connor had everything—Connor had it all. He came from oil money. He was tall and broad shouldered and every bit of privilege and prosperity he had been given at birth was also aided by undeniable talent. His style was impetuous, his defense was impregnable and on the field he was ferocious. He had all the physical tools, yes, but what Lorenzen had most of all was his wits. He could read a defense quick and get the ball out of his hands quicker. So many times Connor would stand in the pocket and just before a defensive lineman would hit him--he’d dump it in the flats to Ace! They had turned that half-back screen into a work of art. The pitch into a weapon of mass destruction.
There was no one Ace would rather have in a fox-hole. If you got my back, I got your back. If you go to war, we go to war together. That’s just the way it was, that was just the way it had been.
“Yeah…”
Connor’s eye contact burned and Ace felt himself getting read with that same surgical precision the quarterback did a defense. The hand on his bad shoulder. The encouraging words and relentless positivity. Beats wanted to believe it. He really wanted to believe it from Connor—but that’s not what the island had proven to him. The island had proven to Ace that he was better off by himself. The island had proven to Ace that whatever friend helped him—was just asking to get killed. He looked away from his quarterback, he felt his grip sting on his shoulder. Beats savored the hurt and swum in the pain. He wanted to feel all that shit. He was done running from it. Ace wanted everything. Ace wanted it all. Good and bad.
“Yeah...”
His voice wavered and his lip quivered. It was too much. So much had changed—Connor had somehow remained the same. Ace had always thought that the bad times brought out the best in people. That he was the type of person to rise to the occasion and find some hidden power in his core that was revealed only when he needed it. The bad times hadn’t brought out the best in him—they brought out the worst. Ace had been a cheater, a coward and a killer. Meilin still forgave him and then she died for him. Ivy took him back and then got shot by her best friend for her trouble. Saku kissed him as she bled out and spoke about sacrificing herself for him—then she died. Unceremoniously. Connor was talking about going to war with him. Doing what he had to do not for the benefit of himself but for the benefit of Ace. The we instead of the me. Platitudes and mantras. Fake it till you make it. Did Connor really know what he was saying? Did he believe it? Ace didn't know...he didn't know if Connor did either.
Connor was more like Ace than Beats had previously believed. That scared Ace a lot more than he wanted to admit.
“That how you really feel Cap’n?”
What he wanted at this moment? To believe Connor. Connor had everything—Connor had it all. He came from oil money. He was tall and broad shouldered and every bit of privilege and prosperity he had been given at birth was also aided by undeniable talent. His style was impetuous, his defense was impregnable and on the field he was ferocious. He had all the physical tools, yes, but what Lorenzen had most of all was his wits. He could read a defense quick and get the ball out of his hands quicker. So many times Connor would stand in the pocket and just before a defensive lineman would hit him--he’d dump it in the flats to Ace! They had turned that half-back screen into a work of art. The pitch into a weapon of mass destruction.
There was no one Ace would rather have in a fox-hole. If you got my back, I got your back. If you go to war, we go to war together. That’s just the way it was, that was just the way it had been.
“Yeah…”
Connor’s eye contact burned and Ace felt himself getting read with that same surgical precision the quarterback did a defense. The hand on his bad shoulder. The encouraging words and relentless positivity. Beats wanted to believe it. He really wanted to believe it from Connor—but that’s not what the island had proven to him. The island had proven to Ace that he was better off by himself. The island had proven to Ace that whatever friend helped him—was just asking to get killed. He looked away from his quarterback, he felt his grip sting on his shoulder. Beats savored the hurt and swum in the pain. He wanted to feel all that shit. He was done running from it. Ace wanted everything. Ace wanted it all. Good and bad.
“Yeah...”
His voice wavered and his lip quivered. It was too much. So much had changed—Connor had somehow remained the same. Ace had always thought that the bad times brought out the best in people. That he was the type of person to rise to the occasion and find some hidden power in his core that was revealed only when he needed it. The bad times hadn’t brought out the best in him—they brought out the worst. Ace had been a cheater, a coward and a killer. Meilin still forgave him and then she died for him. Ivy took him back and then got shot by her best friend for her trouble. Saku kissed him as she bled out and spoke about sacrificing herself for him—then she died. Unceremoniously. Connor was talking about going to war with him. Doing what he had to do not for the benefit of himself but for the benefit of Ace. The we instead of the me. Platitudes and mantras. Fake it till you make it. Did Connor really know what he was saying? Did he believe it? Ace didn't know...he didn't know if Connor did either.
Connor was more like Ace than Beats had previously believed. That scared Ace a lot more than he wanted to admit.
“That how you really feel Cap’n?”
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
"It was true back home and there ain't a damn thing here that changes that," he lied. "We're walking through hell and if I could make every damned person who was responsible for all of our suffering pay, you know I wouldn't hesitate."
