[Travis Webster continued from Forever... Forever...]
Unlike previous days of running about, threatening and stealing and doing God knows what, day five had been a calm one for Travis Webster.
On day four, after leaving the park, he'd mostly stumbled around until he'd found his way over to the woods, where he'd slept. He hadn't seen anybody else that day. It had been a restless sleep, dreams filled with blood and... Matt. Dying. Gurgling blood filled pleas for mercy. Cass screaming. Leona in silent shock. All of them judging him with their eyes. Hating him. Fearing him.
Once he'd woken up, he was covered in cold sweat. After trying, and failing, to keep down a ration bar he had headed off again. He was a mess. Sweat and blood covered him and his clothes, his breath reeking of vomit... but he didn't even consider changing or cleaning himself up. He was too busy thinking about those judgmental eyes, and the gurgling sounds which kept echoing in his mind. The announcement was a daze, and he barely even registered his own name being mentioned. No... he needed to think. Instead of searching for Joe or someone to steal a weapon from, all he'd done this day was head to the shipping yard to retrieve Naomi's hedge trimmer and find a place of refuge. The yard had been a danger zone the previous day, which was why he'd assaulted the group of three with nothing but his hands and a fucking pen. He'd been so stupid.
The pen served its purpose though, didn't it?
He chuckled sadly to himself.
Now he was sitting on top of several stacked containers looking out over the horizon from his elevated position. He'd been there all day, staring into nowhere and thinking about what had happened the previous day. The clouds were getting far darker over by the horizon, hinting at some rather terrible weather coming their way. He needed to find better shelter soon.
Soon, not yet.
He thought about Oscar. About Rory. He thought about his mom and his dad. What would they think of all this? It had been one thing to steal and misbehave, it was nothing they weren't already used to. But murder? Would they understand why he did it? He quickly shook his head. They'd have to understand. Survival was what mattered. And even if they didn't, he wasn't sure he cared. It was his life. What right did all the people at home have to judge him and his actions? They were safe and sound in their living rooms, spread out on their fucking couches.
No, on closer consideration, he didn't give a crap about what they thought. They'd just have to deal with it.
It had been over twenty four hours since he'd had his first kill. Matt Masters. The kid hadn't really done anything to offend him except trying to defend an innocent girl. A girl that Travis had been trying to strangle to death. Had Matt appeared a few seconds later, it would probably have been a double homicide. And for what? A couple of bags? He already had supplies enough to last him several days, if not weeks. Travis had been greedy, and a boy had lost his life because of it.
But this wasn't what bothered him about the whole thing. He had no illusions about his role in all of this. He wasn't the good guy, and ever since he'd woken up, he had never tried to be. Heroes didn't get to leave this island, and ever since the first day he'd thought himself a hundred percent prepared to become the monster he would need to be to survive and maybe, just maybe, win.
Now... he wasn't so sure. Maybe it had been how close he'd been to dying himself, or maybe it was just how messy the whole thing had been. But was he really prepared? Did he even want to become more of a monster than he already was? Was it too late for him to turn back?
Maybe if he'd just had Joe there, Matt would still be alive. Maybe all he needed was someone to tell him to stop.
He sighed and buried his head in his hands. It was one thing to steal, it was one thing to threaten people... But killing someone had not been what he'd expected it to be, and he hadn't been able to keep up his monstrous facade. When he'd done the deed, he hadn't laughed maniacally. He hadn't gloated. He didn't grin and move onto the girls with a feral snarl, no. He'd run away with the tail between his legs, croaking curses and coughing violently.
He wasn't a monster. He was just a kid. A kid covered in the blood of his now deceased classmate.
For What Happened to Daisy
Travis gets an unexpected visitor...
For What Happened to Daisy
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swirlythingy†
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((Edgar Tolstoff continued from Sunrise))
The first thing Edgar did after finding a safe - no, a secluded - spot was to eat a long-overdue breakfast. He had to stop himself from recoiling when he opened the bag and found some of the rations therein already eaten. Of course they had been. Everyone had to eat, even him. The fact that it hadn't been him that had eaten these particular revolting bars was neither here nor there. This was his bag.
He'd have to see if he couldn't do anything about the large "G024" stitched onto the side.
After that, he went hiking.
The memories of his day in the woods haunted him. How many people had died by now? How many more had killed? And what had he done to stop it?
The anguished screams at the beach still resonated in his head. He couldn't even stop an act of violence taking place a hundred yards away. The crimson gash in the side of Yukiko's head, inflicted through his own inaction, simply would not leave his vision. On the other hand, all the other details of the scene, such as the fact that it had been Jenna who screamed Yukiko's name and both of the others who had attempted to care for her, and he who had stolen her bag, had fled with remarkable ease.
But none of this could compete with the memory which loomed largest in his conscience.
He could quite easily convince himself, as he stalked the island, spying on groups from afar, eavesdropping on odd snippets of painfully casual teenage conversation, lurking silently in the shadows while a childhood friend ambled aimlessly past on the way to nowhere in particular, that he was just making sure he was there to prevent the next murder. It didn't matter who did it, who the victim was or what the circumstances were. This was because it was mostly true.
He talked to no-one and made sure no-one noticed him. Now he was out of the isolation of the vast woods, schoolmates proved much easier to come by. Even in his introverted heart of hearts, he couldn't deny it hurt a bit to cut himself off from all contact, but it was safer this way. No matter how normal people seemed before, they couldn't be trusted here. He'd got burned too many times already. No, now he had some supplies, he was just here to observe, to lie in wait for the inevitable moment when things turned nasty and someone's true self would reveal themselves.
And yet, there were too many people, and too much island, and too little Edgar. He couldn't focus on any one group for too long, because every second he wasted keeping tabs on a bunch of friends was a second when someone could be getting their head bashed in around the next corner.
And he knew that, next morning, another fifteen or so announcements of murders would be delivered to his ears. As the evening wore on, his movements grew ever more erratic and desperate. There was so much ground and so many people to cover, and it all needed doing at once, and the deadline was getting closer, and so far he hadn't seen so much as a drawn sword.
And he hadn't found Travis.
Travis. There were a hundred or so people he wanted to meet equally badly, and of all those people, Travis was the most equal of all.
Murder by inaction was bad enough.
But murder by Edgar's own, direct actions was only a matter of time.
The announcement woke him up before he even realised he'd gone to sleep. Dreams were so indistinct from reality these days. He could barely remember anything he'd done the previous day, and what he could remember might well have been in his imagination.
He was still trying to figure out where he was when the bombshell hit.
"Travis Webster also joined the stabbing club, tearing Matt Masters a new windpipe."
He ran.
He didn't even get as far as hearing the new Danger Zones. For all he knew, he could have been asleep in one. He was a quarter of a mile away by the time the loudspeakers cut out.
His lungs burned and his knees creaked once again, but there was only one thing on Edgar's mind now. Gone were the pretensions at saving people. He didn't care about other people.
Anyone he met who wasn't Travis was a waste of his time.
In the hours that followed, he must have covered the entire island twice. The first time he ran into the woods and his collar beeped, the usual moment of panic was swiftly followed, as he spun around and made a mad dash back to civilisation, by a strange elation. The terrorists had so generously decimated the size of the area he had to cover. People meant danger, but people also meant Travis.
