Rosa Wallace had not touched her tea in almost 2 days.
Her hair was unwashed. Her clothes rank of sweat and body odor. The lounge chair she sat in, and hadn't left for almost a week now, was moulding to fit her every movement. Every twitch changed its pattern, and poked her skin.
This kind of thing didn't happen to her.
Her only child was never even supposed to go on this fucking trip.
The middle-aged woman insanely worried about the trip that Brendan was going to go on. She'd agreed finally, but she made sure of everything, unfathomably overprotective of her little boy. He wasn't going to speak to anyone who brought drugs, or alcohol, or anything like that. She was young once too, she knew the kinds of things kids his age would get up to. He'd stay with that Chase girl he was always hanging out with, and no one else. At that point, she really didn't know what else to say. No more nagging him to study. His school was over. He'd applied for scholarships at several journalism universities, and they were expecting word back once he came home.
No more telling him to go to bed early, he didn't need a good nights sleep for the day ahead of him if he didn't have to even concentrate at school. That was one point she could never understand, why people would even fathom of staying up until 2 in the morning for god knows what reasons. But she agreed to not nag him.
She payed the money, she signed the forms, she even gave him a sobriety test before he went, just to be sure. He complained, he yelled at her every time she mothered him to death, but in the end, even when he...told her, she still loved him.
"Honey, please, just...say something."
Rosa turned her head. Ray sat beside her, sitting on the arm of her lounge chair, again trying to roach a response out of her. He'd been doing this for days, trying to get her to speak, to eat, to drink instead of dying slowly on her chair, just watching all these kids around Brendan's age murdered for prime time television.
Ten times a day he spoke those words.
Honey, please just say something.
Honey, please just say something.
Honey, please just say something.
Honey, please just say something.
She'd had enough.
Her throat cracked as the air rushed through and cleared a week of silence.
"And what am I supposed to say, Raymond?" Rosa cracked through the homely silence, the silence which resided for days, only broken by occasional speech blaring out of the television. She shook every time she heard an accent. Tears rolled out every time it was Australian.
"Just...please, get out of the chair, eat dear, sleep dear!"
"No, I can't. I can't turn away, I can't abandon my son, Ray."
"Dear, he won't die if you're not watch-"
"AND HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT? ANY MINUTE NOW, HE COULD BE DEAD. ANY MINUTE NOW, HE COULD KILL HIMSELF, RAY, ANY MINUTE NOW HE COULD START KILLING PEOPLE. OUR SON IS SCARED, AND HE'S DYING."
"Rosa, please, the government are looking for him, they'll find him before anything bad happen-"
"Before anything bad hap - Ray, don't you understand this show? Something bad has already happened. One hundred and thirty children are dead, and the fact that Brendan is not one of them doesn't make it better. It makes it worse. He's suffering out there, he's terrified. I don't want him to be terrified, Ray! I just...I..." Rosa blurted out, before falling silent again as the screen cut to a dark place. Rosa stopped talking, like she just couldn't anymore, and turned back to the screen. Unmoving.
Her son was back on.
Ray sighed, unaware of what her newest troubles were. He stood up and walked back to the kitchen, trying to find at least something his wife of 28 years would eat.
~*~
((Brendan Wallace continues from The Gully))
It smelt of death.
The cave walls moaned and whispered as he ran through the mountain tunnels, blindly, stumbling against the rock every few minutes. Labyrinths and mazes, all reaching out and trying to suck Brendan into oblivion. Nothing there. No sound except his scattered footsteps.
No sound...
He was a coward. The worst person. Over the course of one whole fucking week, he'd abandoned everyone he'd ever been with. His friends. Friendly people who could have needed him. Hell, he'd even abandoned his boyfriend for some stupid reason he didn't even remember. No idea if he'd even be able to keep his word. His word, which meant nothing compared to how many times he'd kicked up and abandoned people. All sense and sensbility fell on deaf ears, with no sound.
No sound...
He'd even abandoned Liz. Her life depended on him, and he ran like a coward. He could have done something noble, just given up his life to save her. She'd risked it all, he'd done nothing. She tried to fuck with the game, the game that no one wanted to play, and he'd just run away and left the people who really deserved to be there to fight for their lives against the people who came to stop them. And he just ran.
No sound...
A stumble. Brendan skimmed his leg against the wall, and he could have sworn there was a snap. A tiny snap. He couldn't see, he was too afraid to check at all. His heart was pumping strong enough, loud enough, to fracture his ribs and shatter his chest.
No sound...
And the worst thing? He told himself he wanted to see everyone again, make sure they were okay. He wanted to do this so badly it hurt. But really, he found out long ago he was just afraid to lose them. He found Sarah, Dutchy, Roland, and left them on their own. He allied with Raymond, Neil, and Robert, and he just ran off, no intention of coming back. He left Sarah, Stacy, Erik of all people, Harun, Rashid, he'd tried to help them. He lead them for only a short time, and now...he'd actually really intended to help them, he loved most of them more than he could bare. And then...
No sound...
He abandoned Liz, he abandoned Mirabelle, he abandoned Garrett, he abandoned Jeremy. To make it worse, he'd even tried to justify it! Who's to say they didn't go this way, and then he lost track of them? He wanted to say that he honestly thought he was following them out of there, but...they needed him, he was stronger than half of them put together, he had guns for god sake, Brendan knew he was a dependant, not just a liability. And he ran anyway. A coward.
They all hated him
They didn't need him.
No more Brendan to help them. He'd just run away anyway.
Brendan tripped again.
The invisible white sneakers dug themselves behind a hole in the ground. The 170 pound Australian was thrown to the floor, and skidded. His face stung, it tried to dig up the mountain, and then he stopped his skid in a marshy length of rubble, or whatever it looked like in the light.
Brendan didn't want to get up. He wanted to stay there, lying on the ground, for all of time until he died. If he couldn't even do one thing right, then...what was the point of him? Why would anyone want to see such a useless person like him? He didn't even really know most of the people who died around him, for him, near him, without him, he didn't deserve to know them, or grieve them. He'd only known them for three quarters of the year. He had no right to cry over them.
Just like no one one this rock would cry over him.
The stench of death was stronger now. It infiltrated his head and distorted his thoughts. He couldn't think straight. Words meant nothing. Pain. Decay. Waste.
"It hurts..." he whispered. It couldn't have made it further than a few feet. Quiet, so quiet, it made no impact on the world. No one could hear him.
Brendan could have sworn he blinked. There wasn't any way to tell the difference between his open eyes and his closed eyes. Still dark. Was it still night? No light.
The darkness. The silence.
It deafened.
Why did the smell of death haunt him? It was choking, he wanted to hurl, but the pit inside of him was empty. Hunger stroked by decay stroked by an urge to retch up the only things he had left.
Brendan brought himself to his knees, and reached around inside the marshy ground his hands sunk themselves in during his fall. It slipped around, it felt like cloth. His bag flew in front of him when he tripped. It was around here, somewhere.
The felt feel turned into a familiar cloth touch, and there it was. His bag. If he'd been able to see it, the khaki would have been a comforting colour. It really was comforting, in the strangest of ways.
He left around for the little tracks of metal, and its train to unleash it. The bag seemed to have flattened itself against the marshiness, and Brendan had to struggle through the darkness. Eventually, he found it, all the time in thought.
Fuck, why the hell does the ground stick so much? Like, I'm just assuming it's marsh, but I have no idea what grows in a cave like this to make it feel like that. What the hell is it...
He yanked open zip, its tiny whirs a comforting break in the silence. It went very well with the shallow breathes he extruded, in, out.
Brendan felt around, trying to find where he put his torch. He'd barely even used it, it should still be working even after a week.
What the hell is that smell, it smells awful, like-
His eyes went wide.
His fingers found the torch.
He flipped the torch on.
The light bounced down the tunnel, moving over panels of rock and the occasional tiny critter. It settled upon the marshy ground he'd been sitting on for a good time already.
Not ground.
Not even close.
Brendan moved the torch so it covered his front. Instead of the usual dark-brown, it was coated in thick layers of gooey mixture of what used to be skin, mixed with crushed insects, maggots, and what he could have sworn under the current light was dried blood and plasma.
The breathing picked up again, breaking the silence, defying it. They became rasps, as his hands grasped at the real ground. He started scrambling backwards, and he dropped the torch to the ground.
Earth scrapped against his clothing again, and he didn't stop until he hit an invisible wall.
He wanted to yell, but he could only just keep breathing loudly as Brendan's eyes were glued to the body that was once Antonio Russo, but was now covering the front of his shirt and pants.
This isn't happening.
This isn't happening.
This isn't real.
This isn't real.
This isn't real.
It's not real.
Get him off of me.
He's on me.
Get
Him
Off
Of
Me
Please...
Peripeteia
All hope is lost
Although Steven Hunt would never know, his parents, and most members of his extended family (including the uncle who had supposedly disowned him when he discovered that his nephew was gay) had been literally glued to the television from the first moment that he had woke up in the island.
Actually, the Hunt´s living room had never been so crowded in many time, with all that cousins, uncles and aunts struggling to take a seat and monitor Steven´s progress the best way they could. Actually, the most recurrent emotion that the relatives of that lanky, scrawny boy who was homosexual and loved theatre, could experience right now, was pride. Steven had not killed anyone on his time on the island. He was not a murderer, not like the rest of the kids who had been thrown into that shithole of an island. He was not a hero, neither. But he was a survivor. And that was enough for his family.
However, one of his cousins, Darren, a big fan of SOTF, knew that Steven had to kill at least one person to get out of the island. He had seen the first televised version of SOTF (dubbed now "V0" by most of the media), and he knew that the winner (some kid that went by the name "Sydney Morvran" or something like that...) had been thrown again into the next game as punishment for not killing anyone. However, there was no way Steven could know that...
His cousin Jacob was probably the one who was mostly thinking of Steven right now. He could remember their last conversation. He had called the boy a queer, a faggot... he had treated his homosexuality as a joke, as a sickness. It had been just a couple of weeks after his sexuality had been revealed to them by his mother. Jacob couldn´t help but grimace at the memory. If he only had known...
((Steven Hunt continued from In Theory, This Should be Easy))
Steven Hunt was walking through darkness, barely seeing where he was going. It had been a really stupid idea to get into the tunnels. When he had been sure that he was out of the range of the Danger Zone, he had sat for a brief couple of moments to catch his breath on the beach, and then, while he was resting, he had seen the cave entrance that was signalled on the map. Actually, Steven thought, that was a really good place for hiding. He thought that getting lost inside the entrails of the island and starve to death was not a fate he was entirely comfortable with, but, well, he might risk it. The tunnels were perfect for hiding. Inside there, he could think quietly of a plan.
The experience at the Docks had left him truly shaken, in reality. He only had wanted to form a group and then... the only reaction he got from the other boy and the girls had been them laughing him off; one of them taking him hostage and then threatening to kill him, and then the other one had just insulted him when he offered her some help. He was beginning to think that he had it coming for having been so naive. Will had been right. He shouldnt have given his knife to Kimberly... he shouldn´t have trusted her, at all. He should have turned away and run the first moment he saw her. Now Aislyn was dead and it was his fault. And now Kimberly was going to die, too, probably by Felicia´s hand... and it was his fault, too. If he hadn´t been so fixated in revenge...
His flashlight actually couldn´t allow him to see more than six or seven feet in front of him. The only sound that filled his ears was his footsteps, that sounded ominously frightening among the tunnel walls.
He heard something in the distance, a few yards in front of him, and he instantly tensed up, cricket bat ready in hand. It sounded like a heavy breathing, like some who was scared, or shocked.
Then he say a light flickering on, wildy sprawling around, as if the person who was holding it was break-dancing in circles. Until the ray of light found something of interest.
He knew it would be a good idea to run away right now...
Antonio Russo.
Or, better said, what had been Antonio Russo... he was sprawled on the ground. Apparently he had been dead for a few days. From the distance, Steven could see the maggots crawling in his skin, the blood dried that was sticking to the earth. Daniel hadn´t been like that when Steven had handled him, and Steven quite thanked God for that.
He began to tremble, unnerved for what he saw. The person that was near Antonio´s body was panting heavily, like he or she had just stumbled upon the body and were recovering from the scare. He decided not to make a sound. He was not gonna make his presence known. For all that he could know, the person in the shadows was probably the one who had killed Russo...
Or no, probably... he has been dead for days, I don´t think that a player would remain here if he had killed him. Unless they are planning on eating him...
The though almost made himself soil his pants with fear... if there was something he didn´t want to happen to him in this bloody island, was getting eaten by one of his classmates.
He simply waited, weapon ready in hand, to see if the other person made a sound, said something...
Actually, the Hunt´s living room had never been so crowded in many time, with all that cousins, uncles and aunts struggling to take a seat and monitor Steven´s progress the best way they could. Actually, the most recurrent emotion that the relatives of that lanky, scrawny boy who was homosexual and loved theatre, could experience right now, was pride. Steven had not killed anyone on his time on the island. He was not a murderer, not like the rest of the kids who had been thrown into that shithole of an island. He was not a hero, neither. But he was a survivor. And that was enough for his family.
However, one of his cousins, Darren, a big fan of SOTF, knew that Steven had to kill at least one person to get out of the island. He had seen the first televised version of SOTF (dubbed now "V0" by most of the media), and he knew that the winner (some kid that went by the name "Sydney Morvran" or something like that...) had been thrown again into the next game as punishment for not killing anyone. However, there was no way Steven could know that...
His cousin Jacob was probably the one who was mostly thinking of Steven right now. He could remember their last conversation. He had called the boy a queer, a faggot... he had treated his homosexuality as a joke, as a sickness. It had been just a couple of weeks after his sexuality had been revealed to them by his mother. Jacob couldn´t help but grimace at the memory. If he only had known...