The last part was true, at least in part. Connor's original plan had involved waiting, fleeing and leaving everyone he cared about behind. While no, he wasn't ever going to rise up and become a freedom fighter, there was a lot that one could do with a well-powered wallet behind them. They could start a foundation, remember the victims, but all the while — his father was an oil magnate. He wasn't a moron, he knew that certain unsavoury contacts were but a touchscreen away within his father's address book. For all he knew, some of the social functions he'd attended could have had him sharing hors d'oeuvres with military contractors or foreign dictators masquerading as diplomats.
Connor could live his life, but there would always be that spectre. Survival of the Fittest would be around and Steven Lorenzen could arrange to do his son that favour. Find the bastards who murdered his classmates and eradicate them from the Earth.
Payback was a bitch; in his dreams at least, it would be.
Ace had gone quiet, retreated into himself once Connor's hand had made contact with his shoulder. He felt his friend flinch ever-so-slightly, and so he only kept his hand there as long as it needed to be. Who knew what kinds of injuries he had — he didn't want to push his luck. While his façade was still going strong, Connor knew that he was fueled on adrenaline and fear and the nervous energy would shine through eventually. Letting his voice soften, he turned the captaincy down and spoke to Ace, person-to-person. The running back had been through hell and the souvenirs were visible all over him. Perhaps if he could relate to some of Connor's own trauma... it was worth a try. Frankly, he was still terrified of what his friend had done and was pretending as hard as he could that it wasn't the truth.
"We can't," he paused, "I couldn't stop 'em."
One of his shields fell, he clung to it and pivoted to expose a less obvious feeling of guilt.
"I saw Wyatt. Right after, the next day I saw you. He told me about — dammit, Ace. I knew he was going on a fool's errand but I couldn't say the right thing to make him stop and think."
He'd been with Tirzah; his eventual killer.
"Should've," Connor looked up at the sky and sighed, his sadness evident, only a fraction of his actual guilt shining through, "should've done something but I just let him go."
Some leader he was.
The last part was true, at least in part. Connor's original plan had involved waiting, fleeing and leaving everyone he cared about behind. While no, he wasn't ever going to rise up and become a freedom fighter, there was a lot that one could do with a well-powered wallet behind them. They could start a foundation, remember the victims, but all the while — his father was an oil magnate. He wasn't a moron, he knew that certain unsavoury contacts were but a touchscreen away within his father's address book. For all he knew, some of the social functions he'd attended could have had him sharing hors d'oeuvres with military contractors or foreign dictators masquerading as diplomats.
Connor could live his life, but there would always be that spectre. Survival of the Fittest would be around and Steven Lorenzen could arrange to do his son that favour. Find the bastards who murdered his classmates and eradicate them from the Earth.
Payback was a bitch; in his dreams at least, it would be.
Ace had gone quiet, retreated into himself once Connor's hand had made contact with his shoulder. He felt his friend flinch ever-so-slightly, and so he only kept his hand there as long as it needed to be. Who knew what kinds of injuries he had — he didn't want to push his luck. While his façade was still going strong, Connor knew that he was fueled on adrenaline and fear and the nervous energy would shine through eventually. Letting his voice soften, he turned the captaincy down and spoke to Ace, person-to-person. The running back had been through hell and the souvenirs were visible all over him. Perhaps if he could relate to some of Connor's own trauma... it was worth a try. Frankly, he was still terrified of what his friend had done and was pretending as hard as he could that it wasn't the truth.
"We can't," he paused, "I couldn't stop 'em."
One of his shields fell, he clung to it and pivoted to expose a less obvious feeling of guilt.
"I saw Wyatt. Right after, the next day I saw you. He told me about — dammit, Ace. I knew he was going on a fool's errand but I couldn't say the right thing to make him stop and think."
He'd been with Tirzah; his eventual killer.
"Should've," Connor looked up at the sky and sighed, his sadness evident, only a fraction of his actual guilt shining through, "should've done something but I just let him go."
Some leader he was.
Beats was usually a babbler. Ace often found himself speaking a lot. He didn’t like to reveal too much in what he said, he just liked to be a part of the conversation. He wasn’t always a good listener--he was often lost in his own head. When Connor spoke though, Beats found himself being quiet. When he spoke of Wyatt, Ace found himself being conflicted. Ace had run into Tirzah after she had killed Wyatt. She had killed Toby too. Two of his teammates. She was just as much a murderer as Justin. Ace had killed just as many people as she had at this point. Beats had fantasized and pondered revenge against Tirzah for days after he had heard about Toby’s murder. Toby had been Tirzah’s prom date and she had murdered him on day one. Because he asked for it? How? By just being Toby? Wyatt had apparently asked for it too. Even if Tirzah had been lying--Ace wanted to believe her.