Who also meant danger, but that was hardly on his mind by now.
Edgar had to finish what he'd started. Who was he, lurking around corners like some kind of wannabe hero, when one person was already dead at his hands and two more were on the line?
The lies had come so easily, so casually, when his own life was in jeopardy. Why had he done that? Was that really the sort of person he was? To drop his principles and sacrifice innocents at the drop of a hat, just to save his own skin? And then he was just going to pretend he hadn't done it, to go and block it out and worry about all the other irrelevant things which might happen?
He'd failed again. Travis had killed someone, and it was his fault.
He had to stop it.
He was losing hope by the time he entered the storage yard for the third time. Maybe he could take a different route this time, maybe there were identical crates in this infernal maze which he hadn't stared at yet. Maybe the failing light wasn't yet another reminder of his ineptitude and shirked responsibilities.
Maybe the long-haired silhouette on top of that crate over there wasn't his target after all.
Edgar's breath caught in his throat. He'd hardly given himself time to catch it all day, every minute of rest his body forced him into clawing away at his damaged psyche and reminding him of all the things he wasn't doing.
All this time, and Edgar had focused only on finding Travis. What he would do if - when - he did, was a mystery.
Cursing his carelessness once again, Edgar decided it definitely hadn't involved standing at the foot of a ladder gazing vaguely at the rungs.
His footsteps made an odd sound as he climbed to the top of the stack, as if they just couldn't decide if he wanted to be as quiet as possible, or as loud as possible.
The closer he got, the more apparent it became that it was indeed Travis. But it wasn't until his eye level rose above the surface of the final crate that he could see the details.
Blood.
Matt's blood.
Not his own blood. It couldn't be.
Planting his feet firmly one the same level as Travis at last, his grip tightened around the scalpel which had barely left his hand in forty-eight hours.
There he stood, determined but slightly awkward, upright but not quite sure of himself, just like he had been all his life. It wasn't the grandest of poses, but it was the only one he knew.
He spoke, his voice quiet but considered, just like in high school. He couldn't keep the slight shake out of it, and nor could he prevent the whitening of his knuckles. And he couldn't tear his eyes away from the bloodstains. But it would have to do.
"You killed someone."
The first thing Edgar did after finding a safe - no, a secluded - spot was to eat a long-overdue breakfast. He had to stop himself from recoiling when he opened the bag and found some of the rations therein already eaten. Of course they had been. Everyone had to eat, even him. The fact that it hadn't been him that had eaten these particular revolting bars was neither here nor there. This was his bag.
He'd have to see if he couldn't do anything about the large "G024" stitched onto the side.
After that, he went hiking.
The memories of his day in the woods haunted him. How many people had died by now? How many more had killed? And what had he done to stop it?
The anguished screams at the beach still resonated in his head. He couldn't even stop an act of violence taking place a hundred yards away. The crimson gash in the side of Yukiko's head, inflicted through his own inaction, simply would not leave his vision. On the other hand, all the other details of the scene, such as the fact that it had been Jenna who screamed Yukiko's name and both of the others who had attempted to care for her, and he who had stolen her bag, had fled with remarkable ease.
But none of this could compete with the memory which loomed largest in his conscience.
He could quite easily convince himself, as he stalked the island, spying on groups from afar, eavesdropping on odd snippets of painfully casual teenage conversation, lurking silently in the shadows while a childhood friend ambled aimlessly past on the way to nowhere in particular, that he was just making sure he was there to prevent the next murder. It didn't matter who did it, who the victim was or what the circumstances were. This was because it was mostly true.
He talked to no-one and made sure no-one noticed him. Now he was out of the isolation of the vast woods, schoolmates proved much easier to come by. Even in his introverted heart of hearts, he couldn't deny it hurt a bit to cut himself off from all contact, but it was safer this way. No matter how normal people seemed before, they couldn't be trusted here. He'd got burned too many times already. No, now he had some supplies, he was just here to observe, to lie in wait for the inevitable moment when things turned nasty and someone's true self would reveal themselves.
And yet, there were too many people, and too much island, and too little Edgar. He couldn't focus on any one group for too long, because every second he wasted keeping tabs on a bunch of friends was a second when someone could be getting their head bashed in around the next corner.
And he knew that, next morning, another fifteen or so announcements of murders would be delivered to his ears. As the evening wore on, his movements grew ever more erratic and desperate. There was so much ground and so many people to cover, and it all needed doing at once, and the deadline was getting closer, and so far he hadn't seen so much as a drawn sword.
And he hadn't found Travis.
Travis. There were a hundred or so people he wanted to meet equally badly, and of all those people, Travis was the most equal of all.
Murder by inaction was bad enough.
But murder by Edgar's own, direct actions was only a matter of time.
The announcement woke him up before he even realised he'd gone to sleep. Dreams were so indistinct from reality these days. He could barely remember anything he'd done the previous day, and what he could remember might well have been in his imagination.
He was still trying to figure out where he was when the bombshell hit.
"Travis Webster also joined the stabbing club, tearing Matt Masters a new windpipe."
He ran.
He didn't even get as far as hearing the new Danger Zones. For all he knew, he could have been asleep in one. He was a quarter of a mile away by the time the loudspeakers cut out.
His lungs burned and his knees creaked once again, but there was only one thing on Edgar's mind now. Gone were the pretensions at saving people. He didn't care about other people.
Anyone he met who wasn't Travis was a waste of his time.
In the hours that followed, he must have covered the entire island twice. The first time he ran into the woods and his collar beeped, the usual moment of panic was swiftly followed, as he spun around and made a mad dash back to civilisation, by a strange elation. The terrorists had so generously decimated the size of the area he had to cover. People meant danger, but people also meant Travis.
Who also meant danger, but that was hardly on his mind by now.
Edgar had to finish what he'd started. Who was he, lurking around corners like some kind of wannabe hero, when one person was already dead at his hands and two more were on the line?
The lies had come so easily, so casually, when his own life was in jeopardy. Why had he done that? Was that really the sort of person he was? To drop his principles and sacrifice innocents at the drop of a hat, just to save his own skin? And then he was just going to pretend he hadn't done it, to go and block it out and worry about all the other irrelevant things which might happen?
He'd failed again. Travis had killed someone, and it was his fault.
He had to stop it.
He was losing hope by the time he entered the storage yard for the third time. Maybe he could take a different route this time, maybe there were identical crates in this infernal maze which he hadn't stared at yet. Maybe the failing light wasn't yet another reminder of his ineptitude and shirked responsibilities.
Maybe the long-haired silhouette on top of that crate over there wasn't his target after all.
Edgar's breath caught in his throat. He'd hardly given himself time to catch it all day, every minute of rest his body forced him into clawing away at his damaged psyche and reminding him of all the things he wasn't doing.
All this time, and Edgar had focused only on finding Travis. What he would do if - when - he did, was a mystery.
Cursing his carelessness once again, Edgar decided it definitely hadn't involved standing at the foot of a ladder gazing vaguely at the rungs.
His footsteps made an odd sound as he climbed to the top of the stack, as if they just couldn't decide if he wanted to be as quiet as possible, or as loud as possible.
The closer he got, the more apparent it became that it was indeed Travis. But it wasn't until his eye level rose above the surface of the final crate that he could see the details.