((Steven Hunt continued from In Theory, This Should be Easy))
Steven Hunt was walking through darkness, barely seeing where he was going. It had been a really stupid idea to get into the tunnels. When he had been sure that he was out of the range of the Danger Zone, he had sat for a brief couple of moments to catch his breath on the beach, and then, while he was resting, he had seen the cave entrance that was signalled on the map. Actually, Steven thought, that was a really good place for hiding. He thought that getting lost inside the entrails of the island and starve to death was not a fate he was entirely comfortable with, but, well, he might risk it. The tunnels were perfect for hiding. Inside there, he could think quietly of a plan.
The experience at the Docks had left him truly shaken, in reality. He only had wanted to form a group and then... the only reaction he got from the other boy and the girls had been them laughing him off; one of them taking him hostage and then threatening to kill him, and then the other one had just insulted him when he offered her some help. He was beginning to think that he had it coming for having been so naive. Will had been right. He shouldnt have given his knife to Kimberly... he shouldn´t have trusted her, at all. He should have turned away and run the first moment he saw her. Now Aislyn was dead and it was his fault. And now Kimberly was going to die, too, probably by Felicia´s hand... and it was his fault, too. If he hadn´t been so fixated in revenge...
His flashlight actually couldn´t allow him to see more than six or seven feet in front of him. The only sound that filled his ears was his footsteps, that sounded ominously frightening among the tunnel walls.
He heard something in the distance, a few yards in front of him, and he instantly tensed up, cricket bat ready in hand. It sounded like a heavy breathing, like some who was scared, or shocked.
Then he say a light flickering on, wildy sprawling around, as if the person who was holding it was break-dancing in circles. Until the ray of light found something of interest.
He knew it would be a good idea to run away right now...
Antonio Russo.
Or, better said, what had been Antonio Russo... he was sprawled on the ground. Apparently he had been dead for a few days. From the distance, Steven could see the maggots crawling in his skin, the blood dried that was sticking to the earth. Daniel hadn´t been like that when Steven had handled him, and Steven quite thanked God for that.
He began to tremble, unnerved for what he saw. The person that was near Antonio´s body was panting heavily, like he or she had just stumbled upon the body and were recovering from the scare. He decided not to make a sound. He was not gonna make his presence known. For all that he could know, the person in the shadows was probably the one who had killed Russo...
Or no, probably... he has been dead for days, I don´t think that a player would remain here if he had killed him. Unless they are planning on eating him...
The though almost made himself soil his pants with fear... if there was something he didn´t want to happen to him in this bloody island, was getting eaten by one of his classmates.
He simply waited, weapon ready in hand, to see if the other person made a sound, said something...
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nadir. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
No matter the words, no matter the actions, it was not Brendan Wallace who did what he did.
He didn't know how long he was sitting there, trying to just imagine the whole thing away. No, there were no bodies. No, Antonio Russo was not coated on his shirt, that didn't happen. No, it couldn't have. Brendan wouldn't let it happen.
His fingers were not also scraping at his scalp, trying to get the image out of his head. A skull resembling play-doh. A face barely recognisable, how the hell did Brendan even know it was Tony?
What also did not happen? Brendan didn't hear footsteps.
He didn't jump to irrational and barely coherent conclusions in regards to those noises. He knew Liz Polanski to be dead a long time ago
and he was responsible
so they had no reason to follow him. Not a coward like him. But when you go through something so powerful, you don't think straight. Did they want revenge for being the first person to shoot at him? They had to have lied, didn't they? What was a couple of kids here and there? Nothing. He wasn't interesting. He wasn't notable. In regards to SOTF, he was nothing. A nobody.
Danya probably wanted to get rid of the waste of space himself. The footsteps echoed. All around him, they shook his brain.
'I...I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead...'
...
...
'...no.'
'If...if it's Danya's squad, and they've already taken care of...of Liz, then...'
'...then I can take them.'
'...those terrorists aren't gonna do this too me.'
'I wanna live.'
But it wasn't what it seemed. Hell, it was never going to be what it seemed.
It wasn't Brendan who scrambled forward towards the light in his bag.
It wasn't Brendan who reached for the gun.
It wasn't Brendan who screamed into the darkness 'Get away from me, get away from me!', or something that could have sounded like that.
It wasn't Brendan who, once, again, was bitten on the hand by a large, flying insect which he had no idea was even residing in Tony's body.
It wasn't Brendan who yelled with surprise as his hand unintentionally clasped itself on the trigger.
It wasn't Brendan who was thrown off balance by the recently fired Jericho in his hands.
It wasn't Brendan who hit his head on the smooth layer of rock on the wall behind him.
Because Brendan was holding his head from the ringing noise still invading his ears and the blow to the head which he didn't know where it came from, before he'd realised what happened.
...the hell, what just...
Then he heard the sound, the figure collapsing in the distance.
...
...
...
...
...no...
In several places across the world, people screamed.
Rosa Wallace's drawing room, in front of a wide-screen television, her bedroom for the past week.
Angela Pollock-Jones's bedroom, in front of her new computer, decorated with tacky stickers.
The drawing room of Steven Hunt's family, extended and all, in front of their own television.
And the bedroom of a girl, glued to her very own videophone, a girl he would never remember again.
He didn't know how long he was sitting there, trying to just imagine the whole thing away. No, there were no bodies. No, Antonio Russo was not coated on his shirt, that didn't happen. No, it couldn't have. Brendan wouldn't let it happen.
His fingers were not also scraping at his scalp, trying to get the image out of his head. A skull resembling play-doh. A face barely recognisable, how the hell did Brendan even know it was Tony?
What also did not happen? Brendan didn't hear footsteps.
He didn't jump to irrational and barely coherent conclusions in regards to those noises. He knew Liz Polanski to be dead a long time ago
and he was responsible
so they had no reason to follow him. Not a coward like him. But when you go through something so powerful, you don't think straight. Did they want revenge for being the first person to shoot at him? They had to have lied, didn't they? What was a couple of kids here and there? Nothing. He wasn't interesting. He wasn't notable. In regards to SOTF, he was nothing. A nobody.
Danya probably wanted to get rid of the waste of space himself. The footsteps echoed. All around him, they shook his brain.
'I...I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead...'
...
...
'...no.'
'If...if it's Danya's squad, and they've already taken care of...of Liz, then...'
'...then I can take them.'
'...those terrorists aren't gonna do this too me.'
'I wanna live.'
But it wasn't what it seemed. Hell, it was never going to be what it seemed.
It wasn't Brendan who scrambled forward towards the light in his bag.
It wasn't Brendan who reached for the gun.
It wasn't Brendan who screamed into the darkness 'Get away from me, get away from me!', or something that could have sounded like that.
It wasn't Brendan who, once, again, was bitten on the hand by a large, flying insect which he had no idea was even residing in Tony's body.
It wasn't Brendan who yelled with surprise as his hand unintentionally clasped itself on the trigger.
It wasn't Brendan who was thrown off balance by the recently fired Jericho in his hands.
It wasn't Brendan who hit his head on the smooth layer of rock on the wall behind him.
Because Brendan was holding his head from the ringing noise still invading his ears and the blow to the head which he didn't know where it came from, before he'd realised what happened.
...the hell, what just...
Then he heard the sound, the figure collapsing in the distance.
...
...
...
...
...no...
In several places across the world, people screamed.
Rosa Wallace's drawing room, in front of a wide-screen television, her bedroom for the past week.
Angela Pollock-Jones's bedroom, in front of her new computer, decorated with tacky stickers.
The drawing room of Steven Hunt's family, extended and all, in front of their own television.
And the bedroom of a girl, glued to her very own videophone, a girl he would never remember again.
The bullet came into his thigh, ravaging and slaughtering away the flesh on his leg. It passes through it, severing his femoral artery, before exiting his body through a hole made the same way that the one it used to enter his organism.
Well, at least now I know how it feels like
It was the first words that crossed his mind as blood started to gush out of the wound on his leg. Steven collapsed almost instantly, his back laying against the rocky wall of the tunnel. Steven wanted to touch his wound, to make sure he was okay. He was no doctor, but a shot in the leg wasn´t a serious thing now, was it? Well, it would probably halt his progress through the island, make him an easy prey for the players, but with a little bit of comfort and rest, surely everything would be better...
There was no way he knew, but in ten minutes he was going to bleed to death, and there wasn´t anything that he could do about it.
He touched the wound the bullet had made when entering his leg, and instantly let out a groan of pure, raw pain. It was worse than he thought. Worse enough, blood didn´t stop of gushing out. It was almost like a fountain. It was already covering his pants, his shoes, his bag, his cricket bat, and the ground. He was lying in a pool of his own blood.
He let the bat aside. He actually didn´t care if the guy who had shot him took it, he already had a gun, what the fuck was he going to do with a cricket bat? He tried to think of a plan. He had to stop the bleeding. He remembered Aislyn. Bitch had been right, actually, now he didn´t think he should have been able to help her at all. He was not even able to help himself.
In the distance, then he saw him...
Brendan Wallace... fuck, I didn´t know he had it on him He actually shuddered at the sound of his own words. He didn´t want his own death to be a damned replay of Aislyn´s. No, he was going to survive. He was going to stop the bleeding. He was going to get help. He was going to find Polanski and then get the hell out of here. He was going to beat the fat bastard Danya was. He was going to...
Brendan´s face seemed contorted in horror at what had happened. Had it been an accident? Maybe he was just scared. A scared kid. Like everyone else on this blasted shithole. It had not been his fault. Maybe he had thought that there was someone after him. Everyone gets a little bit paranoid sometimes.
He was with Polanski. Steven was sure that he had to be with her. He was aware that Polanski had surrounded herself with a group of other people. She had to, after all there were people out there trying to kill her to get their hands on a new prize or just remove her of the competition. Maybe if he asked him, he would take him to Liz. Maybe he could be saved...
But in any way, the kid had shot him. That was clear as crystal water. Maybe sweet little Brendan had decided to play, actually. Maybe Steven was just the first one on his list of fatalities. Maybe...
Oh, just fuck it. It never kills to ask him...
"Eh,Brendan!" he called out, his voice fading out in the darkness of the tunnel "Are you with Liz...? Where the hell is she? Is she allright?"
Meredith Hunt had her head buried deep on her husband´s shoulders, not wanting to see the horrible fate that awaited their child. Eric Hunt, however, stared at the TV screen, speechless at all. The entire living room had gone silent, nobody was talking at all. All of them were looking dumbfoldy at the TV set, not wanting to believe that what was happening was real.
Jacob Hunt approached the TV carefully, wanting to see it more closely. It just couldn´t be true. No. His cousin was not wounded. His cousin was not dying. No. His cousing was getting well. His cousin was going to stand up. Steven was going to get well, he was going to get out of the island, he was going to get back home. And then Jacob could hug him and tell him he was sorry for all the shit they had put him through.
But no... Jacob turned around, and looked at the rest of the family, gathered there, watching silently the television. They all knew. Jacob himself knew. Even Meredith and Eric knew.
There was no way Steven Hunt was coming home
Well, at least now I know how it feels like
It was the first words that crossed his mind as blood started to gush out of the wound on his leg. Steven collapsed almost instantly, his back laying against the rocky wall of the tunnel. Steven wanted to touch his wound, to make sure he was okay. He was no doctor, but a shot in the leg wasn´t a serious thing now, was it? Well, it would probably halt his progress through the island, make him an easy prey for the players, but with a little bit of comfort and rest, surely everything would be better...
There was no way he knew, but in ten minutes he was going to bleed to death, and there wasn´t anything that he could do about it.
He touched the wound the bullet had made when entering his leg, and instantly let out a groan of pure, raw pain. It was worse than he thought. Worse enough, blood didn´t stop of gushing out. It was almost like a fountain. It was already covering his pants, his shoes, his bag, his cricket bat, and the ground. He was lying in a pool of his own blood.
He let the bat aside. He actually didn´t care if the guy who had shot him took it, he already had a gun, what the fuck was he going to do with a cricket bat? He tried to think of a plan. He had to stop the bleeding. He remembered Aislyn. Bitch had been right, actually, now he didn´t think he should have been able to help her at all. He was not even able to help himself.
In the distance, then he saw him...
Brendan Wallace... fuck, I didn´t know he had it on him He actually shuddered at the sound of his own words. He didn´t want his own death to be a damned replay of Aislyn´s. No, he was going to survive. He was going to stop the bleeding. He was going to get help. He was going to find Polanski and then get the hell out of here. He was going to beat the fat bastard Danya was. He was going to...
Brendan´s face seemed contorted in horror at what had happened. Had it been an accident? Maybe he was just scared. A scared kid. Like everyone else on this blasted shithole. It had not been his fault. Maybe he had thought that there was someone after him. Everyone gets a little bit paranoid sometimes.
He was with Polanski. Steven was sure that he had to be with her. He was aware that Polanski had surrounded herself with a group of other people. She had to, after all there were people out there trying to kill her to get their hands on a new prize or just remove her of the competition. Maybe if he asked him, he would take him to Liz. Maybe he could be saved...
But in any way, the kid had shot him. That was clear as crystal water. Maybe sweet little Brendan had decided to play, actually. Maybe Steven was just the first one on his list of fatalities. Maybe...
Oh, just fuck it. It never kills to ask him...
"Eh,Brendan!" he called out, his voice fading out in the darkness of the tunnel "Are you with Liz...? Where the hell is she? Is she allright?"
