Nobody shot him yet.
He'd been looking nervously at the window, waiting for it to open with a gun poking out. Hell, Justin wasn't even sure if that kind of window opened; it was hard to tell from over here. He thought he heard a small thud, just proof of somebody moving around inside and nothing more. Door was open a little bit, he thought he saw, and confirmed as such when after standing at the corner of the building maybe fifteen or twenty yards away, he stepped away from it in order to come square with the side of the building that had the door. It was open alright, more than a crack but not yet what he'd consider wide or anything.
Walking straight up to the door and through it was suicide from a pure tactical perspective, but Justin had to look at this two ways. The main goal was food, and nothing short of braining a goat and trying to caveman it over a haphazardly-made fire would serve as a proper alternative to asking somebody else to share, which was a lot less troublesome than trying to kill them for it. If they were unarmed and unwilling to share, or sleeping, killing would have been a viable alternative. The easy path was the smartest, though, which was why he hadn't entertained the thought of eating goat yet. Or monkey, for that matter.
Now wasn't the time to pause and wonder what monkey would even taste like, as Justin slunk up to the door -- not directly in front of it where somebody could peek through the crack and take a cheap shot, but off to that side. That got him up to the wall at least. He still had to step inside, and there was no worming his way around the fact that going through the threshold was putting him at risk of getting shot.
His stomach grumbled and helped him make the decision. He couldn't let himself get too weak where he wouldn't be able to make a decision for the more aggressive route if things came down to it. If he wanted to keep all options available... now or never. He nudged the door open with trembling fingers and carefully peered inside. A full building would be trouble, an empty building would be even worse because it meant the occupants were hiding, ready to get the jump on him. His mind was tugged ever so briefly to the infirmary and his time meeting with Ace as he stared at somebody else entirely.
He kept the iron down at his waist, loosely gripped where it could be snatched up in a moment's notice, but at least it didn't look aggressive. He wanted to look as non-aggressive as possible when he strode through, all while watching her face to see if she was angry, her feet to see if she wanted to run either away or at him, her hands to see if she had a weapon.
She did. Worst case scenario too, but he was here now.
Justin held up his left hand in a pleading way to ask her to wait, to hear him out, that he only wanted food. Before he could say anything, his stomach whined loudly again and asked the question for him. In most situations the growling might have been damning. Here, he supposed, it may have actually been helpful. He smiled, somewhat embarrassed, and stepped the rest of the way through the door.
Dog Day Afternoon
Day 6, late afternoon/early evening; private
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Her expression did not change as the boy—signed would be overgenerous, gestured was more accurate, though it implied a degree of ambiguity that did not exist. Shoot him, he said without words. She did not dissent, because her ability to express a more nuanced opinion toward his plan than "yes" or "no" was essentially nonexistent, and a flat "no" would cause problems. No real reason not to lie to him and nod, she supposed, but he wasn't really looking at her anymore anyway.
Nia could have shot the second boy when he came through the door, yes. There were pros and cons to that potentiality as there were to any; certainly if the boy was to be a problem he wouldn't be one for very long, if she took action. But that was presuming he was to be a problem, which, admittedly, she was inclined to do, especially when he actually opened the door, weapon in hand. More importantly, once was happenstance, twice was coincidence, three times was a pattern; two kills already had her toeing a dangerous line of notoriety. A third would mean skipping over that line with impunity. She was willing to cross that bridge when the opportunity came to cross names off of her list, but those were different. Those were for her.
The real reason, after all, was that she did not know either of these boys, and whatever situation might come to arise between them was definitively not her problem in any way, shape or form. A moment of weakness did not make the first boy her problem. She didn't even know his name.
She didn't even know his name. That was an odd sticking point, it meant very little, objectively. Giving something a name provoked human attachment, theoretically, yes. She hadn't known Bill's name until long after he was dead. Was such a small thing so impactful? If she'd had the relative temerity to ask the boy's name, would she feel inclined to shoot someone for him?
Probably not, she thought, she hoped, but she had evidently lost her mind until mere moments ago, so clearly she was giving herself too much credit. She stared at the boy in the doorway and made no judgment. The first boy would make his move, and that would decide hers.
Nia could have shot the second boy when he came through the door, yes. There were pros and cons to that potentiality as there were to any; certainly if the boy was to be a problem he wouldn't be one for very long, if she took action. But that was presuming he was to be a problem, which, admittedly, she was inclined to do, especially when he actually opened the door, weapon in hand. More importantly, once was happenstance, twice was coincidence, three times was a pattern; two kills already had her toeing a dangerous line of notoriety. A third would mean skipping over that line with impunity. She was willing to cross that bridge when the opportunity came to cross names off of her list, but those were different. Those were for her.