Blood.
Matt's blood.
Not his own blood. It couldn't be.
Planting his feet firmly one the same level as Travis at last, his grip tightened around the scalpel which had barely left his hand in forty-eight hours.
There he stood, determined but slightly awkward, upright but not quite sure of himself, just like he had been all his life. It wasn't the grandest of poses, but it was the only one he knew.
He spoke, his voice quiet but considered, just like in high school. He couldn't keep the slight shake out of it, and nor could he prevent the whitening of his knuckles. And he couldn't tear his eyes away from the bloodstains. But it would have to do.
"You killed someone."
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He could hear the boy climbing up towards him. He didn't react. He was too busy looking over the horizon.
Once the boy had climbed up to his level, he realized who it was. Edgar Tolstoff.
"You killed someone."
Yes... Yes he had. He'd tried to become a monster tough enough to survive. Had he succeeded? Or was this just slowly turning into a failure? Was he going to join the hundreds of previous "losers" in death?
He gave Edgar a pained smile.
"So I did, yeah..."
He scratched his sticky hair.
"I didn't really have a choice, for what it's worth... Kill or be killed sort of thing..."
Once the boy had climbed up to his level, he realized who it was. Edgar Tolstoff.
"You killed someone."
Yes... Yes he had. He'd tried to become a monster tough enough to survive. Had he succeeded? Or was this just slowly turning into a failure? Was he going to join the hundreds of previous "losers" in death?
He gave Edgar a pained smile.
"So I did, yeah..."
He scratched his sticky hair.
"I didn't really have a choice, for what it's worth... Kill or be killed sort of thing..."
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swirlythingy†
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"You didn't have a choice?"
The words had hit harder than they should have. Edgar's voice was pained, incredulous. Standing here, looking at Travis again, brought the memory of their last encounter into greater prominence than ever before.
Edgar had totally had a choice. And he'd made the wrong one.
He wasn't going to make it again.
"I don't believe you," he added flatly, raising his knife hand just a bit. "Everyone has a choice."
And it was oh so obvious which one Travis had already made.
The words had hit harder than they should have. Edgar's voice was pained, incredulous. Standing here, looking at Travis again, brought the memory of their last encounter into greater prominence than ever before.
Edgar had totally had a choice. And he'd made the wrong one.
He wasn't going to make it again.
"I don't believe you," he added flatly, raising his knife hand just a bit. "Everyone has a choice."
And it was oh so obvious which one Travis had already made.
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Travis didn't pay much attention to Edgar. Why would he? Their last encounter had ended with Edgar crying in a corner while Travis took his backpack AND his information. He was still watching the darker clouds gathering at the horizon.
Ooooh, how ominous.
"Look, dude... Fuck off, alright? I'm not in the mood for this shit..."
He had enough on his mind without some whiny loser coming here and complaining to him. What did Edgar want? His stuff back? Travis didn't care. Edgar wouldn't be getting his stuff back, and he was drained of any interesting information Travis might have wanted. He didn't much care for gossip right now. He just wanted to be alone.
"I don't care what you think. Just leave me alone."
The boy was a nuisance, nothing more.
Ooooh, how ominous.
"Look, dude... Fuck off, alright? I'm not in the mood for this shit..."
He had enough on his mind without some whiny loser coming here and complaining to him. What did Edgar want? His stuff back? Travis didn't care. Edgar wouldn't be getting his stuff back, and he was drained of any interesting information Travis might have wanted. He didn't much care for gossip right now. He just wanted to be alone.
"I don't care what you think. Just leave me alone."
The boy was a nuisance, nothing more.
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swirlythingy†
- Posts: 32
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Stalemate.
Edgar knew what he'd come here to do. He'd thought he'd known how Travis would react.
Was Travis not, after all, a killer? A killer whose first reaction on meeting Edgar two days ago was to hold him hostage for information and then steal his stuff? An unrepentant killer who'd just made it perfectly clear that he didn't feel he had a choice?
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Travis should be trying to kill him. That was what the boy did.
At the very least, he should have a damned better excuse for non-violence than not being "in the mood".
But Edgar still knew what he'd come here to do. He'd fervently hoped it wouldn't come to this.
Because this... this was when the line between the murderers and the heroes started to break down.
"No," he replied.
He took a step forward, and then another. He raised the knife in his hand all the way, aiming for Travis's neck. It was more to psyche himself up than anything else, because somehow this never seemed as simple and easy in real life as it had in his head.
But there was no turning back now. He couldn't allow himself to turn back. He could already see the blood of all of Travis's future victims pooling on his hands.
Edgar knew what he'd come here to do. He'd thought he'd known how Travis would react.
Was Travis not, after all, a killer? A killer whose first reaction on meeting Edgar two days ago was to hold him hostage for information and then steal his stuff? An unrepentant killer who'd just made it perfectly clear that he didn't feel he had a choice?
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Travis should be trying to kill him. That was what the boy did.
At the very least, he should have a damned better excuse for non-violence than not being "in the mood".
But Edgar still knew what he'd come here to do. He'd fervently hoped it wouldn't come to this.
Because this... this was when the line between the murderers and the heroes started to break down.
"No," he replied.
He took a step forward, and then another. He raised the knife in his hand all the way, aiming for Travis's neck. It was more to psyche himself up than anything else, because somehow this never seemed as simple and easy in real life as it had in his head.
But there was no turning back now. He couldn't allow himself to turn back. He could already see the blood of all of Travis's future victims pooling on his hands.
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Finally Travis turned to look at the boy who was now approaching him. What did Edgar mean with "no"!? Travis didn't want the company of some weak crybaby! He wanted to be alone!
That was when he saw the knife... and finally sensed the danger.
"Hey dude, what do you think you're doing with that knife?"
He glared at Edgar and his raised scalpel, analyzing the situation.
"You here for revenge, then?"
He laughed coldly and stood up. Even if he was feeling conflicted, here was one who had made up their mind. Travis might not feel like it, but Edgar clearly thought he was just as much a monster as he'd been trying to become.
But enough about that. He could ponder the intricacies of his inner psyche when he wasn't in the presence of an angry, scalpel-wielding asshole thirsting for vengeance. No matter how much he doubted himself right now, he still wanted to live. There was still several feet between them. The question was, could he make that distance without Edgar being able to react? Wasn't much choice, really. The saw was, along with his bags, on top of a container on a lower level than his. He'd left it there, within eye's reach, safe from any thieves. He'd just wanted to be alone, to think. And now, as a result, here he was yet again, unarmed.
He was still stronger than Edgar, so at least he had that. He would have to take the chance.
He cracked his neck a final time and threw Edgar a smile, before charging at the boy holding the knife.
That was when he saw the knife... and finally sensed the danger.
"Hey dude, what do you think you're doing with that knife?"
He glared at Edgar and his raised scalpel, analyzing the situation.
"You here for revenge, then?"
He laughed coldly and stood up. Even if he was feeling conflicted, here was one who had made up their mind. Travis might not feel like it, but Edgar clearly thought he was just as much a monster as he'd been trying to become.