Meredith Hunt had her head buried deep on her husband´s shoulders, not wanting to see the horrible fate that awaited their child. Eric Hunt, however, stared at the TV screen, speechless at all. The entire living room had gone silent, nobody was talking at all. All of them were looking dumbfoldy at the TV set, not wanting to believe that what was happening was real.
Jacob Hunt approached the TV carefully, wanting to see it more closely. It just couldn´t be true. No. His cousin was not wounded. His cousin was not dying. No. His cousing was getting well. His cousin was going to stand up. Steven was going to get well, he was going to get out of the island, he was going to get back home. And then Jacob could hug him and tell him he was sorry for all the shit they had put him through.
But no... Jacob turned around, and looked at the rest of the family, gathered there, watching silently the television. They all knew. Jacob himself knew. Even Meredith and Eric knew.
There was no way Steven Hunt was coming home
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nadir. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
every
single
sense
in
his
body
slowly
turned
off
at the sight that lay before him.
His look of confusion slowly twisted into a look of sheer horror at the realisation of what he'd done. It was...it was just so much like a blur, Brendan didn't even remember picking up the gun. What was he THINKING? He...he just shot someone, an innocent someone who just happened to wander across him as he freaked out. He'd put himself ahead of the curve, ahead of the game; how could he think that he was really out of touch with the game? Brendan always knew he'd screw it up somehow.
These variables weren't running through his brain at this particular moment, however. What was running through was something along the lines of "Holy fuck holy fuck what have I done?"
It took a few moments to recall the flashlight in his hand, and this was the thing that brought him back into reality.
The light hovered on the boy lying against the cave wall.
Steven Hunt.
Oh god, anyone but him...he didn't even do anything...
Brendan scrambled to his feet, the gun clattered to the dirt behind him as he got there as fast as he could. His flashlight pierced through, and Brendan was by his side so fast. Again, he was worthlessly just trying to figure out what to do, again he had no idea if he could even help what he'd done.
It's the drawback of being the guy with the gun, you have no other defining qualities-
Shut it.
The sheer terror on his face as he realised what he'd done could not be summed up by any words available to him, all he could manage was:
"Oh..oh god, oh shit, oh god, oh shit, oh fuck, oh fuck, Steven, I-I..." Brendan stuttered like a freaking madman at what he'd done, finally able to get some words out.
"I-I-I-I-I'm sorry, I-I di-didn't mean to, I-I-I thou-though you were w-" He tried to speak again, but he slowly realised the extent of the damage he'd caused. His previous wordlessness was equaled by the steady flow of blood pouring out of his leg.
There was no saying sorry to this.
What he'd done was...was...
Brendan shook his head of that train of thought, no way that could happen. People didn't just die from one bullet, this was the 21st Century, they had things to take care of this, knowledge, technology, he just needed to find someone, anyone who could patch him up but oh god there was so much blood and he didn't know how to stop it. It was like he'd run into Kimberly, all over again, all on his own. Was this karmic revenge?
"Steven, I-I-I-" he tried to start a full sentence again, but...Steven was finally talking.
...Liz.
He...how could he know?
Steven knew that he was travelling with Liz, somehow, he knew that.
...how the hell was he going to tell him the truth? Liz was as good as dead, or probably even dead, and it was all his fault, he abandoned her, he left her to the terrorists and god knows what happened to Garret and Jeremy and Mirabelle...
Brendan swallowed, but tried to keep a scared face on and eye contact to the barest of minimums.
"I-I-I don't kn-know Steven, I-I-I have no idea, I was...I don't know where she is now..." Brendan tried to mumble off another lie (another lie?) to Steven as he almost tore apart the bag, looking for something.
Gauze, bandages, medicine, a scalpel, dressings, clips, soap, tape, a mask, gloves...he didn't know what to do first, there was so much blood, what did he do, what did he do, no idea, no idea...
"I-I don't know how to-to-to do this, I-I-I don't know anything, I-" Brendan managed to make out before becoming lost in another round of heavy, exasperated breathing.
Can't let this happen, can't let this happen, can't let this happen...
Brendan cupped his hands around his mouth and tried calling out.
"HELLO? I NEED HELP, IS THERE ANYONE THERE?" He screamed out painfully.
Please...
single
sense
in
his
body
slowly
turned
off
at the sight that lay before him.
His look of confusion slowly twisted into a look of sheer horror at the realisation of what he'd done. It was...it was just so much like a blur, Brendan didn't even remember picking up the gun. What was he THINKING? He...he just shot someone, an innocent someone who just happened to wander across him as he freaked out. He'd put himself ahead of the curve, ahead of the game; how could he think that he was really out of touch with the game? Brendan always knew he'd screw it up somehow.
These variables weren't running through his brain at this particular moment, however. What was running through was something along the lines of "Holy fuck holy fuck what have I done?"
It took a few moments to recall the flashlight in his hand, and this was the thing that brought him back into reality.
The light hovered on the boy lying against the cave wall.
Steven Hunt.
Oh god, anyone but him...he didn't even do anything...
Brendan scrambled to his feet, the gun clattered to the dirt behind him as he got there as fast as he could. His flashlight pierced through, and Brendan was by his side so fast. Again, he was worthlessly just trying to figure out what to do, again he had no idea if he could even help what he'd done.
It's the drawback of being the guy with the gun, you have no other defining qualities-
Shut it.
The sheer terror on his face as he realised what he'd done could not be summed up by any words available to him, all he could manage was:
"Oh..oh god, oh shit, oh god, oh shit, oh fuck, oh fuck, Steven, I-I..." Brendan stuttered like a freaking madman at what he'd done, finally able to get some words out.
"I-I-I-I-I'm sorry, I-I di-didn't mean to, I-I-I thou-though you were w-" He tried to speak again, but he slowly realised the extent of the damage he'd caused. His previous wordlessness was equaled by the steady flow of blood pouring out of his leg.
There was no saying sorry to this.
What he'd done was...was...
Brendan shook his head of that train of thought, no way that could happen. People didn't just die from one bullet, this was the 21st Century, they had things to take care of this, knowledge, technology, he just needed to find someone, anyone who could patch him up but oh god there was so much blood and he didn't know how to stop it. It was like he'd run into Kimberly, all over again, all on his own. Was this karmic revenge?
"Steven, I-I-I-" he tried to start a full sentence again, but...Steven was finally talking.
...Liz.
He...how could he know?
Steven knew that he was travelling with Liz, somehow, he knew that.
...how the hell was he going to tell him the truth? Liz was as good as dead, or probably even dead, and it was all his fault, he abandoned her, he left her to the terrorists and god knows what happened to Garret and Jeremy and Mirabelle...
Brendan swallowed, but tried to keep a scared face on and eye contact to the barest of minimums.
"I-I-I don't kn-know Steven, I-I-I have no idea, I was...I don't know where she is now..." Brendan tried to mumble off another lie (another lie?) to Steven as he almost tore apart the bag, looking for something.
Gauze, bandages, medicine, a scalpel, dressings, clips, soap, tape, a mask, gloves...he didn't know what to do first, there was so much blood, what did he do, what did he do, no idea, no idea...
"I-I don't know how to-to-to do this, I-I-I don't know anything, I-" Brendan managed to make out before becoming lost in another round of heavy, exasperated breathing.
Can't let this happen, can't let this happen, can't let this happen...
Brendan cupped his hands around his mouth and tried calling out.
"HELLO? I NEED HELP, IS THERE ANYONE THERE?" He screamed out painfully.
Please...
((Peter Siu continued from May the Lord Accept This Sacrifice at Our Hands))
Peter might've gotten his hands bloodied a few times in the past week, but he was still a sucker for people calling for help.
Definitely a sucker.
Well, it probably also mattered that there was something that had sounded distinctly like a gunshot a few moments before he heard the yelling. That had very neatly woken Peter up from whatever stupor he had been in. Peter couldn't remember what he had been doing in the tunnels, but his best guess was that he'd needed some daytime rest and time to think over the announcements.
While Peter had been on edge when he heard the gunshot, the voice that followed put all those fears aside. He didn't know what it was he heard in it that made his blood freeze. Desperation. Fear. Need. How could he not respond to that?
It's the right thing to do.
His legs pumped as he ran in the direction of the voice. He was lucky there were no forks to decide between; the layout of the tunnels would've made it hard to pick out which way to go. Peter aimed his flashlight low, making sure to keep his step lit; falling down while running at breakneck speed was probably one of the more silly ways to end up badly injured or killed.
Another light up ahead diffused dimly through the dark cavern. He'd found them. Peter didn't know how long he'd run for. He still had his breath, so it must not have been that far. His footfalls slowed, although he still pushed on at a brisk pace. If whoever was yelling for help really needed it, then there would be time later for wariness. First things first, somebody needed help.
Peter froze midstep when he saw what he signed up for. Brendan and Steven looked a lot worse for wear since the last time Peter'd seen them over a week ago. Well, to say that Steven looked worse for wear was probably a massive understatement. There was blood pooling on the floor. So much blood. Tiffany hadn't bled that much. Neither did Lucas, and Peter hadn't stuck around long enough to measure how much blood Jessie had left on the floor of the church. Judging by the mess of crimson on Steven's leg, it didn't take much power of deduction to put it together.
Might also want to use those deductive powers on what caused this whole debacle.
What could he even do? With a wound in the femoral artery, there was only so much time until Steven bled out. At best, Peter could slow the bleeding and give Steven a few more minutes. Or he could just save them all the pain and finish it quickly. "What do you want-" Peter stopped his query when he looked at Brendan. So much fear. So lost. The poor kid probably didn't have the first clue about proper first aid, or even handling anything more than a papercut.
He didn't need to do this. There were no lives to be saved here.
There are no lives on this island to be saved.
But he had to try, didn't he?
"Okay. Everyone needs to stay calm here." Not that Peter could keep himself calm, but that was all in his head. He could at least act the part. "Steven, I need you to talk to me. Tell me some stories about the island, or about back home." Peter closed the distance as he gave his instructions, shrugging his backpack from his shoulders and leaning it against the tunnel's wall. He knelt down at Steven's feet to get a closer look at the wound.
I can save him.
A cursory glance told him everything he needed to know. Just a small hole in Steven's jeans, gushing out blood at a steady rhythm. Peter would need to do something, and do it fast, if he was going to make any progress. Brendan had left the contents of his first aid kit in easy reach. Peter ran a beam of light over the assorted life saving tools. Mixed among them was one decidedly non-life-saving tool. Peter knew it was what had caused this whole mess. He'd worry about it later.
I don't think Brendan meant for it to happen.
Triangular bandage and scissors were what he needed, and in a few seconds, he had both in his hands. The scissors were tiny, and denim was tough to cut, but there was nothing else he could use. As he cut away the pant leg, Peter listened to Steven talk, nodding and making non-committal grunts when appropriate. Focus on the first aid first, and he could talk later.
I remember every word, every nuance.
The seconds ticked past as he worked. Crucial seconds that meant the difference between life and death. Maybe he should've kept track of how long he took before he pulled back the bloodsoaked denim to reveal pale skin splashed with blood. The blood was still pumping out, still that steady rhythm. But each beat didn't seem to be oozing as much blood as it had not even a minute ago.
Time was not on anybody's side.
"This might hurt just a little," Peter murmured as he looped the bandage around the leg, a ways above the gunshot wound, and tied a quick half-knot. One deep breath to collect himself, and then Peter tugged at the loose ends of the bandage, crushing together as much fat and muscle together in the hopes of closing off the source of the blood. Peter prayed that it would be enough to save a life.
I want to, need to, make a difference.
Peter might've gotten his hands bloodied a few times in the past week, but he was still a sucker for people calling for help.
Definitely a sucker.
Well, it probably also mattered that there was something that had sounded distinctly like a gunshot a few moments before he heard the yelling. That had very neatly woken Peter up from whatever stupor he had been in. Peter couldn't remember what he had been doing in the tunnels, but his best guess was that he'd needed some daytime rest and time to think over the announcements.
While Peter had been on edge when he heard the gunshot, the voice that followed put all those fears aside. He didn't know what it was he heard in it that made his blood freeze. Desperation. Fear. Need. How could he not respond to that?
It's the right thing to do.
His legs pumped as he ran in the direction of the voice. He was lucky there were no forks to decide between; the layout of the tunnels would've made it hard to pick out which way to go. Peter aimed his flashlight low, making sure to keep his step lit; falling down while running at breakneck speed was probably one of the more silly ways to end up badly injured or killed.
Another light up ahead diffused dimly through the dark cavern. He'd found them. Peter didn't know how long he'd run for. He still had his breath, so it must not have been that far. His footfalls slowed, although he still pushed on at a brisk pace. If whoever was yelling for help really needed it, then there would be time later for wariness. First things first, somebody needed help.
Peter froze midstep when he saw what he signed up for. Brendan and Steven looked a lot worse for wear since the last time Peter'd seen them over a week ago. Well, to say that Steven looked worse for wear was probably a massive understatement. There was blood pooling on the floor. So much blood. Tiffany hadn't bled that much. Neither did Lucas, and Peter hadn't stuck around long enough to measure how much blood Jessie had left on the floor of the church. Judging by the mess of crimson on Steven's leg, it didn't take much power of deduction to put it together.
Might also want to use those deductive powers on what caused this whole debacle.
What could he even do? With a wound in the femoral artery, there was only so much time until Steven bled out. At best, Peter could slow the bleeding and give Steven a few more minutes. Or he could just save them all the pain and finish it quickly. "What do you want-" Peter stopped his query when he looked at Brendan. So much fear. So lost. The poor kid probably didn't have the first clue about proper first aid, or even handling anything more than a papercut.
He didn't need to do this. There were no lives to be saved here.
There are no lives on this island to be saved.
But he had to try, didn't he?