In the end, his confrontation with Tirzah ended with nothing. In the end, he didn't shoot her--he hugged her. In the end, Ace let her just walk on her merry murdering way.
“I know that feelin’,” Beats said solemnly, “There’s a lotta shoulda, woulda, couldas for me,” he admitted, “This whole shit ain’t me. I don’t wanna keep killin’ and seein’ people die, y’know? That shit ain’t fun, that ain’t how my life is s’posed to go down,” he shook his head and put his hand on Connor’s shoulder now, “But this life? This game? There ain’t no love in it, it don’t love you back. What we want, don't matter. Life could care less. The game ain't built to give it to us.”
He thought of Wyatt and Tirzah. His own feelings at the moment and when he had first found out she had killed his friend. He had wanted to hate Tirzah. He didn’t. He didn’t want to kill Tirzah, he wasn’t ready to shoot down his friend back then. He should’ve been. Maybe it would’ve saved Ivy a bit of pain in her last moments. Maybe it would’ve put Ace on the path he was on now sooner. Would that have saved Ace trouble or gotten him into more?
“That’s what friends do out here—they die,” there was a finality in his tone, “Often times it’s another friend that does ‘em in.”
It was getting down to the nitty gritty. The final stretch. The fourth quarter. It was easy to do anything in victory—it was only in defeat that you found yourself. Often times it was only through defeat that you could face the true cost of victory. It was only through losing that you could see the price of winning and find out if you were willing to pay it.
“I seent every girl who ever gave me any sorta attention or affection—die in front of me, die because of me,” his lip quivered again, “I’ve left them to die just to save my own skin. I’ve killed innocent bystanders in the name of petty vengeance and my small, small ego.”
Tears welled up in Ace’s green eyes and then flowed down his cheeks. His eyes stung and burn. He kept eye contact with Connor. Green on green, but all Ace saw and felt was red. He had done all of those things and Meilin forgave him--rooted for him with her last words. Ivy had let him back in her bed and spoke out in his defense to her best friend. Saku had taken him back without question and spent her last moments kissing Ace and pushing him forward. Ace had done so much bad and still people were willing to see the good in him--why? What the fuck was he doing right to still be living when so many had died? There had to be a reason he was still here. Those people didn't die believing in something or someone that wasn't worth it.
“It can’t be for nuthin’ Connor.”
The eye contact burned and it wasn’t because of the tears.
“It can’t be.”
In the end, his confrontation with Tirzah ended with nothing. In the end, he didn't shoot her--he hugged her. In the end, Ace let her just walk on her merry murdering way.
“I know that feelin’,” Beats said solemnly, “There’s a lotta shoulda, woulda, couldas for me,” he admitted, “This whole shit ain’t me. I don’t wanna keep killin’ and seein’ people die, y’know? That shit ain’t fun, that ain’t how my life is s’posed to go down,” he shook his head and put his hand on Connor’s shoulder now, “But this life? This game? There ain’t no love in it, it don’t love you back. What we want, don't matter. Life could care less. The game ain't built to give it to us.”
He thought of Wyatt and Tirzah. His own feelings at the moment and when he had first found out she had killed his friend. He had wanted to hate Tirzah. He didn’t. He didn’t want to kill Tirzah, he wasn’t ready to shoot down his friend back then. He should’ve been. Maybe it would’ve saved Ivy a bit of pain in her last moments. Maybe it would’ve put Ace on the path he was on now sooner. Would that have saved Ace trouble or gotten him into more?
“That’s what friends do out here—they die,” there was a finality in his tone, “Often times it’s another friend that does ‘em in.”
It was getting down to the nitty gritty. The final stretch. The fourth quarter. It was easy to do anything in victory—it was only in defeat that you found yourself. Often times it was only through defeat that you could face the true cost of victory. It was only through losing that you could see the price of winning and find out if you were willing to pay it.
“I seent every girl who ever gave me any sorta attention or affection—die in front of me, die because of me,” his lip quivered again, “I’ve left them to die just to save my own skin. I’ve killed innocent bystanders in the name of petty vengeance and my small, small ego.”
Tears welled up in Ace’s green eyes and then flowed down his cheeks. His eyes stung and burn. He kept eye contact with Connor. Green on green, but all Ace saw and felt was red. He had done all of those things and Meilin forgave him--rooted for him with her last words. Ivy had let him back in her bed and spoke out in his defense to her best friend. Saku had taken him back without question and spent her last moments kissing Ace and pushing him forward. Ace had done so much bad and still people were willing to see the good in him--why? What the fuck was he doing right to still be living when so many had died? There had to be a reason he was still here. Those people didn't die believing in something or someone that wasn't worth it.