But enough about that. He could ponder the intricacies of his inner psyche when he wasn't in the presence of an angry, scalpel-wielding asshole thirsting for vengeance. No matter how much he doubted himself right now, he still wanted to live. There was still several feet between them. The question was, could he make that distance without Edgar being able to react? Wasn't much choice, really. The saw was, along with his bags, on top of a container on a lower level than his. He'd left it there, within eye's reach, safe from any thieves. He'd just wanted to be alone, to think. And now, as a result, here he was yet again, unarmed.
He was still stronger than Edgar, so at least he had that. He would have to take the chance.
He cracked his neck a final time and threw Edgar a smile, before charging at the boy holding the knife.
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swirlythingy†
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((GMing approved))
He wasn't here for revenge. Of course he wasn't. He had a perfectly reasonable justification.
But all further such thoughts vanished as Travis let out that terrible cold laugh, so much quieter and yet so reminiscent of the one which had terrified him three mornings ago. The one which had catalysed so much, and had ultimately led to them both standing here.
This was still the same Travis as before.
But it was a very different Edgar.
As Travis gathered momentum, Edgar kept the knife held steady - as steady as his nerves could manage - at once certain that this was how it was supposed to go and with no idea of what he was going to do. He couldn't stand firm against the stronger boy. He could hope to land some crucial blows with Owen's knife. He could dodge out of the way. He could try and win in a fair fight. He could trip Travis up. He could do one hundred and one other things that he didn't have time to enumerate.
He could stand there, paralysed by panic and indecision, until Travis trapped him once again.
In an ideal world, the scene would have frozen just there. Edgar's mind, flooded with adrenaline, would go into overdrive, and for an eternal instant, there would be just him, poised a little way back from the edge of the crate, and Travis, charging towards him, dynamic in stasis, his arms outstretched and teeth bared and hatred - no, not hatred, laughter - filling his cold blue eyes, eyes that Edgar had never noticed were surprisingly similar to his own as they drew ever nearer...
Edgar never was any good at snap decisions.
The full weight of Travis's body barrelled into him and suddenly he couldn't move his right hand, Travis's muscled arm closing around his wrist and trying to wrench the knife away. Edgar staggered backwards, winded, pushing back with all his might but unable to stop himself from falling backwards, perilously close to the edge of the crate.
The force upon his wrist intensified and he could feel the knife being tugged out of his grasp. His arm slowly, but forcefully, began to twist in its socket. He couldn't even see anything, or at least he couldn't be certain if what he was seeing was a patch of darkening sky above them, or the pattern on Travis's shirt, or lights dancing before his vision as he tried to regain his breath. He couldn't hear anything but Travis's breathing.
Animal instinct took over, and Edgar lashed out as hard as he could. There was no technique to it, no finesse, no strategy. His higher consciousness would be very disappointed in himself. He was just intent on hurting Travis, any bit of Travis, however badly, any way he could. He needed to make him stop. He needed to get away, to free himself from the iron-clad punches which Travis rained down in retaliation, to stop him from losing his only advantage - his bladed weapon - and to stop him from being pushed over the sheer drop mere inches behind his feet.
At the last possible second, just as Travis gave a final tug and the knife slipped from his fingers, as he was about to topple backwards into oblivion, as the last scraps of breath were ripped from his body under the weight of Travis's assault, Edgar spun. Just slightly, not even entirely purposefully, but it was enough. Two pairs of feet dancing at the edge of the metal clifftop became one. Travis was momentarily distracted by the acquisition of the knife, just long enough, for one crucial second. His other hand maintained its steely grip on Edgar's right arm, tugging it into an unnatural position with his shoulder blazing in agony - and this hand maintained its grip as Travis was caught off balance and fell.
Edgar let out a half-gasp, half-scream as his arm was wrenched backwards with a horrible cracking noise. Gravity pulled him down with Travis, who scrabbled at the edge of the crate and just about managed to cling on by his fingers. Edgar's arm slammed into the sun-warmed metal with one final explosion of pain, and the knife - now unheld by either of them - dropped out of mid-air where Edgar had let it go and Travis had not quite caught it, and clattered on the surface between them.
He wasn't here for revenge. Of course he wasn't. He had a perfectly reasonable justification.
But all further such thoughts vanished as Travis let out that terrible cold laugh, so much quieter and yet so reminiscent of the one which had terrified him three mornings ago. The one which had catalysed so much, and had ultimately led to them both standing here.
This was still the same Travis as before.
But it was a very different Edgar.
As Travis gathered momentum, Edgar kept the knife held steady - as steady as his nerves could manage - at once certain that this was how it was supposed to go and with no idea of what he was going to do. He couldn't stand firm against the stronger boy. He could hope to land some crucial blows with Owen's knife. He could dodge out of the way. He could try and win in a fair fight. He could trip Travis up. He could do one hundred and one other things that he didn't have time to enumerate.
He could stand there, paralysed by panic and indecision, until Travis trapped him once again.
In an ideal world, the scene would have frozen just there. Edgar's mind, flooded with adrenaline, would go into overdrive, and for an eternal instant, there would be just him, poised a little way back from the edge of the crate, and Travis, charging towards him, dynamic in stasis, his arms outstretched and teeth bared and hatred - no, not hatred, laughter - filling his cold blue eyes, eyes that Edgar had never noticed were surprisingly similar to his own as they drew ever nearer...
Edgar never was any good at snap decisions.
The full weight of Travis's body barrelled into him and suddenly he couldn't move his right hand, Travis's muscled arm closing around his wrist and trying to wrench the knife away. Edgar staggered backwards, winded, pushing back with all his might but unable to stop himself from falling backwards, perilously close to the edge of the crate.
The force upon his wrist intensified and he could feel the knife being tugged out of his grasp. His arm slowly, but forcefully, began to twist in its socket. He couldn't even see anything, or at least he couldn't be certain if what he was seeing was a patch of darkening sky above them, or the pattern on Travis's shirt, or lights dancing before his vision as he tried to regain his breath. He couldn't hear anything but Travis's breathing.
Animal instinct took over, and Edgar lashed out as hard as he could. There was no technique to it, no finesse, no strategy. His higher consciousness would be very disappointed in himself. He was just intent on hurting Travis, any bit of Travis, however badly, any way he could. He needed to make him stop. He needed to get away, to free himself from the iron-clad punches which Travis rained down in retaliation, to stop him from losing his only advantage - his bladed weapon - and to stop him from being pushed over the sheer drop mere inches behind his feet.
At the last possible second, just as Travis gave a final tug and the knife slipped from his fingers, as he was about to topple backwards into oblivion, as the last scraps of breath were ripped from his body under the weight of Travis's assault, Edgar spun. Just slightly, not even entirely purposefully, but it was enough. Two pairs of feet dancing at the edge of the metal clifftop became one. Travis was momentarily distracted by the acquisition of the knife, just long enough, for one crucial second. His other hand maintained its steely grip on Edgar's right arm, tugging it into an unnatural position with his shoulder blazing in agony - and this hand maintained its grip as Travis was caught off balance and fell.
Edgar let out a half-gasp, half-scream as his arm was wrenched backwards with a horrible cracking noise. Gravity pulled him down with Travis, who scrabbled at the edge of the crate and just about managed to cling on by his fingers. Edgar's arm slammed into the sun-warmed metal with one final explosion of pain, and the knife - now unheld by either of them - dropped out of mid-air where Edgar had let it go and Travis had not quite caught it, and clattered on the surface between them.