"Okay. Everyone needs to stay calm here." Not that Peter could keep himself calm, but that was all in his head. He could at least act the part. "Steven, I need you to talk to me. Tell me some stories about the island, or about back home." Peter closed the distance as he gave his instructions, shrugging his backpack from his shoulders and leaning it against the tunnel's wall. He knelt down at Steven's feet to get a closer look at the wound.
I can save him.
A cursory glance told him everything he needed to know. Just a small hole in Steven's jeans, gushing out blood at a steady rhythm. Peter would need to do something, and do it fast, if he was going to make any progress. Brendan had left the contents of his first aid kit in easy reach. Peter ran a beam of light over the assorted life saving tools. Mixed among them was one decidedly non-life-saving tool. Peter knew it was what had caused this whole mess. He'd worry about it later.
I don't think Brendan meant for it to happen.
Triangular bandage and scissors were what he needed, and in a few seconds, he had both in his hands. The scissors were tiny, and denim was tough to cut, but there was nothing else he could use. As he cut away the pant leg, Peter listened to Steven talk, nodding and making non-committal grunts when appropriate. Focus on the first aid first, and he could talk later.
I remember every word, every nuance.
The seconds ticked past as he worked. Crucial seconds that meant the difference between life and death. Maybe he should've kept track of how long he took before he pulled back the bloodsoaked denim to reveal pale skin splashed with blood. The blood was still pumping out, still that steady rhythm. But each beat didn't seem to be oozing as much blood as it had not even a minute ago.
Time was not on anybody's side.
"This might hurt just a little," Peter murmured as he looped the bandage around the leg, a ways above the gunshot wound, and tied a quick half-knot. One deep breath to collect himself, and then Peter tugged at the loose ends of the bandage, crushing together as much fat and muscle together in the hopes of closing off the source of the blood. Peter prayed that it would be enough to save a life.
I want to, need to, make a difference.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Solomir. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Steven had guessed correctly when he supposed the boy was associated with Polanski. It had been an educated guess, something that had clicked on his mind. Too bad he was not going to end up meeting the island´s resident revolutionary leader, he would have liked to cheer her on. Oh, whatever...
Brendan was apologizing, profusely. That wasn´t gonna heal his leg in any way, but at least it was good to know that the boy was sorry and that everything had been an accident.
I-I-I-I-I'm sorry, I-I di-didn't mean to, I-I-I thou-though you were w-
Steven looked at the boy´s face, it was full of shock and regret. He actually pitied the poor guy. He didn´t know him at all in school (well, basically, he didn´t know anyone that well on his grade...). He made himself the promise that if, somehow, he got out of the shit he was in, he would dedicate every remaining second on his life to try and develop some social skills. Actually, talking to people wouldn´t be that bad at all.
"It´s alright, Brendan..." Steven said, his voice sounding strangely calm despite the fact he had lost an incredible amount of blood at all. "It´s alright, you didn´t mean it, you just said it... accidents happens, sometimes..."
Then Brendan told him he didn´t know where Liz was. Oh, damn it! He was so close to find her... he would have liked to just shake her hand. She probably was dead by now... the only person who had managed to beat this bloody game without killing anyone and then she had just managed to get herself killed. It wasn´t fair. Not for him, not for her, and certainly not for Brendan.
And then Brendan had started to shout for help. If Steven hadn´t been so weak himself, he would have chided the boy for his naivette. Didn´t he know that it was better to abandon him? With him, Brendan was in danger. Anyone else could come across and finish them off just with a single breath. Things happened so fast in that island. Specially when you were dying...
Fuck, his vision was getting progresively cloudy and hazy. He could barely hear the footsteps of Peter as the new arrival inmediately crouched down to examine his wound. Where the hell did the other boy come from...?
He was telling him to talk, about back home, about the island, about whatever, while he tended to his wounds. Well, Steven could do that just fine. It was actually the only thing he could do.
"Well... there is not much to tell, actually. I spent this last six days on this bloody hole running around trying to avoid everyone... and just a few hours ago I happened upon a very nice group of people..." he wondered if the other boys could notice the sarcams on his voice "I bet you haven´t met Miss Kimberly Nguyen, have you? She is a real lady, for what I can tell... I told her I was gonna give her my weapons if she let me stay with her. And then when I gave her Eric´s knife, the bitch just takes me hostage and ends up stabbing Aislyn... and then Will makes it all better by threatening to shoot me out of the docks... really nice people, actually..."
He groaned a brief moment when Peter adjusted the bandage, feeling a sting of pain, although actually less than he would have imagined. He gave Peter a brief look, and then smiled, a weak, fading smile, everything that he could muster for.
"Thanks, Peter... I think Im feeling better... a little bit better", he said, his head falling to his side. He was actually feeling better than he had felt on his whole life. He couldn´t know that dying was so peaceful...
With the last of his strenght, he turned to look and Brendan, and then, he did something that neither he nor the other boy expected at all. He grabbed Brendan´s hand and held him while his vision got progressively misty every second.
"It´s alright, Brendan...", he said, his voice getting lower and lower "Everything´s alright..."
He closed his eyes, for just a couple of seconds. And when he opened them back, he was not at the cave.
He was lying in a wooden floor. He quicly got up and looked around him. How the hell had he got there? How the hell had he escaped the cave? Had it all been a dream? How the hell he could walk? He looked at his leg. No trace of the gunshot wound, no blood, no shrapnel, no hole. Actually, his pants were cleaner than they had been the whole last week, his whole set of clothes was, it was just like he had never stepped his foot on the island. But... where was he now? He heard a couple of whispers behind him, and then turned around, nervously, praying that it wasn´t another threat coming back to bite him in the ass.
And then he just stared at what he saw, completely amazed.
He was on the stage of a theater, the biggest theatre Steven could have ever seen. The lights were flooding the wooden planks that were the floor of the stage, all centered on him, like he was the star of some sort of play that just had come into scene. There were people, sitting at the theatre. Dozens of them, actually. He could recognize some of them. He saw his grandfather waving at him, a proud smile on the old man´s face. And then he saw his classmates. Eric Lorenz and Alex Rasputin, sitting side by side, applauding him, both of them with bright smiles on their faces, as if nothing amiss had ever happened between them. And then he saw Brock, winking at him and giving him a thumbs-up, the worried look that he had seen in his face on their first day of the island gone a long time ago. He saw Aislyn, who was standing up while cheering him on, and blew her a kiss. She answered by blowing him one back. He snickered at it. She seemed at peace, like there was no a care in the world. He saw Lillian, and Will, and the girl he had seen at the river (Janet, he remembered, the name thundering like a storm on his mind, her name was Janet). He saw Daniel, Tony... everyone was there. Everyone was cheering him on, smiling, proud of him.
He felt he could do nothing more than oblige them. He just bowed to them and then stood back up.
"Goodnight, folks..."
B033.Steven Hunt-Deceased
In another part of the world, Jacob Hunt felt the tears forming in his eyes as he saw his cousin drew his last breath on television. With every inch of his soul being torn apart on that moment by some invisible demons, he turned to look at the rest of the Hunt clan, congregated on the living room, who had suddenly come silent. His aunt Meredith was crying unconsolably over his husband shoulder. Eric, on the other hand, was staring wide-eyed at the TV screen, as if he couldn´t believe that his son had just being shot and then bled to death, all in ten minutes. No, it couldn´t be true. No, it couldn´t happen. This just had to be some sort of sick joke. Everything had to be some sort of sick joke.
But Jacob knew better. His cousin was dead. He was not getting back home. And as painful as it was, he was begginning to accept it. He looked around the room, trying to find the one person who he knew would be feeling most pain at having seen Steven die, apart from his parents and himself. His eyes began to scan the room until spotting him. His father. Steven´s uncle. Charles. The main reason he and his cousin had stopped talking to each other, because the guy feared the teenager would be a bad influence on his son.
Jacob slowly made his way to the couch his father was sitting on, his eyes still fixed on the screen. Jacob was shocked, to say the least, when he saw tears forming in his father´s eyes. His father actually didn´t seem to notice him until many minutes had passed, when the feeling of shock had left the room, and was being replaced by one of sadness and grief. Charles just looked at his son, tears streaming down on his face.
"He forgave him..." he trailed off "He forgave that boy. He knew what was going to happen, and he wasn´t angry at him. He forgave him..."
Jacob couldn´t know what to say. He just nodded, and put a hand on his father´s shoulder.
"I... I don´t think anybody could have been a better Christian than your cousin..." he said, looking at the floor, and then looking at his brother and his sister-in-law, crying in each other´s arms.
Jacob didn´t wait. He just hugged his father. And then closed his eyes and thought of a time were things were more simple, and families were not angry at each other just because someome was born liking something else than the rest.
Brendan was apologizing, profusely. That wasn´t gonna heal his leg in any way, but at least it was good to know that the boy was sorry and that everything had been an accident.
I-I-I-I-I'm sorry, I-I di-didn't mean to, I-I-I thou-though you were w-
Steven looked at the boy´s face, it was full of shock and regret. He actually pitied the poor guy. He didn´t know him at all in school (well, basically, he didn´t know anyone that well on his grade...). He made himself the promise that if, somehow, he got out of the shit he was in, he would dedicate every remaining second on his life to try and develop some social skills. Actually, talking to people wouldn´t be that bad at all.
"It´s alright, Brendan..." Steven said, his voice sounding strangely calm despite the fact he had lost an incredible amount of blood at all. "It´s alright, you didn´t mean it, you just said it... accidents happens, sometimes..."
Then Brendan told him he didn´t know where Liz was. Oh, damn it! He was so close to find her... he would have liked to just shake her hand. She probably was dead by now... the only person who had managed to beat this bloody game without killing anyone and then she had just managed to get herself killed. It wasn´t fair. Not for him, not for her, and certainly not for Brendan.
And then Brendan had started to shout for help. If Steven hadn´t been so weak himself, he would have chided the boy for his naivette. Didn´t he know that it was better to abandon him? With him, Brendan was in danger. Anyone else could come across and finish them off just with a single breath. Things happened so fast in that island. Specially when you were dying...
Fuck, his vision was getting progresively cloudy and hazy. He could barely hear the footsteps of Peter as the new arrival inmediately crouched down to examine his wound. Where the hell did the other boy come from...?
He was telling him to talk, about back home, about the island, about whatever, while he tended to his wounds. Well, Steven could do that just fine. It was actually the only thing he could do.
"Well... there is not much to tell, actually. I spent this last six days on this bloody hole running around trying to avoid everyone... and just a few hours ago I happened upon a very nice group of people..." he wondered if the other boys could notice the sarcams on his voice "I bet you haven´t met Miss Kimberly Nguyen, have you? She is a real lady, for what I can tell... I told her I was gonna give her my weapons if she let me stay with her. And then when I gave her Eric´s knife, the bitch just takes me hostage and ends up stabbing Aislyn... and then Will makes it all better by threatening to shoot me out of the docks... really nice people, actually..."
He groaned a brief moment when Peter adjusted the bandage, feeling a sting of pain, although actually less than he would have imagined. He gave Peter a brief look, and then smiled, a weak, fading smile, everything that he could muster for.
"Thanks, Peter... I think Im feeling better... a little bit better", he said, his head falling to his side. He was actually feeling better than he had felt on his whole life. He couldn´t know that dying was so peaceful...
With the last of his strenght, he turned to look and Brendan, and then, he did something that neither he nor the other boy expected at all. He grabbed Brendan´s hand and held him while his vision got progressively misty every second.
"It´s alright, Brendan...", he said, his voice getting lower and lower "Everything´s alright..."
He closed his eyes, for just a couple of seconds. And when he opened them back, he was not at the cave.
He was lying in a wooden floor. He quicly got up and looked around him. How the hell had he got there? How the hell had he escaped the cave? Had it all been a dream? How the hell he could walk? He looked at his leg. No trace of the gunshot wound, no blood, no shrapnel, no hole. Actually, his pants were cleaner than they had been the whole last week, his whole set of clothes was, it was just like he had never stepped his foot on the island. But... where was he now? He heard a couple of whispers behind him, and then turned around, nervously, praying that it wasn´t another threat coming back to bite him in the ass.
And then he just stared at what he saw, completely amazed.
He was on the stage of a theater, the biggest theatre Steven could have ever seen. The lights were flooding the wooden planks that were the floor of the stage, all centered on him, like he was the star of some sort of play that just had come into scene. There were people, sitting at the theatre. Dozens of them, actually. He could recognize some of them. He saw his grandfather waving at him, a proud smile on the old man´s face. And then he saw his classmates. Eric Lorenz and Alex Rasputin, sitting side by side, applauding him, both of them with bright smiles on their faces, as if nothing amiss had ever happened between them. And then he saw Brock, winking at him and giving him a thumbs-up, the worried look that he had seen in his face on their first day of the island gone a long time ago. He saw Aislyn, who was standing up while cheering him on, and blew her a kiss. She answered by blowing him one back. He snickered at it. She seemed at peace, like there was no a care in the world. He saw Lillian, and Will, and the girl he had seen at the river (Janet, he remembered, the name thundering like a storm on his mind, her name was Janet). He saw Daniel, Tony... everyone was there. Everyone was cheering him on, smiling, proud of him.
He felt he could do nothing more than oblige them. He just bowed to them and then stood back up.
"Goodnight, folks..."
B033.Steven Hunt-Deceased
In another part of the world, Jacob Hunt felt the tears forming in his eyes as he saw his cousin drew his last breath on television. With every inch of his soul being torn apart on that moment by some invisible demons, he turned to look at the rest of the Hunt clan, congregated on the living room, who had suddenly come silent. His aunt Meredith was crying unconsolably over his husband shoulder. Eric, on the other hand, was staring wide-eyed at the TV screen, as if he couldn´t believe that his son had just being shot and then bled to death, all in ten minutes. No, it couldn´t be true. No, it couldn´t happen. This just had to be some sort of sick joke. Everything had to be some sort of sick joke.