“It can’t be for nuthin’ Connor.”
The eye contact burned and it wasn’t because of the tears.
“It can’t be.”
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
The fatalistic bent that Ace's words took was not altogether surprising to Connor, but seeing firsthand what the island had done to his friend's psyche was jarring all the same. Chatty, talkative Ace had vanished into the wilds of this island and the man that had been spit out — and he was now a man, make no mistake — was a darker, sullen version of himself.
"No, brother. It ain't you. I know that, you have to know it too."
It was an interesting comparison to make; Connor had grown up quickly. He was tall with nearly adult facial features and standing next to some of the juniors at the school, it wasn't a far cry to wonder if he were a student or a faculty member. Ace was always very obviously a high schooler; softer facial features and self-professed 'boyish charm' were par for his course, along with the requisite immaturity that entailed. Connor's own projection of himself that he allowed for public consumption was mature, adult and always ready to do the 'right thing'. Finding Connor Lorenzen goofing off was like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow — oft-rumoured yet rarely seen.
The dynamic had changed.
Ace's eyes had a hollow look to them, there was so much pain behind all he had to say yet he knew that only a fraction of it was coming through. Hearing Ace own up to what he had done scared the hell out of Connor. It was exactly that fear that had been percolating beneath the surface of the leaderly façade he was wearing that made him feel like a small child. Ace was a murderer, several times over. He'd killed Parker, Lori and...
"Myles," he muttered under his breath.
For a split-second, his eyes widened as he realized that he'd spoken, but he covered quickly.
"Ace, I'm not gonna stand here and say that I know how you're feelin'. I can't absolve you of anything, but I can say that what you've done — I know you, brother. Ain't a doubt in my mind that you did what you had to out of anything but ego." Excellent cover. His parents would have been impressed at the sincerity of his words. Perhaps, it was because he almost meant them. Ace was a friend, of course, but he was a friend who had murdered people. He had watched the life drain out of someone's body and had kept on going.
It was the only reason that Connor hadn't taken off running. Lord knew that he wanted to. But he knew that doing so would only end up startling the boy and likely end with bullets in his back. He was too damn scared to do anything except act the way that he always would — supportive and in charge of the situation.
What a shame, then, that he wasn't in charge of shit.
Terrified as he was, he knew what the next logical step was, it was exactly what he'd have done on any given Sunday. Taking another step back towards Ace, he turned to face him.
"It won't be for nothing, Ace. Ain't a thing we can do now except fight for what we have left. Keep on going for those who aren't here anymore. For Wyatt and Bret, for Saku and Toby, for Madison and Meilin; hell, even for Ivy." The corner of his lip curled into a smile and he exhaled a half-laugh at that. Ace was no stranger to the animosity that had existed between him and Ivy, he had seen it first-hand.
Connor put his hands on Ace's shoulders, looking into his friend's haunted eyes. God knew what his friend saw back in his own.
"But most importantly? We keep on going, we keep on fighting for you and I. For Ace and for Connor. That's why it ain't for nothin'."
Gently, Connor pulled the running back towards him, wrapping his arms around the boy and giving him a friendly squeeze.
"We can't let it be," he whispered.
"No, brother. It ain't you. I know that, you have to know it too."
It was an interesting comparison to make; Connor had grown up quickly. He was tall with nearly adult facial features and standing next to some of the juniors at the school, it wasn't a far cry to wonder if he were a student or a faculty member. Ace was always very obviously a high schooler; softer facial features and self-professed 'boyish charm' were par for his course, along with the requisite immaturity that entailed. Connor's own projection of himself that he allowed for public consumption was mature, adult and always ready to do the 'right thing'. Finding Connor Lorenzen goofing off was like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow — oft-rumoured yet rarely seen.
The dynamic had changed.
Ace's eyes had a hollow look to them, there was so much pain behind all he had to say yet he knew that only a fraction of it was coming through. Hearing Ace own up to what he had done scared the hell out of Connor. It was exactly that fear that had been percolating beneath the surface of the leaderly façade he was wearing that made him feel like a small child. Ace was a murderer, several times over. He'd killed Parker, Lori and...
"Myles," he muttered under his breath.
For a split-second, his eyes widened as he realized that he'd spoken, but he covered quickly.
"Ace, I'm not gonna stand here and say that I know how you're feelin'. I can't absolve you of anything, but I can say that what you've done — I know you, brother. Ain't a doubt in my mind that you did what you had to out of anything but ego." Excellent cover. His parents would have been impressed at the sincerity of his words. Perhaps, it was because he almost meant them. Ace was a friend, of course, but he was a friend who had murdered people. He had watched the life drain out of someone's body and had kept on going.