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With the full force of his weight and momentum he threw himself onto Edgar, his hand quickly gripping around Edgar's wrist to get the knife away. He barely even noticed how close the two of them had gotten to the edge. All of his energy and focus was on disarming his adversary. He needed to get the knife away from him quickly. Edgar didn't stand a chance unarmed.
The boy thrashed and struggled, and Travis was starting to have enough of it. With his free hand, he hit Edgar. Again and again. Punch after punch, he was now pummeling the poor boy.
And finally, Edgar was beginning to relent. The knife slipped from his fingers.
About bloody time! Now I just need to...
That was when it happened. Edgar had, purposefully or not, made him fall. He'd been thrown off balance completely, and he was falling off the containers. He held onto Edgar's wrist in desperation, trying to pull himself back into balance. He could hear the crack before he lost his grip. Scrambling for anything to grab onto, he managed to barely grab a hold onto the crate itself.
He looked down. All around the yard several shipping containers had been stacked on top of one another, and sometimes these had been put into a position that would allow climbing from one onto another, as a form of staircase. That's how he'd gotten so high up. But not here.
A container below the one he was now hanging on had been shifted just a little bit, allowing for a slight foothold a couple of meters below where he was currently hanging, but except for that, it was a straight drop.
And there, just a few feet in front of him, was his enemy.
"Fuck, look, okay... I'm sorry! Just fucking help me up! Don't let me fall! I don't want to fall! Get me up!"
The boy thrashed and struggled, and Travis was starting to have enough of it. With his free hand, he hit Edgar. Again and again. Punch after punch, he was now pummeling the poor boy.
And finally, Edgar was beginning to relent. The knife slipped from his fingers.
About bloody time! Now I just need to...
That was when it happened. Edgar had, purposefully or not, made him fall. He'd been thrown off balance completely, and he was falling off the containers. He held onto Edgar's wrist in desperation, trying to pull himself back into balance. He could hear the crack before he lost his grip. Scrambling for anything to grab onto, he managed to barely grab a hold onto the crate itself.
He looked down. All around the yard several shipping containers had been stacked on top of one another, and sometimes these had been put into a position that would allow climbing from one onto another, as a form of staircase. That's how he'd gotten so high up. But not here.
A container below the one he was now hanging on had been shifted just a little bit, allowing for a slight foothold a couple of meters below where he was currently hanging, but except for that, it was a straight drop.
And there, just a few feet in front of him, was his enemy.
"Fuck, look, okay... I'm sorry! Just fucking help me up! Don't let me fall! I don't want to fall! Get me up!"
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swirlythingy†
- Posts: 32
- Joined: Sun Sep 23, 2018 10:52 pm
Their eyes met.
Edgar, the victim, the hero, his arm burning white hot, his body covered in bruises, his breathing uneven, lying on his side where he had fallen, blinking back tears of agony.
And rage.
Travis, the murderer, the villain, maybe one foot away, his legs swinging in the breeze, whitened knuckles clenching the side of the crate, his pupils dilated with a new emotion: fear.
Make him fear.
For so long, Edgar had been the one to be afraid. Edgar had been the one cornering himself in panic while Travis swaggered down the stairs, the one who lost his mind at the sight of a corpse, who dropped all his principles and sold out his friends the moment it looked as though he might get hurt.
Edgar was the one trembling and pleading for his life, cowering in the corner while death stalked above, lying motionless and indecisive in the dirt while a girl got her head bashed in, unable to even summon up the balls to tell the fucking truth to one of his own victims.
And now, Travis could do nothing but beg for his mercy.
Without breaking his gaze, he slowly - gingerly, punctuated by grunts of pain - levered himself up from his position. With his good arm, he clumsily swept the floor around him until his fingers brushed against the familiar, comforting shape of Owen's knife.
God, it felt good to be back.
Still without looking away, he awkwardly, left-handedly wrapped his fist around the handle at arm's length.
His breathing grew heavier. He blinked a few times more. Whether from pain, adrenaline or anticipation, he could not know.
Fear.
Suddenly, with as little warning as possible, he brought his arm up and plunged the surgical blade headlong into Travis's tensed fingers. Blood spurted from the boy's flesh and coated the knife for the first time, before he brought it back up and stabbed down again, and again. His quarry moved, mutilated hands desperately scrabbling to avoid the blows, the blade catching only glancing blows now and then, other times striking true and sometimes missing completely, but the crimson splashes now staining both of their hands told him he was winning. For those few precious seconds, a rushing sound filled Edgar's ears and he still could not break eye contact, nothing mattered but driving the weapon his adversary had tried so hard to acquire into the hands that sought to grasp it, someone screamed - probably Travis - and Edgar might have been smiling but then again maybe he was just baring his teeth.
Then the final blow crashed into the unyielding metal, as Travis lost his grip at last.
Edgar, the victim, the hero, his arm burning white hot, his body covered in bruises, his breathing uneven, lying on his side where he had fallen, blinking back tears of agony.
And rage.
Travis, the murderer, the villain, maybe one foot away, his legs swinging in the breeze, whitened knuckles clenching the side of the crate, his pupils dilated with a new emotion: fear.
Make him fear.
For so long, Edgar had been the one to be afraid. Edgar had been the one cornering himself in panic while Travis swaggered down the stairs, the one who lost his mind at the sight of a corpse, who dropped all his principles and sold out his friends the moment it looked as though he might get hurt.
Edgar was the one trembling and pleading for his life, cowering in the corner while death stalked above, lying motionless and indecisive in the dirt while a girl got her head bashed in, unable to even summon up the balls to tell the fucking truth to one of his own victims.
And now, Travis could do nothing but beg for his mercy.
Without breaking his gaze, he slowly - gingerly, punctuated by grunts of pain - levered himself up from his position. With his good arm, he clumsily swept the floor around him until his fingers brushed against the familiar, comforting shape of Owen's knife.
God, it felt good to be back.
Still without looking away, he awkwardly, left-handedly wrapped his fist around the handle at arm's length.
His breathing grew heavier. He blinked a few times more. Whether from pain, adrenaline or anticipation, he could not know.
Fear.
Suddenly, with as little warning as possible, he brought his arm up and plunged the surgical blade headlong into Travis's tensed fingers. Blood spurted from the boy's flesh and coated the knife for the first time, before he brought it back up and stabbed down again, and again. His quarry moved, mutilated hands desperately scrabbling to avoid the blows, the blade catching only glancing blows now and then, other times striking true and sometimes missing completely, but the crimson splashes now staining both of their hands told him he was winning. For those few precious seconds, a rushing sound filled Edgar's ears and he still could not break eye contact, nothing mattered but driving the weapon his adversary had tried so hard to acquire into the hands that sought to grasp it, someone screamed - probably Travis - and Edgar might have been smiling but then again maybe he was just baring his teeth.
Then the final blow crashed into the unyielding metal, as Travis lost his grip at last.
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Their eyes met.
How could he never have noticed those eyes before? Much like his own, blue, piercing... filled with hatred and rage. He'd been a fool to laugh Edgar off before. He realized that now. What use was begging? There was no mercy in this young man's eyes.