But Jacob knew better. His cousin was dead. He was not getting back home. And as painful as it was, he was begginning to accept it. He looked around the room, trying to find the one person who he knew would be feeling most pain at having seen Steven die, apart from his parents and himself. His eyes began to scan the room until spotting him. His father. Steven´s uncle. Charles. The main reason he and his cousin had stopped talking to each other, because the guy feared the teenager would be a bad influence on his son.
Jacob slowly made his way to the couch his father was sitting on, his eyes still fixed on the screen. Jacob was shocked, to say the least, when he saw tears forming in his father´s eyes. His father actually didn´t seem to notice him until many minutes had passed, when the feeling of shock had left the room, and was being replaced by one of sadness and grief. Charles just looked at his son, tears streaming down on his face.
"He forgave him..." he trailed off "He forgave that boy. He knew what was going to happen, and he wasn´t angry at him. He forgave him..."
Jacob couldn´t know what to say. He just nodded, and put a hand on his father´s shoulder.
"I... I don´t think anybody could have been a better Christian than your cousin..." he said, looking at the floor, and then looking at his brother and his sister-in-law, crying in each other´s arms.
Jacob didn´t wait. He just hugged his father. And then closed his eyes and thought of a time were things were more simple, and families were not angry at each other just because someome was born liking something else than the rest.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Nadir. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
((Jacquard "Jackie" Broughten continued from Could Have Been Worse.))
It had been a long, long two days sitting down in the tunnels. After she had regained herself from the minor tantrum in the woods, Jackie had immediately fled. She couldn't believe it had taken her nearly a full week on the island to even think about her parents. About what her family would think of their little murderer, their insane little daughter. So many prying eyes upon her, she suddenly felt so incredibly vulnerable. She needed to get off camera, but how? The limited attention she had paid to the announcements had informed her quite clearly that someone named Liz Polanski had created essentially a dead-zone in the cameras... somewhere. Not where. That didn't help at all. But upon looking at her map a few hours later, she spotted a multitude of entrances to the tunnels. It was near the mine, where she had first encountered Roland and that girl.
It was probably dark in there. Even if she still was under the prying eye of the cameras that were so plentifully spread across the island, it would be dark enough that she could hide.
And so by nightfall, she had made her way to the nearest entrance, somewhere in the Inland Woods. It was almost impressive that a mining company had spread so far underneath the entire island. But she could dwell on that later.
And for an entire day and a half, the only voice she heard was that of Danya as his announcements echoed almost unintelligibly through the intricate, vast tunnel network that created this massive spider web throughout the entire island. Well, that and the sound of her own sobs, and the occasional voice in the back of her head, telling her to get up or stop feeling so damned sorry for herself. But really, what was the point of it all? She was out of food. She had run out at some point halfway between walking into the tunnels and now. She was so incredibly hungry... But she had nothing. Even if she didn't get shot, or stabbed, or some other fitting death, she was still going to starve to death in three or four days, absolute tops. This was so incredibly bad. It hadn't crossed her mind, but these guys were sicker bastards than she had originally thought. Two bottles of water, two loaves of bread, and a tin of crackers. Eating normally, enough for two days. Meager portions, enough for six or seven days. How far were they? Halfway. Food as an incentive to kill. Sure, a couple of the people running around out here had probably managed to become self sufficient, but logic didn't equate to an understanding of hunting or knowledge of edible plants.
How long had it been? There had been two announcements, and the last one seemed like years ago when something finally broke the silence. It was a gunshot. So painfully loud on her poor and weary ears. There was an urging. An urging from within, to go, see if she could help. A reminder from that same voice that there should be some kind of flashlight in her backpack. After a few minutes, her hand touched steel. Not the destroyed and warped steel of her hacksaw, but a smoother steel. And suddenly, there was light.
And without quite understanding why she was doing it, she was walking in the direction of the single gunshot.
As she slowly closed the distance between the trio unknown and herself, voices became clearer and clearer. She only heard two. One seemed so powerful and in charge, such a natural leader. The other was shaky and scared. Screaming. The only words she could understand as they bounced off of the tight stone walls.
"HELLO? I NEED HELP, IS THERE ANYONE THERE?"
A chance to help... Redeem yourself for all your follies.
More silence, followed by more voices. Something was happening. Something bad. She felt some unexplained sense of urgency, one that she just didn't have the energy to act upon. Her slow, shuffling footsteps, of shoes that weren't even hers. There was a fifty percent chance that the girl who actually owned them was dead now. She had no idea of who it even was.
Wow. She had really been a terrible person... It's a sad state of affairs when killing is more justified than stealing... But here, honestly, it's more likely that her kill would be forgiven by her parents than stealing that poor girl's only pair of shoes.
"This might hurt just a little."
They were right around the corner. Her flashlight wasn't quite cresting that natural barricade, and she still wasn't quite sure if she wanted it to.
So she just stopped, and listened.
A boy, was talking so weakly... She hadn't even heard his voice as she was approaching. He was... dying. Someone was trying to help. She couldn't place a single voice to a single name. Then again, she knew maybe what, ten people in Bayview before she had gotten here?
Do it! The voice hissed.
But she didn't act. She just stood, shifting her weight awkwardly back onto her good leg. The pain from before had left her, but only for two days of physical rest, and mental stress.
Stood and did nothing... For far too long. Far too long.
"Goodnight, folks..."
It was over. The dying boy was no longer dying, he was dead. She had heard two names, his soft voice having carried almost perfectly over the strange acoustics.
Peter... And Brendan... Neither of them rang a bell. But that didn't matter. Cassarah was right, it was time to turn over a new damned leaf, to try again, much to Li's eternal chagrin. So her light rounded the corner first, a large circle illuminating the relative darkness of the small cavern in which the recently deceased sat.
"I-Is there anything I can do to help?" She just hoped she wouldn't be turned away, scoffed at like before, called a killer, a murderer, a bitch, and threatened within an inch of her life yet again. She had to at least try. Who was really winning out here? And was it even right?
It had been a long, long two days sitting down in the tunnels. After she had regained herself from the minor tantrum in the woods, Jackie had immediately fled. She couldn't believe it had taken her nearly a full week on the island to even think about her parents. About what her family would think of their little murderer, their insane little daughter. So many prying eyes upon her, she suddenly felt so incredibly vulnerable. She needed to get off camera, but how? The limited attention she had paid to the announcements had informed her quite clearly that someone named Liz Polanski had created essentially a dead-zone in the cameras... somewhere. Not where. That didn't help at all. But upon looking at her map a few hours later, she spotted a multitude of entrances to the tunnels. It was near the mine, where she had first encountered Roland and that girl.
It was probably dark in there. Even if she still was under the prying eye of the cameras that were so plentifully spread across the island, it would be dark enough that she could hide.
And so by nightfall, she had made her way to the nearest entrance, somewhere in the Inland Woods. It was almost impressive that a mining company had spread so far underneath the entire island. But she could dwell on that later.
And for an entire day and a half, the only voice she heard was that of Danya as his announcements echoed almost unintelligibly through the intricate, vast tunnel network that created this massive spider web throughout the entire island. Well, that and the sound of her own sobs, and the occasional voice in the back of her head, telling her to get up or stop feeling so damned sorry for herself. But really, what was the point of it all? She was out of food. She had run out at some point halfway between walking into the tunnels and now. She was so incredibly hungry... But she had nothing. Even if she didn't get shot, or stabbed, or some other fitting death, she was still going to starve to death in three or four days, absolute tops. This was so incredibly bad. It hadn't crossed her mind, but these guys were sicker bastards than she had originally thought. Two bottles of water, two loaves of bread, and a tin of crackers. Eating normally, enough for two days. Meager portions, enough for six or seven days. How far were they? Halfway. Food as an incentive to kill. Sure, a couple of the people running around out here had probably managed to become self sufficient, but logic didn't equate to an understanding of hunting or knowledge of edible plants.
How long had it been? There had been two announcements, and the last one seemed like years ago when something finally broke the silence. It was a gunshot. So painfully loud on her poor and weary ears. There was an urging. An urging from within, to go, see if she could help. A reminder from that same voice that there should be some kind of flashlight in her backpack. After a few minutes, her hand touched steel. Not the destroyed and warped steel of her hacksaw, but a smoother steel. And suddenly, there was light.
And without quite understanding why she was doing it, she was walking in the direction of the single gunshot.
As she slowly closed the distance between the trio unknown and herself, voices became clearer and clearer. She only heard two. One seemed so powerful and in charge, such a natural leader. The other was shaky and scared. Screaming. The only words she could understand as they bounced off of the tight stone walls.
"HELLO? I NEED HELP, IS THERE ANYONE THERE?"
A chance to help... Redeem yourself for all your follies.
More silence, followed by more voices. Something was happening. Something bad. She felt some unexplained sense of urgency, one that she just didn't have the energy to act upon. Her slow, shuffling footsteps, of shoes that weren't even hers. There was a fifty percent chance that the girl who actually owned them was dead now. She had no idea of who it even was.
Wow. She had really been a terrible person... It's a sad state of affairs when killing is more justified than stealing... But here, honestly, it's more likely that her kill would be forgiven by her parents than stealing that poor girl's only pair of shoes.
"This might hurt just a little."
They were right around the corner. Her flashlight wasn't quite cresting that natural barricade, and she still wasn't quite sure if she wanted it to.
So she just stopped, and listened.
A boy, was talking so weakly... She hadn't even heard his voice as she was approaching. He was... dying. Someone was trying to help. She couldn't place a single voice to a single name. Then again, she knew maybe what, ten people in Bayview before she had gotten here?
Do it! The voice hissed.
But she didn't act. She just stood, shifting her weight awkwardly back onto her good leg. The pain from before had left her, but only for two days of physical rest, and mental stress.
Stood and did nothing... For far too long. Far too long.
"Goodnight, folks..."
It was over. The dying boy was no longer dying, he was dead. She had heard two names, his soft voice having carried almost perfectly over the strange acoustics.
Peter... And Brendan... Neither of them rang a bell. But that didn't matter. Cassarah was right, it was time to turn over a new damned leaf, to try again, much to Li's eternal chagrin. So her light rounded the corner first, a large circle illuminating the relative darkness of the small cavern in which the recently deceased sat.
"I-Is there anything I can do to help?" She just hoped she wouldn't be turned away, scoffed at like before, called a killer, a murderer, a bitch, and threatened within an inch of her life yet again. She had to at least try. Who was really winning out here? And was it even right?
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler T-Fox. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
It was almost a miracle, someone actually showed up. Out of the blue, Peter Siu was there, and he got to work.
Brendan tried to speak, tried to thank him for what he was doing, but...he couldn't even get a word out, his breathe pungently forcing itself out, without a word to follow it. He wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve, then tried again, only to let out a sick cough.
But he couldn't get it out any more than he could start singing showtunes, and he kept on working. Brendan kept close by, and tried to avoid eye contact with the boy who had to be trying to figure out what happened. It wasn't only that, it was worth all the effort in the world trying to stay there and not run away. He couldn't do that. He wouldn't do that.
And even through all of this, he was still trying to tell himself that he wasn't to blame. Once Steven got fixed up...
...why did Steven just grab his hand?
For all it was worth, Brendan agreed with Steven, then and there, before the reality of what was really happening started to sink in.
Steven wasn't getting out of this. His voice got weaker and weaker before he mumbled one final word, and then...
...come on, Steven, wake up.
...wake up.
...
...wake up, Steven.
...you can't sleep now, you're wounded, and you should know what happens to wounded people who fall asleep in movies and-
There was a painful movement in his stomach, almost like he'd punched himself there without realising it, and Brendan couldn't look away. Steven's closed eyes weren't staring back at him anymore, because...they weren't moving anymore.
Steven wasn't moving anymore. His chest wasn't pulsing, his mouth wasn't opening for breath, he was just...he was dead.
It only took a few precious moments for him to realise this, or at least for his body to factor it in. It involved a wave of cold sweeping throughout his nerves, freezing him to the spot like an ice sculpture, where he couldn't stop looking at his...his work. He'd felt like this only a few precious times in his life. When he was almost 13, and he realised he could be gay - when he was 16, and he was told his grandmother was dead, only a few weeks later when his grandfather followed her - when, that one time, after a movie marathon that involved Lexie accidentally supplying them with pot brownies without them knowing and he feared he may have slept with Chase while they were high...
But this...
...there were no true existing words to describe the array of emotions, reactions, and most of all actions that overtook his body. In there somewhere was the freight train which held every trace amount of guilt he'd ever felt in his life, and it was charging him, leading his emotional state through sheer ferocity and force. The only real words to sum up the situation were already bygone assumptions. Steven was dead. Brendan was responsible.
A few seconds of silence followed, and Brendan felt Steven's hand fall from his grasp, and onto the cave floor. He still couldn't speak. No sound came out of his gaping mouth, only a heavy distressed array of breaths. The punch in his stomach started to sting, almost like he'd lost something and his body didn't know what it was attacking.
There were no words for him to say, nothing was coming out.
A female voice scratched at the back of his head, but Brendan couldn't make anything legible out. The entire world was bluring into an abstract before his eyes, only Steven before him being of any humane description into his mind. Brendan's hands shook. His whole body shook violently like he was an earthquake, epi-centred.