It was the only reason that Connor hadn't taken off running. Lord knew that he wanted to. But he knew that doing so would only end up startling the boy and likely end with bullets in his back. He was too damn scared to do anything except act the way that he always would — supportive and in charge of the situation.
What a shame, then, that he wasn't in charge of shit.
Terrified as he was, he knew what the next logical step was, it was exactly what he'd have done on any given Sunday. Taking another step back towards Ace, he turned to face him.
"It won't be for nothing, Ace. Ain't a thing we can do now except fight for what we have left. Keep on going for those who aren't here anymore. For Wyatt and Bret, for Saku and Toby, for Madison and Meilin; hell, even for Ivy." The corner of his lip curled into a smile and he exhaled a half-laugh at that. Ace was no stranger to the animosity that had existed between him and Ivy, he had seen it first-hand.
Connor put his hands on Ace's shoulders, looking into his friend's haunted eyes. God knew what his friend saw back in his own.
"But most importantly? We keep on going, we keep on fighting for you and I. For Ace and for Connor. That's why it ain't for nothin'."
Gently, Connor pulled the running back towards him, wrapping his arms around the boy and giving him a friendly squeeze.
"We can't let it be," he whispered.
“But Cap’n….”
Connor’s words hit home. He was saying all the right things and he was chipping away at Ace’s armor in real ways. Still, Ace’s eyes could never keep their cool. They always betrayed him. Beats blinked away tears while remaining stuck in his quarterback’s embrace. He ignored the BR-18 on his side, the pistols in his pockets, the wounds that he had incurred and the guilt that had seduced his spirit. This moment didn't need to be fucked up by the reality of the game. This moment could just be what it looked like. A simple, pure gesture. A hug from a friend. It felt wrong and undeserved. That had never stopped Ace before. He took what he could get. He took it all.
Beats held Connor tighter. He gripped his back and felt the strength in his teammate's posture.
“Y’don’t get it man …”
He separated from Connor and looked away a bit in distress. He brought his hand to his eyes and wiped away his tears. He sniffed and snorted and spat his snot on the ground. Then he knelt down and unzipped his bag, taking out a bottle of water and taking a hearty sip. Ace took a deep breath. Ace wanted to believe Connor. Ace wanted to believe it all. What he wanted didn't matter.
“I gotta win,” he said with a baited breath, “I gotta get home.”
But what about how they were the same?
They both had similar dreams. Connor just happened to have been born on third base and did that even matter when only one person could cross the plate? Ace had already reached the inevitable conclusion. What would he do when Connor did? If Connor went for the win, could Ace stop him? Connor who came from a better family, drove a better car, got scholarships up the wazoo? Everybody loved Connor, everybody wanted Connor or wanted to be him. He was the golden boy with the golden ticket. It’d be a perfect world if Ace could count to have him by his side. Connor would be the perfect friend and man if he was willing to sacrifice his own skin for the benefit of Ace’s.
The world wasn't perfect though and neither was Connor. In the end, he'd do what was best for him. Ace would do the same. That wasn't personal...that was just the game.
Beats put the water back in his bag and rose up to his full height. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath and he swallowed his guilt and silenced his conscience. Beats gripped the BR-18. He didn't raise it or aim it.
“This ain’t a team sport man.”
Connor’s words hit home. He was saying all the right things and he was chipping away at Ace’s armor in real ways. Still, Ace’s eyes could never keep their cool. They always betrayed him. Beats blinked away tears while remaining stuck in his quarterback’s embrace. He ignored the BR-18 on his side, the pistols in his pockets, the wounds that he had incurred and the guilt that had seduced his spirit. This moment didn't need to be fucked up by the reality of the game. This moment could just be what it looked like. A simple, pure gesture. A hug from a friend. It felt wrong and undeserved. That had never stopped Ace before. He took what he could get. He took it all.
Beats held Connor tighter. He gripped his back and felt the strength in his teammate's posture.
“Y’don’t get it man …”
He separated from Connor and looked away a bit in distress. He brought his hand to his eyes and wiped away his tears. He sniffed and snorted and spat his snot on the ground. Then he knelt down and unzipped his bag, taking out a bottle of water and taking a hearty sip. Ace took a deep breath. Ace wanted to believe Connor. Ace wanted to believe it all. What he wanted didn't matter.
“I gotta win,” he said with a baited breath, “I gotta get home.”
Connor could say what he wanted. He could talk the talk and he could speak about teamwork and all that—in the end, he would look out for himself. He and Ace were more similar than they were different. They were still very different. Connor was the golden boy, the prom king. He was going to Notre Dame, the same school as Joe fuckin' Montana. Lorenzen was destined for greatness. Connor’s dad got him a Corvette, Ace’s dad got him a Honda Ruckus. They lived in the same town and went to the same school but came from vastly different worlds. There was a canyon in their individual characters that neither could truly cross. It was too distant, too different.Momma Beats wrote: “Keep in mind boy, they only treat your black ass special because you fill up their bleachers! When you can’t do that...what you gonna be worth to someone like that Lorenzen kid? He's the big NFL prospect on your team right? He comes from oil money, he can afford to dream about being in the NFL--he’s going to be good no matter what.”