Travis could do nothing but watch his adversary slowly grab for the scalpel. He was frozen still, half in shock, half in awe. This was not the same boy he'd met in that school building a couple of days prior. Had he done what Travis hadn't been able to do? Become something more?
Here he felt the same emotion he'd felt as Matt's arm had begun twisting its way around his throat.
Fear.
And sudden pain. Indescribable pain. He screamed. He tried to adjust his grip, he tried to move, to swing himself up. He desperately tried anything to get away from this madman and his scalpel, which kept slicing at his fingers. His hands were beginning to slip. They were, yet again, covered in blood. Only this time... it was his own. He looked up at Edgar one last time, and saw... a smile. And eyes full of hate.
And then.... He was falling through the air.
He thought about his parents, about his brothers, about his friends and his neighbors. How would they react? Relief that he didn't have time to do anything else horrible? Or only sadness that he was dead?
He already knew. He'd tried to become a monster, and he didn't think he'd succeeded. But when he saw how Edgar looked at him... he realized that the people at home probably looked at him the exact same way.
The Masters family would no doubt hate him. Possibly Naomi's family. No, definitely Naomi's family. He'd laughed at her death, which he had contributed to with his theft on the first day. The Davidsons probably hated him for how he'd talked to Cammy the last time he was at the shipping yard. Not to mention how the family of Megan Emerson no doubt feared him finding her. As did the families of her friends. The Tolstoffs probably despised him for threatening their son and stealing his pack.
And that wasn't even counting all the other assholes who thought they had the right of judging the kids put through this game.
"How could you do this, how could you do that?"
They'd never understand.
Was this perhaps for the best? Was the pain he'd caused all those people perhaps enough? At least he wouldn't hurt anyone else on the island now.
But then, why did that matter?
Every single kid on the island, except for one, was already dead. They just didn't know it yet. All one could do was hope they would be the lucky one out. Why did it matter who pulled the trigger? Dead was dead. Accident, terrorists, or a "player". It didn't matter in the end.
And as he'd come to the conclusion before, FUCK the people at home. What did they know of pain? Of sleeping wounded on the cold hard ground, fearing for your life? What did they know of being hunted? And fuck the Tolstoff family! Like they were any better? It was their fucking son that had just stabbed him and thrown him off the edge!
No, he was already a monster in their eyes. That much was clear. Edgar thought he was a monster. So did the Davidsons. So did the Bells. So did the Masters.
.... And so does Mom and Dad.
Maybe they were right. Maybe he was a monster after all.
Travis Webster was smiling as he hit the ground.
How could he never have noticed those eyes before? Much like his own, blue, piercing... filled with hatred and rage. He'd been a fool to laugh Edgar off before. He realized that now. What use was begging? There was no mercy in this young man's eyes.
Travis could do nothing but watch his adversary slowly grab for the scalpel. He was frozen still, half in shock, half in awe. This was not the same boy he'd met in that school building a couple of days prior. Had he done what Travis hadn't been able to do? Become something more?
Here he felt the same emotion he'd felt as Matt's arm had begun twisting its way around his throat.
Fear.
And sudden pain. Indescribable pain. He screamed. He tried to adjust his grip, he tried to move, to swing himself up. He desperately tried anything to get away from this madman and his scalpel, which kept slicing at his fingers. His hands were beginning to slip. They were, yet again, covered in blood. Only this time... it was his own. He looked up at Edgar one last time, and saw... a smile. And eyes full of hate.
And then.... He was falling through the air.
He thought about his parents, about his brothers, about his friends and his neighbors. How would they react? Relief that he didn't have time to do anything else horrible? Or only sadness that he was dead?
He already knew. He'd tried to become a monster, and he didn't think he'd succeeded. But when he saw how Edgar looked at him... he realized that the people at home probably looked at him the exact same way.
The Masters family would no doubt hate him. Possibly Naomi's family. No, definitely Naomi's family. He'd laughed at her death, which he had contributed to with his theft on the first day. The Davidsons probably hated him for how he'd talked to Cammy the last time he was at the shipping yard. Not to mention how the family of Megan Emerson no doubt feared him finding her. As did the families of her friends. The Tolstoffs probably despised him for threatening their son and stealing his pack.
And that wasn't even counting all the other assholes who thought they had the right of judging the kids put through this game.
"How could you do this, how could you do that?"
They'd never understand.
Was this perhaps for the best? Was the pain he'd caused all those people perhaps enough? At least he wouldn't hurt anyone else on the island now.
But then, why did that matter?
Every single kid on the island, except for one, was already dead. They just didn't know it yet. All one could do was hope they would be the lucky one out. Why did it matter who pulled the trigger? Dead was dead. Accident, terrorists, or a "player". It didn't matter in the end.
And as he'd come to the conclusion before, FUCK the people at home. What did they know of pain? Of sleeping wounded on the cold hard ground, fearing for your life? What did they know of being hunted? And fuck the Tolstoff family! Like they were any better? It was their fucking son that had just stabbed him and thrown him off the edge!
No, he was already a monster in their eyes. That much was clear. Edgar thought he was a monster. So did the Davidsons. So did the Bells. So did the Masters.
.... And so does Mom and Dad.
Maybe they were right. Maybe he was a monster after all.
Travis Webster was smiling as he hit the ground.
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swirlythingy†
- Posts: 32
- Joined: Sun Sep 23, 2018 10:52 pm
The instant Travis was ripped from his unbroken gaze, he couldn't bring himself to look at him again.
He didn't hear the body hit the ground. He didn't see beyond the end of the ledge he was half-lying, half-crouching on. His senses were dulled, indistinct. Even the pain in his arm didn't bother him so much any more.
The one splash of colour in the faded scene came from the stains which coated the knife, and the floor, and his fingers, and maybe some other places too.
He hoped he hadn't got any of Travis on his jumper. It was cold out, and it'd be a shame to have to burn it.
Still trying to catch his breath, which came in great, shuddering gasps, he leaned back so that he was sitting, with his knees at chin height, just behind the edge of the crate.
He raised his left hand and looked at it. The scalpel, which had still been enclosed in its tightened grip, slithered through his fingers and clattered on the crate top for the second time.
His ears were ringing.
Blood. Blood that wasn't his. Blood that belonged to someone else.
Travis's blood.
He screwed his eyes tight shut as if hoping it would make the vision go away. He forced back the tears which threatened to spring forth once again, and swallowed the bile which rose in his throat.
Was this not what he had come all this way to do?
Travis was safe now, he'd saved people. He'd finally done some good. He'd accomplished something for the first time since he woke up on this wretched island.
There hadn't been any other way.
Owen's knife had done its deed.
Of course he wasn't here for revenge.
It had been the longest five or so seconds of Edgar's life. Still they replayed, over and over and over in his head, the relentless pounding overwhelming all else he could see, replacing it not so much with visions as with feelings.
The motion of his arm.
The thudding in his battered chest.
The wetness in his fingers.
The terror in Travis's eyes.
The smile tugging at his lips.
The excitement flooding through his nerves.
The ever-present memory of the third day.
Other memories, too, creeped in unbidden. The rifle lowering, pointing away from his face in the greenhouse, and Cody's cry. Jack with the bandages, and Jenna, discussing first aid. He didn't know if they'd succeeded. If any of them had been on the last announcement, he wasn't listening.