Brendan didn't realise he'd done it, but slowly but surely, he was crawling backwards on his hands, just trying to get away. He didn't make it far, within a few seconds, he'd reached the cave wall behind him and thumped dully against the rock. He sat there, unmoving. Hands clenched in the dirt ground beneath him. His front covered in human remains and dead decomposers. Eyes glazed over, rarely blinking. Not teared. Just unmoving.
And every single sound in the world became a dull mute as Brendan's mind started to shut down.
System Error. Please try again later.
Brendan tried to speak, tried to thank him for what he was doing, but...he couldn't even get a word out, his breathe pungently forcing itself out, without a word to follow it. He wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve, then tried again, only to let out a sick cough.
But he couldn't get it out any more than he could start singing showtunes, and he kept on working. Brendan kept close by, and tried to avoid eye contact with the boy who had to be trying to figure out what happened. It wasn't only that, it was worth all the effort in the world trying to stay there and not run away. He couldn't do that. He wouldn't do that.
And even through all of this, he was still trying to tell himself that he wasn't to blame. Once Steven got fixed up...
...why did Steven just grab his hand?
For all it was worth, Brendan agreed with Steven, then and there, before the reality of what was really happening started to sink in.
Steven wasn't getting out of this. His voice got weaker and weaker before he mumbled one final word, and then...
...come on, Steven, wake up.
...wake up.
...
...wake up, Steven.
...you can't sleep now, you're wounded, and you should know what happens to wounded people who fall asleep in movies and-
There was a painful movement in his stomach, almost like he'd punched himself there without realising it, and Brendan couldn't look away. Steven's closed eyes weren't staring back at him anymore, because...they weren't moving anymore.
Steven wasn't moving anymore. His chest wasn't pulsing, his mouth wasn't opening for breath, he was just...he was dead.
It only took a few precious moments for him to realise this, or at least for his body to factor it in. It involved a wave of cold sweeping throughout his nerves, freezing him to the spot like an ice sculpture, where he couldn't stop looking at his...his work. He'd felt like this only a few precious times in his life. When he was almost 13, and he realised he could be gay - when he was 16, and he was told his grandmother was dead, only a few weeks later when his grandfather followed her - when, that one time, after a movie marathon that involved Lexie accidentally supplying them with pot brownies without them knowing and he feared he may have slept with Chase while they were high...
But this...
...there were no true existing words to describe the array of emotions, reactions, and most of all actions that overtook his body. In there somewhere was the freight train which held every trace amount of guilt he'd ever felt in his life, and it was charging him, leading his emotional state through sheer ferocity and force. The only real words to sum up the situation were already bygone assumptions. Steven was dead. Brendan was responsible.
A few seconds of silence followed, and Brendan felt Steven's hand fall from his grasp, and onto the cave floor. He still couldn't speak. No sound came out of his gaping mouth, only a heavy distressed array of breaths. The punch in his stomach started to sting, almost like he'd lost something and his body didn't know what it was attacking.
There were no words for him to say, nothing was coming out.
A female voice scratched at the back of his head, but Brendan couldn't make anything legible out. The entire world was bluring into an abstract before his eyes, only Steven before him being of any humane description into his mind. Brendan's hands shook. His whole body shook violently like he was an earthquake, epi-centred.
Brendan didn't realise he'd done it, but slowly but surely, he was crawling backwards on his hands, just trying to get away. He didn't make it far, within a few seconds, he'd reached the cave wall behind him and thumped dully against the rock. He sat there, unmoving. Hands clenched in the dirt ground beneath him. His front covered in human remains and dead decomposers. Eyes glazed over, rarely blinking. Not teared. Just unmoving.
And every single sound in the world became a dull mute as Brendan's mind started to shut down.
System Error. Please try again later.
"Fucking hell, Hunt. Keep fucking talking!" Peter shot a glare up at Steven's face, then at Brendan, then back to the bandage. Furiously, he pulled again at the ends, hoping to tighten it to staunch the flow of blood completely. It didn't matter if he cut off all blood to his leg. It didn't matter if Steven wasn't going to walk again. He just needed to save him.
Who was he kidding? Peter'd known this was a losing proposition to start. He should've known. Steve Digaeteno hadn't lasted more than two minutes after his femoral had been hit. Hunt had held out impressively, but the end result had been clear the moment he'd seen the damage. Another dead-end scenario, and Peter knew exactly who was to blame.
He's a murderer. And what do I do to murderers?
Peter whirled around to face the killer. "Brendan," Peter intoned, letting his voice rumble through the dark cavern, "explain to me what the fuck happened." But Brendan had scurried off to cower against the walls. Peter sighed, pushed himself up to his feet and slowly walked toward the other boy. The faint sound of shuffling behind him caught his attention.
Right; there was that other girl too. He turned his head to get a glance of her face. The lighting was minimal, but Peter's eyes had long adjusted to what was available. Jackie Broughten. She'd been on the first announcements; but not again. Could've been a misunderstanding, or she'd just gotten lucky. She looked anything but threatening now. Peter could take care of her later, as long as he kept an eye on her and she didn't try anything funny. "Stay there. Don't move." Peter growled as he glared at her.
He turned back to face Brendan, who hadn't said a word since he'd shown up to his cries for help. "Do you have any fucking idea what you've done?" Peter seethed with every word. This fucking wretched thing had the audacity to call him over to clean up his goddamned spilled milk. "You did this. You shot him, because he sure as hell didn't shoot himself in the leg. So I'm gonna give you one fucking chance to explain your fucking self." Every word seemed to follow its own crescendo, compounding one after another until Peter was all but yelling.
But only silence came in reply.
Peter stared, then sighed. "You're fucking pathetic, you know Brendan?" Peter spat with disdain. "You shoot somebody to death. Your first kill, if I recall correctly." Peter took a step over to the fallen gun and picked it up, making sure to flick the safety on. No sense in repeating history. "You had this gun, and you either know how to use it or you're a fucking idiot and should never be allowed to have one. I'd have thought you could fucking handle what this all comes to mean. For God's sake, it's been a fucking week. But no, you're just going to sit there being useless and pathetic. You can't even fucking man up and accept the responsibility of what you just fucking did."
For a moment, Peter wasn't in a cave anymore. For a moment, Peter was standing in a patch of bloodstained grass, looking at the tattered flesh that had been Lucas' throat. He'd let things go out of control. For a moment, Peter was kneeling in swamp mud, shedding a tear on the only person who'd never stopped caring. He'd led her into the line of fire. For a moment, Peter prayed at a broken altar, overlooking the bloody remains of what had been Jessie. He'd been rash, impulsive, and intoxicated.
For a moment, Peter just didn't want to face the oncoming train carrying every failure he'd ever been.
Peter raised his hand just slightly. The barrel of the pistol lined up with the center of Brendan's forehead. The gun felt heavy and unfamiliar. The dim light of the flashlights barely let him see Brendan's face: slack jawed and wide-eyed and staring off into something a million miles away. What a fucking waste of everyone's time here.
"You're such a waste of air around here. You get up and you're just going to fucking end up shooting someone else again, and we'll be fucking back at square one. Except, well, another innocent person would be dead. Like Jackie back there." Peter's grip tightened around the pistol, knuckles white. "Or you'll do it and be a murderer. Neither of those are of any fucking good to anybody on this island.
"So tell me: why shouldn't I just shoot you right now?"
Please tell me why not.
Who was he kidding? Peter'd known this was a losing proposition to start. He should've known. Steve Digaeteno hadn't lasted more than two minutes after his femoral had been hit. Hunt had held out impressively, but the end result had been clear the moment he'd seen the damage. Another dead-end scenario, and Peter knew exactly who was to blame.
He's a murderer. And what do I do to murderers?
Peter whirled around to face the killer. "Brendan," Peter intoned, letting his voice rumble through the dark cavern, "explain to me what the fuck happened." But Brendan had scurried off to cower against the walls. Peter sighed, pushed himself up to his feet and slowly walked toward the other boy. The faint sound of shuffling behind him caught his attention.
Right; there was that other girl too. He turned his head to get a glance of her face. The lighting was minimal, but Peter's eyes had long adjusted to what was available. Jackie Broughten. She'd been on the first announcements; but not again. Could've been a misunderstanding, or she'd just gotten lucky. She looked anything but threatening now. Peter could take care of her later, as long as he kept an eye on her and she didn't try anything funny. "Stay there. Don't move." Peter growled as he glared at her.
He turned back to face Brendan, who hadn't said a word since he'd shown up to his cries for help. "Do you have any fucking idea what you've done?" Peter seethed with every word. This fucking wretched thing had the audacity to call him over to clean up his goddamned spilled milk. "You did this. You shot him, because he sure as hell didn't shoot himself in the leg. So I'm gonna give you one fucking chance to explain your fucking self." Every word seemed to follow its own crescendo, compounding one after another until Peter was all but yelling.
But only silence came in reply.
Peter stared, then sighed. "You're fucking pathetic, you know Brendan?" Peter spat with disdain. "You shoot somebody to death. Your first kill, if I recall correctly." Peter took a step over to the fallen gun and picked it up, making sure to flick the safety on. No sense in repeating history. "You had this gun, and you either know how to use it or you're a fucking idiot and should never be allowed to have one. I'd have thought you could fucking handle what this all comes to mean. For God's sake, it's been a fucking week. But no, you're just going to sit there being useless and pathetic. You can't even fucking man up and accept the responsibility of what you just fucking did."
For a moment, Peter wasn't in a cave anymore. For a moment, Peter was standing in a patch of bloodstained grass, looking at the tattered flesh that had been Lucas' throat. He'd let things go out of control. For a moment, Peter was kneeling in swamp mud, shedding a tear on the only person who'd never stopped caring. He'd led her into the line of fire. For a moment, Peter prayed at a broken altar, overlooking the bloody remains of what had been Jessie. He'd been rash, impulsive, and intoxicated.
For a moment, Peter just didn't want to face the oncoming train carrying every failure he'd ever been.
Peter raised his hand just slightly. The barrel of the pistol lined up with the center of Brendan's forehead. The gun felt heavy and unfamiliar. The dim light of the flashlights barely let him see Brendan's face: slack jawed and wide-eyed and staring off into something a million miles away. What a fucking waste of everyone's time here.
"You're such a waste of air around here. You get up and you're just going to fucking end up shooting someone else again, and we'll be fucking back at square one. Except, well, another innocent person would be dead. Like Jackie back there." Peter's grip tightened around the pistol, knuckles white. "Or you'll do it and be a murderer. Neither of those are of any fucking good to anybody on this island.
"So tell me: why shouldn't I just shoot you right now?"
Please tell me why not.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Solomir. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Well, they had finally noticed her. She heard some kind of shuffling, and from what she could see, Brendan was shuffling backwards on all fours, like some kind of wretch, some kind of bug fleeing from the foot that was about to stomp it dead. Even without being able to discern his facial features, Jackie could tell. He was mortified. Words couldn't describe what Brendan was feeling right now. But Jackie could empathize. The poor boy was about to be labeled a murderer, and shunned by every single person he once held dear.
"Stay there. Don't move."
She was more than happy to oblige. The damage had been done, and it truly looked like Peter was in control of the situation. He was trying to assess what went wrong, trying to keep things calm... Of course she would at least be treated with suspicion and disdain, everyone on the island knew what she had done. Just like in a few hours, everyone would know what Brendan had done.
"Do you have any fucking idea what you've done? You did this. You shot him, because he sure as hell didn't shoot himself in the leg. So I'm gonna give you one fucking chance to explain your fucking self."
That seemed a little harsh. She tried to rationalize it, Peter was trying to give him a good wake up slap, because Brendan hadn't said a single word yet. He was still huddled against the opposing cave wall, shaking like a leaf. She could hear his labored, pained breathing, and she could have sworn she heard a sob as Peter's tirade continued.
"You're fucking pathetic, you know Brendan? You shoot somebody to death. Your first kill, if I recall correctly. You had this gun, and you either know how to use it or you're a fucking idiot and should never be allowed to have one. I'd have thought you could fucking handle what this all comes to mean. For God's sake, it's been a fucking week. But no, you're just going to sit there being useless and pathetic. You can't even fucking man up and accept the responsibility of what you just fucking did."
He doesn't need this right now.
But what can I do? He's just trying to he-No. Listen to his voice, or are you that socially inept? He's mad, not trying to give him a wake up call. I can hear your thoughts, I know your rationalizations, and am quite intimate with their fallacies.
Back and forth they went, until one sentence gave Cassarah the proverbial middle finger, Jackie essentially screaming 'shut your face' so that she could just listen to that one beautiful phrase akin to what she had wanted to hear for the entire time she was on the island.
"...innocent person would be dead. Like Jackie back there."
An audible gasp came from her as she shook her head in disbelief. Innocent? No... That's not what she was looking for. She was far from innocent... In fact, she would deserve 'Hunt's' fate more than she could ever have imagined another person could. Well... Except for Maxwell. Maxwell deserved to die much more than she did, that's one point that Cassarah had been working off of throughout their conversations over the past week.
"So tell me: why shouldn't I just shoot you right now?"
He's not right in the head.
She shook her head wildly, her hair still flying free whipping through the air, coming to rest all about, shrouding her view even more than the inky black of the tunnels did in the first place. Even though she knew she didn't deserve it, she still relished the little unintentional compliment. She clung to it like a little puppy.
B-But he likes me.
Do NOT tell me that you are... No. You will not side where you wish to. So weak... Must I do everything myself?
That rush, that switch of power. Her limbs suddenly felt lifeless, yet they were directly in front of her face, pulling back her hair, roughly shedding it from her eyes...
"Peter. He doesn't need this right now." It still sounded like Jackie, just as with Li before her. But the voice was somehow different, and it was obvious Cassarah wasn't trying to hide it at all. "Look at him. It's obvious it was an accident. Why are you doing this to him?"