But what about how they were the same?
They both had similar dreams. Connor just happened to have been born on third base and did that even matter when only one person could cross the plate? Ace had already reached the inevitable conclusion. What would he do when Connor did? If Connor went for the win, could Ace stop him? Connor who came from a better family, drove a better car, got scholarships up the wazoo? Everybody loved Connor, everybody wanted Connor or wanted to be him. He was the golden boy with the golden ticket. It’d be a perfect world if Ace could count to have him by his side. Connor would be the perfect friend and man if he was willing to sacrifice his own skin for the benefit of Ace’s.
The world wasn't perfect though and neither was Connor. In the end, he'd do what was best for him. Ace would do the same. That wasn't personal...that was just the game.
Beats put the water back in his bag and rose up to his full height. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath and he swallowed his guilt and silenced his conscience. Beats gripped the BR-18. He didn't raise it or aim it.
“This ain’t a team sport man.”
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
If there was one thing that Connor Lorenzen had learned through playing sports, it was that even the manliest guys sometimes needed to get in touch with their feelings a bit. His parents were not remotely the touchy-feely sort, preferring to show their affection through words and gifts rather than hugs and kisses. That was fine by him, he never doubted how much he was loved and while his family was anything but ordinary in the traditional sense, the way he was shown love was fine for him. Some people, though — they needed to feel a comforting hand on a shoulder, or a supportive hug from someone just to show how serious you were about what you had to say. It wasn't Connor's way, but he considered himself pretty good at recognizing when someone needed it.
Ace Ortega had needed a hug in the worst way, and his pal, his captain had been there to provide. So when Ace separated from Connor and stepped back towards his bag, he knew that it was more of a cover so that the boy could regain his composure. Ace had been through more than Connor knew he could ever comprehend; the simple idea of murdering someone turned his stomach in ten different ways. So he didn't stare. Ace went for his pack, pulled out some water and Connor went to do the same.
"I know," he affirmed over his shoulder, allowing his friend the dignity to put what pieces remained back together. "Y'all have worked harder than anyone to get what you have. Believe me, I always noticed. I think a lot of people did."
Turning his back to Ace only sent the terror in his heart ratcheting up another notch. Most people would have the common sense not to turn their back on a murderer, on a predator. Was Ace a predator? Maybe. But just in talking to him, Connor recognized all of the good parts of Ace that weren't going anywhere. He knew that even though he believed that his worst qualities had emerged, there was still a lot of redemption available to him. There was no way in hell that Connor would be any help in hunting someone down and plunging a knife into their skull, Justin Greene or any other, but if he could at least lend moral support, they could go their separate ways.
A quest for vengeance was a surefire way to end up at the end of one's rope; if only he could have managed to convince Wyatt of that particular point. Sighing, he reached into his own pack and grabbed his last bottle of water. Taking a long swing of it, he tried to steel his nerves. Again, if there were ever a time for him to run into the underbrush without looking back, this was it. Doing so would only reiterate his own failure, unable to adapt, unable to face even a friend without searching for a way out. Cowardice was a terrible burden to face, even worse once you recognized it within yourself. What would Ace think of him, then? What would anyone watching the cameras say? Look at that, it's that Lorenzen boy. What a waste, what a sad little coward.
Back turned, Connor inhaled and took a breath, then downed the rest of the water. He needed to continue to be the leader that everyone thought he was and expected him to be.
Even if he was just playing a role.
"Nah, it ain't." He agreed with such casual disregard for what the words truly meant — there could be only one winner. He wasn't entirely sure that he was capable of playing that sport, not with the rules as they were laid out to him. So his tone was light, conversational. He looked into the forest for a moment, away from Ace. He saw nothing but trees. No animals, no movement.
Nothing.
"But when all of the hands have been dealt and the chips are down, who would you bet on? One person that ain't yourself? I know that everyone would be lookin' our way. Ain't a single sliver of doubt in my mind." His adrenaline started to go with that familiar feeling, starting the rah-rah speech to inspire his teammates. There was only one teammate left with him now, but he knew that it would be impossible to ignore.
"After all the hell we've been through," Connor turned around to face Ace, an inspired smile plastered on his face, "I'd still bet on—."
His eyes scanned downwards; Ace was holding the rifle. He hadn't been holding the weapon before, not even touching it. Somewhere deep in his gut, something twisted in a knot.
The façade cracked.