Again.
And maybe if he tried hard enough, maybe if he really strained and dredged through the deepest recesses of his brain, he could summon up memories of some of the previous eighteen years before the last five days. Him and Kat, sharing a laugh, teasing each other as siblings do. He hadn't seen her since they got on the plane. Him and Jenna, making pointedly polite conversation just outside the debate club. Even him and Travis, although Travis had been more of a presence than an acquaintance, someone for his mother to point to and warn Kat that she hoped she wouldn't be tempted to end up like that. She'd never felt the need to do that for Edgar. He couldn't quite decide whether he was hurt by the implication or not. Sure, photography wasn't exactly the most social of hobbies, but maybe he'd get invited to a party one day. You never knew.
Perhaps Edgar would have spent the night in that position, sinking ever deeper into the darkest corners of his mind, travelling further and further along on his train of thought without ever quite hitting the most important target.
But at that moment, he was startled by a shout.
He didn't hear the body hit the ground. He didn't see beyond the end of the ledge he was half-lying, half-crouching on. His senses were dulled, indistinct. Even the pain in his arm didn't bother him so much any more.
The one splash of colour in the faded scene came from the stains which coated the knife, and the floor, and his fingers, and maybe some other places too.
He hoped he hadn't got any of Travis on his jumper. It was cold out, and it'd be a shame to have to burn it.
Still trying to catch his breath, which came in great, shuddering gasps, he leaned back so that he was sitting, with his knees at chin height, just behind the edge of the crate.
He raised his left hand and looked at it. The scalpel, which had still been enclosed in its tightened grip, slithered through his fingers and clattered on the crate top for the second time.
His ears were ringing.
Blood. Blood that wasn't his. Blood that belonged to someone else.
Travis's blood.
He screwed his eyes tight shut as if hoping it would make the vision go away. He forced back the tears which threatened to spring forth once again, and swallowed the bile which rose in his throat.
Was this not what he had come all this way to do?
Travis was safe now, he'd saved people. He'd finally done some good. He'd accomplished something for the first time since he woke up on this wretched island.
There hadn't been any other way.
Owen's knife had done its deed.
Of course he wasn't here for revenge.
It had been the longest five or so seconds of Edgar's life. Still they replayed, over and over and over in his head, the relentless pounding overwhelming all else he could see, replacing it not so much with visions as with feelings.
The motion of his arm.
The thudding in his battered chest.
The wetness in his fingers.
The terror in Travis's eyes.
The smile tugging at his lips.
The excitement flooding through his nerves.
The ever-present memory of the third day.
Other memories, too, creeped in unbidden. The rifle lowering, pointing away from his face in the greenhouse, and Cody's cry. Jack with the bandages, and Jenna, discussing first aid. He didn't know if they'd succeeded. If any of them had been on the last announcement, he wasn't listening.
Again.
And maybe if he tried hard enough, maybe if he really strained and dredged through the deepest recesses of his brain, he could summon up memories of some of the previous eighteen years before the last five days. Him and Kat, sharing a laugh, teasing each other as siblings do. He hadn't seen her since they got on the plane. Him and Jenna, making pointedly polite conversation just outside the debate club. Even him and Travis, although Travis had been more of a presence than an acquaintance, someone for his mother to point to and warn Kat that she hoped she wouldn't be tempted to end up like that. She'd never felt the need to do that for Edgar. He couldn't quite decide whether he was hurt by the implication or not. Sure, photography wasn't exactly the most social of hobbies, but maybe he'd get invited to a party one day. You never knew.
Perhaps Edgar would have spent the night in that position, sinking ever deeper into the darkest corners of his mind, travelling further and further along on his train of thought without ever quite hitting the most important target.
But at that moment, he was startled by a shout.
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He hadn't died. He could barely believe it himself, but there he was, on the ground, bloody and bruised, yet very much alive. Somehow hitting the ledge on the way down had slowed his fall. He wasn't sure if anything was broken, but he was damn sure he was in pain. He let out an almost feral roar, followed by a shout.
"I'm going to fucking murder you, Ed! Do you hear me!? You're fucking dead!"
He carefully sat up. Last thing he'd want to do would be to make an injury worse. He slowly moved his torso. He looked at his hands, bloody and cut up.
That little shit...
He managed to stand, grunting while doing so. His eyes were fixed on the container where he knew the hedge trimmer would be. His entire body ached, some parts more than others.
And yet... Travis Webster smiled again. It never reached his eyes. He smiled through the pain, through the bruises, through the anger. Now, more than anything, he knew where he was going next.
Slowly, he began limping towards his trusty saw with the same hollow smile on his lips.
"I'm going to fucking murder you, Ed! Do you hear me!? You're fucking dead!"
He carefully sat up. Last thing he'd want to do would be to make an injury worse. He slowly moved his torso. He looked at his hands, bloody and cut up.
That little shit...
He managed to stand, grunting while doing so. His eyes were fixed on the container where he knew the hedge trimmer would be. His entire body ached, some parts more than others.
And yet... Travis Webster smiled again. It never reached his eyes. He smiled through the pain, through the bruises, through the anger. Now, more than anything, he knew where he was going next.
Slowly, he began limping towards his trusty saw with the same hollow smile on his lips.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Delroy. 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.
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swirlythingy†
- Posts: 32
- Joined: Sun Sep 23, 2018 10:52 pm
Travis was alive.
All the questions, all the doubts and recriminations would have to wait. Edgar squashed them down as hard as he could, ignoring the lingering taste of bile.
If he didn't act now, Travis was going to kill him. If he didn't finish the job, Travis would go on to kill so many other people.
That was what he came here for. That was what he had to do.
Barely allowing himself to think about it, he hoisted himself up - wincing with pain as he momentarily put his weight on his injured arm - and looked down.
There wasn't even any way down from here without going through Travis. So it wasn't as if he had a choice, right?
Halfway between the two of them, on a lower crate in the stack, lay what looked like a hedge trimmer. Travis was making a beeline for it.
It had been stupid of him ever to think that he could stop this killer with a scalpel. And he knew he didn't stand a chance against a Travis armed with a chainsaw. More to the point, he probably didn't stand a chance against Travis if he, Edgar, wasn't armed with a chainsaw.
So why were his feet so reluctant to move?
The same five seconds continued to play, burning just as brightly as before. What he had done, why he had done it, and most significantly, how he had felt while doing it.
This wasn't him. This wasn't Edgar Tolstoff. Not the quiet, polite boy who sat in the corner with a sketchbook on his lap, who always worked hard and applied himself in class, who dreamed of becoming a scientist.
And this wasn't Travis Webster, the party animal barely seen without a smile on his face, who Edgar had only seen ambling down the corridors on his way to - or more likely from - class, whistling loudly, but who he knew on some level all the same, because really, with Travis it was kind of impossible not to.
None of them were who they really were on this island. Edgar had thought he had escaped the changes, but really the first thing that had happened was that he'd deluded himself into thinking as much.
Here, it was kill or be killed, and always had been.
And if he didn't move soon, that choice would be made for him.
Travis's movements were slow and pained. There was still time. With a start, he jumped to the ladder and hurried down, leaping off the last few rungs and twisting in midair. He winced again as the landing jarred his bruises, but kept his teeth gritted and his energy focused on the saw.