Jackie cringed and groaned inside of her own mind. She really wasn't anything but the puppet to these puppet-masters. She couldn't do a damn thing that she wanted anymore. She had just wanted to stay here silently. Avoid conflict, let it work itself out. She had respite for once.
She felt her body drop to it's knees, not five feet from Brendan and Peter, looking on at the shadowy figures that were so animated against the same-colored backdrop.
Jackie expected Cassarah to say something else, to fuck it up worse. To make an enemy where there was none. But instead, silence rained. She was waiting for Brendan's explanation on just as bated breath as Peter was. But for different reasons. The right reasons, Jackie.
Oh dear fucking Christ no...
"Stay there. Don't move."
She was more than happy to oblige. The damage had been done, and it truly looked like Peter was in control of the situation. He was trying to assess what went wrong, trying to keep things calm... Of course she would at least be treated with suspicion and disdain, everyone on the island knew what she had done. Just like in a few hours, everyone would know what Brendan had done.
"Do you have any fucking idea what you've done? You did this. You shot him, because he sure as hell didn't shoot himself in the leg. So I'm gonna give you one fucking chance to explain your fucking self."
That seemed a little harsh. She tried to rationalize it, Peter was trying to give him a good wake up slap, because Brendan hadn't said a single word yet. He was still huddled against the opposing cave wall, shaking like a leaf. She could hear his labored, pained breathing, and she could have sworn she heard a sob as Peter's tirade continued.
"You're fucking pathetic, you know Brendan? You shoot somebody to death. Your first kill, if I recall correctly. You had this gun, and you either know how to use it or you're a fucking idiot and should never be allowed to have one. I'd have thought you could fucking handle what this all comes to mean. For God's sake, it's been a fucking week. But no, you're just going to sit there being useless and pathetic. You can't even fucking man up and accept the responsibility of what you just fucking did."
He doesn't need this right now.
But what can I do? He's just trying to he-No. Listen to his voice, or are you that socially inept? He's mad, not trying to give him a wake up call. I can hear your thoughts, I know your rationalizations, and am quite intimate with their fallacies.
Back and forth they went, until one sentence gave Cassarah the proverbial middle finger, Jackie essentially screaming 'shut your face' so that she could just listen to that one beautiful phrase akin to what she had wanted to hear for the entire time she was on the island.
"...innocent person would be dead. Like Jackie back there."
An audible gasp came from her as she shook her head in disbelief. Innocent? No... That's not what she was looking for. She was far from innocent... In fact, she would deserve 'Hunt's' fate more than she could ever have imagined another person could. Well... Except for Maxwell. Maxwell deserved to die much more than she did, that's one point that Cassarah had been working off of throughout their conversations over the past week.
"So tell me: why shouldn't I just shoot you right now?"
He's not right in the head.
She shook her head wildly, her hair still flying free whipping through the air, coming to rest all about, shrouding her view even more than the inky black of the tunnels did in the first place. Even though she knew she didn't deserve it, she still relished the little unintentional compliment. She clung to it like a little puppy.
B-But he likes me.
Do NOT tell me that you are... No. You will not side where you wish to. So weak... Must I do everything myself?
That rush, that switch of power. Her limbs suddenly felt lifeless, yet they were directly in front of her face, pulling back her hair, roughly shedding it from her eyes...
"Peter. He doesn't need this right now." It still sounded like Jackie, just as with Li before her. But the voice was somehow different, and it was obvious Cassarah wasn't trying to hide it at all. "Look at him. It's obvious it was an accident. Why are you doing this to him?"
Jackie cringed and groaned inside of her own mind. She really wasn't anything but the puppet to these puppet-masters. She couldn't do a damn thing that she wanted anymore. She had just wanted to stay here silently. Avoid conflict, let it work itself out. She had respite for once.
She felt her body drop to it's knees, not five feet from Brendan and Peter, looking on at the shadowy figures that were so animated against the same-colored backdrop.
Jackie expected Cassarah to say something else, to fuck it up worse. To make an enemy where there was none. But instead, silence rained. She was waiting for Brendan's explanation on just as bated breath as Peter was. But for different reasons. The right reasons, Jackie.
Oh dear fucking Christ no...
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler T-Fox. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Were his mind in the right place, his eyes would have been clenched shut. In some strange other world, they probably were, but definitely not here. Brendan couldn't move, it was just impossible to tell his body what to do.
In fact...nothing was going through. He was still breathing, for sure, but no sound, no reflexive actions, not even a little twitch when his own gun was tote to his head. Those eyes just kept on staring into a little pocket of isolation a million miles away, and they didn't even blink when (to whoever's knowledge) someone started to yell threats against his life.
Even when that solo chorus was bound together with a cry of protest, he still didn't speak. He didn't speak, because he never wanted to say another word again as long as he lived. Because every single word that dripped out of his mouth wouldn't be the words of the shy, unworldly Australian boy who woke up dazed and confused like the rest of them over a week ago now.
No, the words that came out would be the words of a killer.
He'd done it. Danya was right all along, and Brendan was wrong. He'd sincerely hoped, out of the bottom leveled pits of his heart, that no one could honestly be reduced to this level, especially not him. Those false layers of paint were then stripped away with each passing breath, until the only thing left beneath was a black mound of matter, whatever used to be him.
It terrified him.
No matter which way you honey-coated it, the facts were facts. Brendan killed someone. Someone innocent, someone who wasn't a killer, or a psychopath, or a loony, or any level of barmy that registered on most sane levels of the human brain, just a scared guy, like him.
Millions of voices all screamed, only inside his head. They dug themselves down to his throat and tried to claw their way into his consciousness, trying to get him to say everything he was thinking.
You're a killer I didn't mean to what do I do what will they think I didn't mean to I tried to help him it makes it all better I didn't mean to who can trust me ever again what will they all thing I didn't mean to I was scared he wasn't speaking what was I supposed to think I didn't mean to why did I think I was important what are you going to do with me I'm scared I'm so scared right now what do I do I didn't mean to
You're a killer
I didn't mean to
I was scared
I'm so scared
What do I do
You're a killer...I didn't mean to, I was scared, I'm so scared, what do I do?
What do I do?
But still, nothing came out.
A hand grabbed all these desperate thoughts, and clenched onto them hard and fast.
Leave him alone.
He needs to figure this out for himself.
He needs all the time in the world.
If someone was watching, they could see him try to mouth a few words, if even only as weak as humanely possible. The lips shaped the meaning behind them, but they were only movements, with no sound following them.
'I didn't mean to...'
In fact...nothing was going through. He was still breathing, for sure, but no sound, no reflexive actions, not even a little twitch when his own gun was tote to his head. Those eyes just kept on staring into a little pocket of isolation a million miles away, and they didn't even blink when (to whoever's knowledge) someone started to yell threats against his life.
Even when that solo chorus was bound together with a cry of protest, he still didn't speak. He didn't speak, because he never wanted to say another word again as long as he lived. Because every single word that dripped out of his mouth wouldn't be the words of the shy, unworldly Australian boy who woke up dazed and confused like the rest of them over a week ago now.
No, the words that came out would be the words of a killer.
He'd done it. Danya was right all along, and Brendan was wrong. He'd sincerely hoped, out of the bottom leveled pits of his heart, that no one could honestly be reduced to this level, especially not him. Those false layers of paint were then stripped away with each passing breath, until the only thing left beneath was a black mound of matter, whatever used to be him.
It terrified him.
No matter which way you honey-coated it, the facts were facts. Brendan killed someone. Someone innocent, someone who wasn't a killer, or a psychopath, or a loony, or any level of barmy that registered on most sane levels of the human brain, just a scared guy, like him.
Millions of voices all screamed, only inside his head. They dug themselves down to his throat and tried to claw their way into his consciousness, trying to get him to say everything he was thinking.
You're a killer I didn't mean to what do I do what will they think I didn't mean to I tried to help him it makes it all better I didn't mean to who can trust me ever again what will they all thing I didn't mean to I was scared he wasn't speaking what was I supposed to think I didn't mean to why did I think I was important what are you going to do with me I'm scared I'm so scared right now what do I do I didn't mean to
You're a killer
I didn't mean to
I was scared
I'm so scared
What do I do
You're a killer...I didn't mean to, I was scared, I'm so scared, what do I do?
What do I do?
But still, nothing came out.
A hand grabbed all these desperate thoughts, and clenched onto them hard and fast.
Leave him alone.
He needs to figure this out for himself.
He needs all the time in the world.
If someone was watching, they could see him try to mouth a few words, if even only as weak as humanely possible. The lips shaped the meaning behind them, but they were only movements, with no sound following them.
'I didn't mean to...'
Of course. There always had to be somebody to shit all over the work he was trying to do. He should've told Jackie to keep her mouth shut too.
The challenge hung in the air. Peter shifted his body, turning slightly to put Jackie in his peripheral vision. He may as well oblige her in discussion; it would beat waiting in the dim silence which was not encouraging Brendan to do anything and putting up with that dull ache in his leg. He drew up a breath and straightened his shoulders. Jackie had taken up a stand and Peter wasn't going to make himself look like he'd be easy to bowl over.
"Do I need to repeat myself? He needs to fucking man up. Sure shit happens. People die when you don't mean them to. If he'd done it on purpose, I'd have blown his brains out already. Still, it's been a goddamn week, Jackie. Way too late to be throwing pity parties." Peter shuffled his feet slightly, trying to get his jeans from sticking too much on his left leg. "He wants to run? To hide? Not on my watch."
Peter's free hand came up and rubbed absently at his mess of hair. The words echoed hollowly around him. Of course he knew everything about running from his issues. But even then, at least he was trying. He could still do something; make an impact.
"I've already killed people. So have you, Jackie. And guess what: we've gotten through it. We're stronger because we can live past that." Jackie's confident tone hadn't escaped Peter's notice. Back at Bayview, she had been shy and mousy, and now she was anything but that. "If Brendan can't do the same, then what does he have left?" Peter picked at his pant leg again, trying to innocuously peel it away from his skin. When had he started sweating that much?
"What does he have to live for? It'd be a mercy to spare him that pain."
The challenge hung in the air. Peter shifted his body, turning slightly to put Jackie in his peripheral vision. He may as well oblige her in discussion; it would beat waiting in the dim silence which was not encouraging Brendan to do anything and putting up with that dull ache in his leg. He drew up a breath and straightened his shoulders. Jackie had taken up a stand and Peter wasn't going to make himself look like he'd be easy to bowl over.
"Do I need to repeat myself? He needs to fucking man up. Sure shit happens. People die when you don't mean them to. If he'd done it on purpose, I'd have blown his brains out already. Still, it's been a goddamn week, Jackie. Way too late to be throwing pity parties." Peter shuffled his feet slightly, trying to get his jeans from sticking too much on his left leg. "He wants to run? To hide? Not on my watch."
Peter's free hand came up and rubbed absently at his mess of hair. The words echoed hollowly around him. Of course he knew everything about running from his issues. But even then, at least he was trying. He could still do something; make an impact.
"I've already killed people. So have you, Jackie. And guess what: we've gotten through it. We're stronger because we can live past that." Jackie's confident tone hadn't escaped Peter's notice. Back at Bayview, she had been shy and mousy, and now she was anything but that. "If Brendan can't do the same, then what does he have left?" Peter picked at his pant leg again, trying to innocuously peel it away from his skin. When had he started sweating that much?
"What does he have to live for? It'd be a mercy to spare him that pain."
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Solomir. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
((Posting for a bit for Trav while he's away))
((Also, crap post is crap))
Cassarah could not believe a single word she was hearing. In all her time, she'd come across people like Peter, but only in theory, never with a single action behind their motivations. Aaron. He wanted to serve justice, but...he was just as inneffective as the rest of his group, Milo the mental retard included. But this...
There was a real threat here, not just to the poor boy on the ground behind Peter, but to Jackie. Peter had killed people, just like Jackie herself had killed, but they were different. Peter obviously didn't see it that way, and tried to...compare them?
Cassarah inhaled sharply at that particular notion, and...she let it all out.
"How dare you try to compare yourself to me, Peter." She spoke with confidence, and nothing was going to stop her, not that gun, not the threat of death, and not even the pleas inside herself begging her to hold back. "Are you talking about killing him for being a human being? This-this isn't war, Peter, it's terrorism, and you're taking part in it! You can't make these excuses for why you want to kill someone, for some...some petty vengeance. First thing you're saying that he deserves to die because he killed someone, and now you're absconding him for not hardening up like you are? Is that..."
She flicked her eyes down, then collected her words for the right thing to say.
"Is that why you murdered Jessie? Did she start crying too much, Peter? Is that what you've turned into, someone who goes around killing innocent people because they cry?"
Jackie didn't realise how much the words coming out of her mouth were going to shape what happened next.
*
Come on, Brendan, just hide.
Hide.
Like you always do.
Pathetic.
Killer.
You're even a pathetic killer.
Come on.
Hide.
Don't even try getting out of this.
You've gone too far.
Killer.
Murderer.
There's a reason he wants to kill you.
Killer.
Remember the word vigilante?
It applies aptly here.
He's a vigilante.
The island's knight in shining armour.
He's gonna save them.
He's gonna save them all.
He's gonna take out the people who deserve to die.
He's gonna be a hero.
You're just a name to him.
A statistic.
Not a person.
A statistic.
So go on.
Hide.
In your head.
Under someone's bed.
Just do it.
Hide.
Hide.
Hi-shut up shut up SHUT UP YOU ARE NEVER BEING LEFT ALONE AGAIN.
Who-
Here, answer this, ignore everything else, just answer his questions, quickly.
What do you think you-
"Why should he shoot you right now?" Come on, get this through, you don't have much time.