"—you."
Ace Ortega had needed a hug in the worst way, and his pal, his captain had been there to provide. So when Ace separated from Connor and stepped back towards his bag, he knew that it was more of a cover so that the boy could regain his composure. Ace had been through more than Connor knew he could ever comprehend; the simple idea of murdering someone turned his stomach in ten different ways. So he didn't stare. Ace went for his pack, pulled out some water and Connor went to do the same.
"I know," he affirmed over his shoulder, allowing his friend the dignity to put what pieces remained back together. "Y'all have worked harder than anyone to get what you have. Believe me, I always noticed. I think a lot of people did."
Turning his back to Ace only sent the terror in his heart ratcheting up another notch. Most people would have the common sense not to turn their back on a murderer, on a predator. Was Ace a predator? Maybe. But just in talking to him, Connor recognized all of the good parts of Ace that weren't going anywhere. He knew that even though he believed that his worst qualities had emerged, there was still a lot of redemption available to him. There was no way in hell that Connor would be any help in hunting someone down and plunging a knife into their skull, Justin Greene or any other, but if he could at least lend moral support, they could go their separate ways.
A quest for vengeance was a surefire way to end up at the end of one's rope; if only he could have managed to convince Wyatt of that particular point. Sighing, he reached into his own pack and grabbed his last bottle of water. Taking a long swing of it, he tried to steel his nerves. Again, if there were ever a time for him to run into the underbrush without looking back, this was it. Doing so would only reiterate his own failure, unable to adapt, unable to face even a friend without searching for a way out. Cowardice was a terrible burden to face, even worse once you recognized it within yourself. What would Ace think of him, then? What would anyone watching the cameras say? Look at that, it's that Lorenzen boy. What a waste, what a sad little coward.
Back turned, Connor inhaled and took a breath, then downed the rest of the water. He needed to continue to be the leader that everyone thought he was and expected him to be.
Even if he was just playing a role.
"Nah, it ain't." He agreed with such casual disregard for what the words truly meant — there could be only one winner. He wasn't entirely sure that he was capable of playing that sport, not with the rules as they were laid out to him. So his tone was light, conversational. He looked into the forest for a moment, away from Ace. He saw nothing but trees. No animals, no movement.
Nothing.
"But when all of the hands have been dealt and the chips are down, who would you bet on? One person that ain't yourself? I know that everyone would be lookin' our way. Ain't a single sliver of doubt in my mind." His adrenaline started to go with that familiar feeling, starting the rah-rah speech to inspire his teammates. There was only one teammate left with him now, but he knew that it would be impossible to ignore.
"After all the hell we've been through," Connor turned around to face Ace, an inspired smile plastered on his face, "I'd still bet on—."
His eyes scanned downwards; Ace was holding the rifle. He hadn't been holding the weapon before, not even touching it. Somewhere deep in his gut, something twisted in a knot.
The façade cracked.
"—you."
That look. That look right there.
The fear, the uncertainty, the anxiousness. Ace recognized a version of himself in Connor. One that he had confronted over and over and over again. He had struggled constantly in that battle against self. It had taken him days to seemingly beat it. He still felt he hadn’t. Not all the way. Beats swallowed his own uncertainty and tried to put on a mask of confidence. Connor wore uncertainty like Ace wore certainty (not well at all). Beats narrowed his eyes at his friend. His finger found the trigger of his gun. His body shook. He didn’t yet take aim.
Connor was right. Nobody out here had worked harder than Ace for his dreams. Nobody out here had suffered and struggled and fought for everything like Ace had. Fight to live but be ready to die. Ace was a murderer three times over already. Nobody would think that was because of three accidents. Connor didn’t think that was because of three accidents. He didn’t need to say why. Whatever, they could only hang you once. It didn't matter who did what to who at this point. It'd be over for everybody, one way or the other, soon enough.
Ace brought the BR-18 up and aimed it at Connor’s chest. His hands trembled but his aim didn't waver. Ace wanted to live—he didn’t want Connor to die. What he wanted didn’t matter. Haven't you been paying attention?
“That how you really feel Cap'n?”
Ace swallowed.
"C'mon," he said with a degree of sympathy, "You're better than that."
The fear, the uncertainty, the anxiousness. Ace recognized a version of himself in Connor. One that he had confronted over and over and over again. He had struggled constantly in that battle against self. It had taken him days to seemingly beat it. He still felt he hadn’t. Not all the way. Beats swallowed his own uncertainty and tried to put on a mask of confidence. Connor wore uncertainty like Ace wore certainty (not well at all). Beats narrowed his eyes at his friend. His finger found the trigger of his gun. His body shook. He didn’t yet take aim.