His hand closed around the handle triumphantly. He brought the tool up, feeling its unfamiliar weight in his hands, still wondering if he could actually do this.
Then suddenly, he was on the ground.
All the questions, all the doubts and recriminations would have to wait. Edgar squashed them down as hard as he could, ignoring the lingering taste of bile.
If he didn't act now, Travis was going to kill him. If he didn't finish the job, Travis would go on to kill so many other people.
That was what he came here for. That was what he had to do.
Barely allowing himself to think about it, he hoisted himself up - wincing with pain as he momentarily put his weight on his injured arm - and looked down.
There wasn't even any way down from here without going through Travis. So it wasn't as if he had a choice, right?
Halfway between the two of them, on a lower crate in the stack, lay what looked like a hedge trimmer. Travis was making a beeline for it.
It had been stupid of him ever to think that he could stop this killer with a scalpel. And he knew he didn't stand a chance against a Travis armed with a chainsaw. More to the point, he probably didn't stand a chance against Travis if he, Edgar, wasn't armed with a chainsaw.
So why were his feet so reluctant to move?
The same five seconds continued to play, burning just as brightly as before. What he had done, why he had done it, and most significantly, how he had felt while doing it.
This wasn't him. This wasn't Edgar Tolstoff. Not the quiet, polite boy who sat in the corner with a sketchbook on his lap, who always worked hard and applied himself in class, who dreamed of becoming a scientist.
And this wasn't Travis Webster, the party animal barely seen without a smile on his face, who Edgar had only seen ambling down the corridors on his way to - or more likely from - class, whistling loudly, but who he knew on some level all the same, because really, with Travis it was kind of impossible not to.
None of them were who they really were on this island. Edgar had thought he had escaped the changes, but really the first thing that had happened was that he'd deluded himself into thinking as much.
Here, it was kill or be killed, and always had been.
And if he didn't move soon, that choice would be made for him.
Travis's movements were slow and pained. There was still time. With a start, he jumped to the ladder and hurried down, leaping off the last few rungs and twisting in midair. He winced again as the landing jarred his bruises, but kept his teeth gritted and his energy focused on the saw.
His hand closed around the handle triumphantly. He brought the tool up, feeling its unfamiliar weight in his hands, still wondering if he could actually do this.
Then suddenly, he was on the ground.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler swirlythingy. 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.
Travis Webster was no fool. When he saw Edgar hurriedly getting down from their previous platform, he knew exactly where he'd be heading. He'd forced himself to move faster, despite the pain, to try and catch up to the other, currently much more nimble, boy.
Just as Edgar's hand reached the handle, Travis had reached the container. As the boy had lifted the saw, Travis had appeared behind him. With sheer determination and desperation, Travis had tackled Edgar from behind. The saw quickly slid out of any of their reaches.
Edgar quickly twisted around, trying to reach Travis with his right hand. But right as Travis prepared for the full force of the blow, he noticed Edgar stopped dead in his tracks.
The loud crack from before...
Like a weasel, he quickly slipped under Edgar's guard and gave him a hard solid punch to the face. Edgar's head was thrown back, slamming hard into the shipping container they were standing on. He didn't get up. Trav's many rings pressed hard against his fingers, hurting them as the full force of the punches he'd thrown began settling. He could only imagine how the metal had felt on the receiving end for Edgar.
"You fucking... little... RAT!"
He kicked the downed boy. Trav had such poor balance that he almost fell while doing so. His bones ached.
"You thought I'd die that easily, you son of a bitch!?"
He looked over. The hedge trimmer, just a few feet away.
"... Well, the joke's on you, now..."
He limped over to the saw. This thing that he'd left behind in his arrogance. The feeling when his hand closed around the handle could only be described as euphoric. How could he ever have left it behind? This was a terrifying weapon. And yet... He'd gone off unarmed, with a few pens. How stupid could he have been?
Fuck the tiers, fuck the guns... This weapon was just what he needed for this very moment. He slowly and deliberately turned towards Edgar. The boy was still lying still, wounded, paralyzed with pain and fear, most likely.
Travis Webster's lips curved. His smile was filled with malice.
"Say... Isn't your sister also on this island?"
He began revving the hedge trimmer.
"Who knows? Maybe when I'm done here, I'll find her and..."
He began limping towards the downed boy.
"... Slice her up too! And once I'm off this fucking rock, I'll find the rest of your goddamn family as well!"
He raised the saw above his head. All the pain and agony from the fight had been washed away.
"You thought you could kill me, you little shit!? AS IF! I'm Travis Webster, the one who will win this fucking game!"
All the doubt in his mind had been cleared. He knew he'd have to go to the deepest and darkest of abysses and become something monstrous to be able to survive on this island. The decent thing would be to simply lie down and die.
And yet... he wanted to survive. He was ready for whatever he would have to do. He brought the saw down.
Watch me fall, mom and dad. Watch me fall, world.
Just as Edgar's hand reached the handle, Travis had reached the container. As the boy had lifted the saw, Travis had appeared behind him. With sheer determination and desperation, Travis had tackled Edgar from behind. The saw quickly slid out of any of their reaches.
Edgar quickly twisted around, trying to reach Travis with his right hand. But right as Travis prepared for the full force of the blow, he noticed Edgar stopped dead in his tracks.
The loud crack from before...
Like a weasel, he quickly slipped under Edgar's guard and gave him a hard solid punch to the face. Edgar's head was thrown back, slamming hard into the shipping container they were standing on. He didn't get up. Trav's many rings pressed hard against his fingers, hurting them as the full force of the punches he'd thrown began settling. He could only imagine how the metal had felt on the receiving end for Edgar.
"You fucking... little... RAT!"
He kicked the downed boy. Trav had such poor balance that he almost fell while doing so. His bones ached.
"You thought I'd die that easily, you son of a bitch!?"
He looked over. The hedge trimmer, just a few feet away.
"... Well, the joke's on you, now..."
He limped over to the saw. This thing that he'd left behind in his arrogance. The feeling when his hand closed around the handle could only be described as euphoric. How could he ever have left it behind? This was a terrifying weapon. And yet... He'd gone off unarmed, with a few pens. How stupid could he have been?
Fuck the tiers, fuck the guns... This weapon was just what he needed for this very moment. He slowly and deliberately turned towards Edgar. The boy was still lying still, wounded, paralyzed with pain and fear, most likely.
Travis Webster's lips curved. His smile was filled with malice.
"Say... Isn't your sister also on this island?"
He began revving the hedge trimmer.
"Who knows? Maybe when I'm done here, I'll find her and..."
He began limping towards the downed boy.
"... Slice her up too! And once I'm off this fucking rock, I'll find the rest of your goddamn family as well!"
He raised the saw above his head. All the pain and agony from the fight had been washed away.
"You thought you could kill me, you little shit!? AS IF! I'm Travis Webster, the one who will win this fucking game!"
All the doubt in his mind had been cleared. He knew he'd have to go to the deepest and darkest of abysses and become something monstrous to be able to survive on this island. The decent thing would be to simply lie down and die.
And yet... he wanted to survive. He was ready for whatever he would have to do. He brought the saw down.
Watch me fall, mom and dad. Watch me fall, world.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Delroy. 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.