Because I deserve to li-
Not good enough, bam bam, you're dead. Think of something, but just tell yourself.
I...there's people I need to speak to-
Still not good enough, bam to the head. Come on. Think.
There's...I can't do anything else but liv-
That's exactly what he's waiting for. He's waiting for a confession that you are NOTHING but a waste of space. Do not give him that. Do not give him anything. Just tell it all to yourself. Just because you've shut off your brain it doesn't mean you're completely helpless. You've got help besides me.
What are you-
"Peter. He doesn't need this. It was obviously an accident."
Who-
Jackie Broughten. Anti-social social leper, just like you used to be. You people gotta stick together, huh? Well, don't take this opportunity for granted. She's distracted you, so now...get out of there.
How-
Get out of here. Get out of there. Just listen. You killed a boy named Steven Hunt. Accept that.
I...do. I do accept that. But how can I go on-
Easy. Do you know him?
Well...no.
Then stop whining. Wait until someone you love dies. Wait until your grief is worth spilling. Because it will happen, it's an inevitability.
You're wrong.
I'm right. I'm always. Right. I have been and I always will be right. So shut up, nut up, and get the hell out. Spill your grievances in your own time.
...
Here, I'll help you.
And Brendan took his first few blinks.
His retinas burned. His clothing smelt of mould.
But the messages remained intact.
He turned his head slowly towards the scene making its way to the forefront of his mind. There she was. There he was. Jackie Broughten and Peter Siu, both playing judge and jury with his life. They both wanted...wanted something to come of this kill.
But Brendan didn't know what to do, particularly as Jackie Broughten had caught a glimpse of him moving.
She blinked, flicking her eyes back to the scenic antagonist.
This is your first test, Jackie. You can save a life here, or you can end it. What will you do?
...
TELL ME.
"So who are you to decide who gets to live here? That shouldn't be in the hands of someone who obviously has good intentions. If you get to choose who lives over who dies...you're a monster. If you think you deserve that right, Peter...you're worse than every killer here."
A deafening roar accompanied her final insult, echoing. Jackie's feet were glued to the ground as Cassarah did not wish her to stray.
Perfect.
Jackie's eyes shot past the immediate threat and settle on the retreating figure.
Brendan.
He'd just gotten to his bag when he was assaulted once more by the pop of a gun. His reaction differed. He did not fear it.
He grabbed his bag, and he ran.
Jackie could have sworn she saw something fall out of the bag and clatter aimlessly on the rock and ground, but right now, her thoughts were on a mere celebration of her first real victory.
At least, Cassarah's victory.
It even ignored the beeping that had suddenly taken up occupancy of their thoughts.
Dear god, I'm going to die here...
((Brendan Wallace continues in Tabula Rasa))
((Also, crap post is crap))
Cassarah could not believe a single word she was hearing. In all her time, she'd come across people like Peter, but only in theory, never with a single action behind their motivations. Aaron. He wanted to serve justice, but...he was just as inneffective as the rest of his group, Milo the mental retard included. But this...
There was a real threat here, not just to the poor boy on the ground behind Peter, but to Jackie. Peter had killed people, just like Jackie herself had killed, but they were different. Peter obviously didn't see it that way, and tried to...compare them?
Cassarah inhaled sharply at that particular notion, and...she let it all out.
"How dare you try to compare yourself to me, Peter." She spoke with confidence, and nothing was going to stop her, not that gun, not the threat of death, and not even the pleas inside herself begging her to hold back. "Are you talking about killing him for being a human being? This-this isn't war, Peter, it's terrorism, and you're taking part in it! You can't make these excuses for why you want to kill someone, for some...some petty vengeance. First thing you're saying that he deserves to die because he killed someone, and now you're absconding him for not hardening up like you are? Is that..."
She flicked her eyes down, then collected her words for the right thing to say.
"Is that why you murdered Jessie? Did she start crying too much, Peter? Is that what you've turned into, someone who goes around killing innocent people because they cry?"
Jackie didn't realise how much the words coming out of her mouth were going to shape what happened next.
*
Come on, Brendan, just hide.
Hide.
Like you always do.
Pathetic.
Killer.
You're even a pathetic killer.
Come on.
Hide.
Don't even try getting out of this.
You've gone too far.
Killer.
Murderer.
There's a reason he wants to kill you.
Killer.
Remember the word vigilante?
It applies aptly here.
He's a vigilante.
The island's knight in shining armour.
He's gonna save them.
He's gonna save them all.
He's gonna take out the people who deserve to die.
He's gonna be a hero.
You're just a name to him.
A statistic.
Not a person.
A statistic.
So go on.
Hide.
In your head.
Under someone's bed.
Just do it.
Hide.
Hide.
Hi-shut up shut up SHUT UP YOU ARE NEVER BEING LEFT ALONE AGAIN.
Who-
Here, answer this, ignore everything else, just answer his questions, quickly.
What do you think you-
"Why should he shoot you right now?" Come on, get this through, you don't have much time.
Because I deserve to li-
Not good enough, bam bam, you're dead. Think of something, but just tell yourself.
I...there's people I need to speak to-
Still not good enough, bam to the head. Come on. Think.
There's...I can't do anything else but liv-
That's exactly what he's waiting for. He's waiting for a confession that you are NOTHING but a waste of space. Do not give him that. Do not give him anything. Just tell it all to yourself. Just because you've shut off your brain it doesn't mean you're completely helpless. You've got help besides me.
What are you-
"Peter. He doesn't need this. It was obviously an accident."
Who-
Jackie Broughten. Anti-social social leper, just like you used to be. You people gotta stick together, huh? Well, don't take this opportunity for granted. She's distracted you, so now...get out of there.
How-
Get out of here. Get out of there. Just listen. You killed a boy named Steven Hunt. Accept that.
I...do. I do accept that. But how can I go on-
Easy. Do you know him?
Well...no.
Then stop whining. Wait until someone you love dies. Wait until your grief is worth spilling. Because it will happen, it's an inevitability.
You're wrong.
I'm right. I'm always. Right. I have been and I always will be right. So shut up, nut up, and get the hell out. Spill your grievances in your own time.
...
Here, I'll help you.
And Brendan took his first few blinks.
His retinas burned. His clothing smelt of mould.
But the messages remained intact.
He turned his head slowly towards the scene making its way to the forefront of his mind. There she was. There he was. Jackie Broughten and Peter Siu, both playing judge and jury with his life. They both wanted...wanted something to come of this kill.
But Brendan didn't know what to do, particularly as Jackie Broughten had caught a glimpse of him moving.
She blinked, flicking her eyes back to the scenic antagonist.
This is your first test, Jackie. You can save a life here, or you can end it. What will you do?
...
TELL ME.
"So who are you to decide who gets to live here? That shouldn't be in the hands of someone who obviously has good intentions. If you get to choose who lives over who dies...you're a monster. If you think you deserve that right, Peter...you're worse than every killer here."
A deafening roar accompanied her final insult, echoing. Jackie's feet were glued to the ground as Cassarah did not wish her to stray.
Perfect.
Jackie's eyes shot past the immediate threat and settle on the retreating figure.
Brendan.
He'd just gotten to his bag when he was assaulted once more by the pop of a gun. His reaction differed. He did not fear it.
He grabbed his bag, and he ran.
Jackie could have sworn she saw something fall out of the bag and clatter aimlessly on the rock and ground, but right now, her thoughts were on a mere celebration of her first real victory.
At least, Cassarah's victory.
It even ignored the beeping that had suddenly taken up occupancy of their thoughts.
Dear god, I'm going to die here...
((Brendan Wallace continues in Tabula Rasa))
Hearing the words coming out of the girl's mouth, Peter wanted to laugh. She thought she was somehow better than him. What, because his kill count was higher than hers by one? She didn't know. She didn't understand anything. All she was doing was vindicating herself while pinning all the rest of the blame onto him.
She was doing a hell of a job of it too. Each word bit deeper and deeper. He understood how everything could be painted that way; but she didn't understand his side. She had one paradigm, one set of axioms to follow: that everyone on the island were victims, and that trying to change the status quo was bad. Fact of the matter was, everybody couldn't be saved. Peter'd already tried. All that was left was to save as many, protect as many people as he could.
People that deserved to be protected; people that deserved to keep living. Not murderers, and not spineless losers.
Maybe Brendan deserves it too.
Jackie didn't understand anything. She didn't know why Jessie had to die. Sure, there could've been other ways of handling that situation, but what was done was done. And Jackie didn't understand. She just assumed. Peter was done being painted as a villain. He was done being compared to the likes of Maxwell and Reiko.
"Shut. Up."
The words came out tersely, but quietly. Peter narrowed his eyes at Jackie with a glare that could freeze hell. Peter didn't like being ridiculed. He didn't like people making him feel useless and ineffective. Most of all, Peter didn't like being reminded of how he'd fucked up. That was his job.
Still, she kept talking. Saying he was something he wasn't. Saying he was a monster. No, saying he was worse than a monster. She just wouldn't shut up.
Make her.
So he'd make her.
"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."
BANG
An unpracticed, jerky movement. Swinging his arm around to aim and releasing the safety resulted in blowback that Peter hadn't been prepared for. His arm whipped back, and for a split second, Peter thought his arm might pop out of his shoulder. The pistol was evidently not meant to be fired one handed. Still, he bit down on the pain and brought the gun back down to bear. His first shot hadn't been aimed at her. Just a warning shot. The next one wouldn't be as charitable.
Couldn't hit her if I tried anyway. I've never been a good shot.
Something clattered to the ground just behind his feet. Peter didn't need to turn around. He could feel Brendan pushing himself for a mad dash away from the two and from the gunshot. Peter couldn't blame him.
Gotta go after him. Gotta talk to him. Figure things out.
"I gave you the benefit of the doubt from the start. Don't make me take it back." The voice was cold steel cutting through the tunnel's dry air. "Brendan ran off. Good enough for you? Because I'm done with you making yourself sound so righteous and wholesome. So let's turn around and walk our separate ways."
Peter gathered up the few things left behind from Brendan's first aid kit. A few usable things here and there and it could go a long way. His flashlight ceased its illumination of Steven's body as he picked it up with his backpack. A few steps away, he found the thing that had fallen to the ground just moments before. It felt unfamiliar to his hand, but the rectangular shape lent credence to what it could be.
Taking a few steps in the general direction Brendan had run off, Peter felt a twinge of pain in his leg. Fuck, he'd reopened the wound. He hadn't been hit particularly hard by that piece of wood, but it would still need tending to sooner rather than later.
Can't stop now, gotta catch up to Brendan.
He didn't even bother to turn around to address her one last time. "And pray that I don't see you again, Jackie. Next time, I'll keep in mind that you're a murderer too."
((Peter Siu continued The Strength to Stand Again))
She was doing a hell of a job of it too. Each word bit deeper and deeper. He understood how everything could be painted that way; but she didn't understand his side. She had one paradigm, one set of axioms to follow: that everyone on the island were victims, and that trying to change the status quo was bad. Fact of the matter was, everybody couldn't be saved. Peter'd already tried. All that was left was to save as many, protect as many people as he could.
People that deserved to be protected; people that deserved to keep living. Not murderers, and not spineless losers.
Maybe Brendan deserves it too.
Jackie didn't understand anything. She didn't know why Jessie had to die. Sure, there could've been other ways of handling that situation, but what was done was done. And Jackie didn't understand. She just assumed. Peter was done being painted as a villain. He was done being compared to the likes of Maxwell and Reiko.
"Shut. Up."
The words came out tersely, but quietly. Peter narrowed his eyes at Jackie with a glare that could freeze hell. Peter didn't like being ridiculed. He didn't like people making him feel useless and ineffective. Most of all, Peter didn't like being reminded of how he'd fucked up. That was his job.
Still, she kept talking. Saying he was something he wasn't. Saying he was a monster. No, saying he was worse than a monster. She just wouldn't shut up.
Make her.
So he'd make her.
"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."
BANG
An unpracticed, jerky movement. Swinging his arm around to aim and releasing the safety resulted in blowback that Peter hadn't been prepared for. His arm whipped back, and for a split second, Peter thought his arm might pop out of his shoulder. The pistol was evidently not meant to be fired one handed. Still, he bit down on the pain and brought the gun back down to bear. His first shot hadn't been aimed at her. Just a warning shot. The next one wouldn't be as charitable.
Couldn't hit her if I tried anyway. I've never been a good shot.
Something clattered to the ground just behind his feet. Peter didn't need to turn around. He could feel Brendan pushing himself for a mad dash away from the two and from the gunshot. Peter couldn't blame him.
Gotta go after him. Gotta talk to him. Figure things out.
"I gave you the benefit of the doubt from the start. Don't make me take it back." The voice was cold steel cutting through the tunnel's dry air. "Brendan ran off. Good enough for you? Because I'm done with you making yourself sound so righteous and wholesome. So let's turn around and walk our separate ways."
Peter gathered up the few things left behind from Brendan's first aid kit. A few usable things here and there and it could go a long way. His flashlight ceased its illumination of Steven's body as he picked it up with his backpack. A few steps away, he found the thing that had fallen to the ground just moments before. It felt unfamiliar to his hand, but the rectangular shape lent credence to what it could be.
Taking a few steps in the general direction Brendan had run off, Peter felt a twinge of pain in his leg. Fuck, he'd reopened the wound. He hadn't been hit particularly hard by that piece of wood, but it would still need tending to sooner rather than later.
Can't stop now, gotta catch up to Brendan.
He didn't even bother to turn around to address her one last time. "And pray that I don't see you again, Jackie. Next time, I'll keep in mind that you're a murderer too."
((Peter Siu continued The Strength to Stand Again))
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