Power, Reprised

[NotAFlyingToy]

((Brandon Baxter, No Whammies))

On his belly, fingers bloody and bruised and face grim with determination, Baxter crawled. He paid no heed to the morning light - the fact that this was his third day on the island a dim prospect in the back of his mind - and instead focused on each agonizing arm pull forwards, each dig-in with his left foot, each foot of progress.

He had tried hopping on his left foot, but that had resulted in painful instances of losing balance, the jolt of trying to catch it on his right foot never failing to catch him off guard and send him sprawling to his stomach. It was easier to remain there, dragging himself forwards for fear of being found, defenseless and vulnerable.

So he moved like he was possessed, fighting back exhaustion and

The sound of the morning announcements cut through his determined progress forwards, and he flopped to his back to pant, dragging his bag towards himself to grab a bottle of water. After chugging a few mouthfuls, he leaned forwards to a sitting position, trying to calm his breathing, listening to the announcements.

"Our danger zones for today are Lighthouse, The Homestead, and The Western Beach."

At first, all he could do was breathe. The breathing evolved into panic that lasted a full five seconds, causing him to tremble, the water bottle in his hand sloshing back and forth dramatically. He couldn't get out of here in time - not before the collar was blown, and not with his right foot useless.

He sat on the ground, waiting for the anger, the fear, the tears and the frustration. He waited for the dread, the bemoaning of his oncoming death.

None of it came. He remained still, staring into space, and felt not a goddamn thing about it.

With a halfhearted effort, he tossed the water bottle towards the wheat field, his hands tugging the bag closer to rummage into it, knowing exactly what he was going to do. He only found three of his grenades, but that didn't matter much now. One probably fell, or was dislodged or something.

He tossed his bag away, cradling the three grenades in his right hand, pressed against his stomach. He thought about speaking a few last words to his parents or something, but nothing stood out as worth saying. What could have been? He was going to die soon.

I just want you guys to know that I've had a rough few days.

Shine on, you crazy bastards.

I coulda been a contender, pops.

All his humour, all his rage, the two things that had defined him throughout his young adult life had abandoned him. In their place was a sureness, a certainty of what was to come. He'd played hard, worked hard at the game, and had come up short.

And he was fucked if he was going to let someone push a button and end it.

So, he looked towards the treeline, grinned at the treetops in case a camera was pointed his way, and pulled all three pins on the grenades, dropping them in a loose circle around his body.

Brandon Baxter leaned backwards, his back touching the earth as he stared up at a clear blue sky. He didn't count to five. He didn't shake with uncertainty and fear for the future. He merely lay back, put both hands behind his head, and gazed at a puffy white cloud that resembled a cowboy hat.

There, he lay, content and sure.

And as the three grenades detonated, reducing him to raining fluids and chunks of flesh and bone, Brandon died.

On his own terms.

BRANDON BAXTER: DECEASED