Ace wanted to believe Connor. Beats wanted to live—he didn’t want Connor to die. What he wanted didn’t matter. What were the options? Let Connor walk away? To get killed by Justin or Erika or Blaise or some other random dude? Was that any different than pulling the trigger himself? Let Connor stay and delay the inevitable? Let him believe, shit, maybe teamwork counted for something out here? That the power of friendship could overcome this tragic circumstance? Get fuckin’ real. Ace had to win, he had to get home…he couldn’t let the sacrifices made in his name be in vain. He had convinced himself that winning this war was the only way to honor the dead. More than that, winning this war was about honoring himself. He was here for a real reason. Why else would he still be breathing? Over someone like Mei or Dante who had never hurt anybody or anyone.Danya wrote: "Those two were best friends. Remember that, whatever you think you know about your friends remember that everything changes once your lives are at stake."
Connor was right. Nobody out here had worked harder than Ace for his dreams. Nobody out here had suffered and struggled and fought for everything like Ace had. Fight to live but be ready to die. Ace was a murderer three times over already. Nobody would think that was because of three accidents. Connor didn’t think that was because of three accidents. He didn’t need to say why. Whatever, they could only hang you once. It didn't matter who did what to who at this point. It'd be over for everybody, one way or the other, soon enough.
Ace brought the BR-18 up and aimed it at Connor’s chest. His hands trembled but his aim didn't waver. Ace wanted to live—he didn’t want Connor to die. What he wanted didn’t matter. Haven't you been paying attention?
“That how you really feel Cap'n?”
Ace swallowed.
"C'mon," he said with a degree of sympathy, "You're better than that."
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
The twisting, throbbing feeling that had lurked in the background throughout the entire conversation jumped from the back of his stomach all of the way up into his throat when Ace raised the weapon and pointed it at him. In a sense, it didn't seem real. The rifle was a wicked-looking thing, some sort of assault rifle that Connor had never seen before. That wasn't much of a surprise, as he was no expert on weapons. That he was having a rifle held on him wasn't the shocking part.
It was the fact that it was Beats who was doing it.
His running back, the man who he'd handed the rock to so many times, that he'd laughed with, won with and lost with, partied with and practiced with, this was Ace and yet, it wasn't.
Connor knew he'd made a terrible mistake. He should have run each and every time that his mind was screaming at him to do so. His legs trembled, and so he forced a smile onto his face and held his arms up in the air, palms up.
"Ace, c'mon man," he punctuated his words with a laugh that was devoid of any humour, "this is me we're talkin' about here. Of course, that's how I feel."
It was, too — the sentiment was just twelve days out of date and a lot less hypothetical than it ever had to be before. He liked Ace, the guy was earnest, kind, and worked harder than almost anyone else on the whole team. They were teammates, brothers forged in competition with the common goal of getting through high school unscathed. Connor always respected work ethic. Like represents like. Iron sharpens iron, and so forth. He believed all of that, and he knew that Ace did too — which was why this felt so wrong.
"I'm better than what, Ace? Better than wanting us to try our damndest to get through this together?" His voice remained jovial but he swallowed heavily to try and remove the frog from his throat. "You know me. I'm all about the team. My word ain't there just for show."
It's not a team sport, Connor.
Perhaps that had been the problem all along.
"Now there ain't nothin' to be gained by pointin' that thing at me."
Connor's heart thundered in his chest, but he held his breath. Time seemed to slow down.
"Put it down."
It was the fact that it was Beats who was doing it.
His running back, the man who he'd handed the rock to so many times, that he'd laughed with, won with and lost with, partied with and practiced with, this was Ace and yet, it wasn't.
Connor knew he'd made a terrible mistake. He should have run each and every time that his mind was screaming at him to do so. His legs trembled, and so he forced a smile onto his face and held his arms up in the air, palms up.
"Ace, c'mon man," he punctuated his words with a laugh that was devoid of any humour, "this is me we're talkin' about here. Of course, that's how I feel."
It was, too — the sentiment was just twelve days out of date and a lot less hypothetical than it ever had to be before. He liked Ace, the guy was earnest, kind, and worked harder than almost anyone else on the whole team. They were teammates, brothers forged in competition with the common goal of getting through high school unscathed. Connor always respected work ethic. Like represents like. Iron sharpens iron, and so forth. He believed all of that, and he knew that Ace did too — which was why this felt so wrong.
"I'm better than what, Ace? Better than wanting us to try our damndest to get through this together?" His voice remained jovial but he swallowed heavily to try and remove the frog from his throat. "You know me. I'm all about the team. My word ain't there just for show."
It's not a team sport, Connor.
Perhaps that had been the problem all along.
"Now there ain't nothin' to be gained by pointin' that thing at me."
Connor's heart thundered in his chest, but he held his breath. Time seemed to slow down.
"Put it down."