The real reason, after all, was that she did not know either of these boys, and whatever situation might come to arise between them was definitively not her problem in any way, shape or form. A moment of weakness did not make the first boy her problem. She didn't even know his name.
She didn't even know his name. That was an odd sticking point, it meant very little, objectively. Giving something a name provoked human attachment, theoretically, yes. She hadn't known Bill's name until long after he was dead. Was such a small thing so impactful? If she'd had the relative temerity to ask the boy's name, would she feel inclined to shoot someone for him?
Probably not, she thought, she hoped, but she had evidently lost her mind until mere moments ago, so clearly she was giving herself too much credit. She stared at the boy in the doorway and made no judgment. The first boy would make his move, and that would decide hers.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Johnny stayed frozen in the orange-tinted shadows as the floorboards creaked with Justin's every step.
He slowed his breath as he strolled in, cautious yet oblivious to the eyes in the dark behind. They darted around from the back of Justin's head, the tire tool, the girl, the duffel with the water bottles peeking out still perched on the deck, back to Justin.
Looked like there was enough room for him to slip out, ditch the bitch, make a run for it, go find a hole to crawl up and die in because he lost everything and there was no way someone else was alive at this point to give him a fucking orange slice or "poisoned" water that still had the fucking cap seal on it or any sort of medical treatment since he was pretty fucking sure the sepsis was gonna start hitting soon and at that point it wouldn't fucking matter because none of this fucking matters when he was gonna die anyway.
It only now hit him how starving, how exhausted, how hot, how miserable he really was.
But even with just one working arm, he could take Justin. Hold him down long enough for this girl to take the fucking shot like she definitely would.
Johnny held his breath. He pushed himself forward with the heels of his feet.
And pounced.
He slowed his breath as he strolled in, cautious yet oblivious to the eyes in the dark behind. They darted around from the back of Justin's head, the tire tool, the girl, the duffel with the water bottles peeking out still perched on the deck, back to Justin.
Looked like there was enough room for him to slip out, ditch the bitch, make a run for it, go find a hole to crawl up and die in because he lost everything and there was no way someone else was alive at this point to give him a fucking orange slice or "poisoned" water that still had the fucking cap seal on it or any sort of medical treatment since he was pretty fucking sure the sepsis was gonna start hitting soon and at that point it wouldn't fucking matter because none of this fucking matters when he was gonna die anyway.
It only now hit him how starving, how exhausted, how hot, how miserable he really was.
But even with just one working arm, he could take Justin. Hold him down long enough for this girl to take the fucking shot like she definitely would.
Johnny held his breath. He pushed himself forward with the heels of his feet.
And pounced.
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Justin was still smiling, still holding up his hand and still hopeful right up until a sack of bricks crashed into him from behind.
The initial contact provoked shock, as if it was representative of a force of nature like an earthquake hitting the island rather than the mere person that it was, and Justin was on his knees before he knew what was happening. He wheezed in lieu of a scream because he hadn't been given time to inhale, catching himself on the one open hand that had prevented his face from intimately meeting the floor of the boat house. His other arm, the one with his weapon and lifeline, tucked under his body. He probably should have tipped to one side with only the one hand to support him were it not for the weight and positioning of the other boy, the two of them forming a tangled mass of limbs and weakly grunting, gasping, sweating bodies struggling over little more than an inch of ground.
A blessing in disguise, really, that he hadn't been forced onto one side, particularly his right as it would have removed the only line of attack he had. Justin's right arm untucked itself and brought his trusty friend with it, a weak-angled backhanded strike underneath himself aimed at nothing in particular, only wanting to hit somewhere on his assailant. Anywhere would do, just to buy him enough time to worm his way out from a steadily weakening grasp and get on his feet. Still whining and gasping, Justin lurched to the nearest wall to aid him in standing. His shoulder bounced off of the wood moreso than actually resting on it and he struck some irregular shape, ricocheting closer to the center of the room.
That left him face-to-face with the girl, the girl with the gun.
Justin afforded only the quickest glance to the boy on the ground, who may or may not have been in the process of standing up. He didn't look at him long enough. He turned back to her instead, because she had the power to kill him in an instant.
Did she set him up?
The initial contact provoked shock, as if it was representative of a force of nature like an earthquake hitting the island rather than the mere person that it was, and Justin was on his knees before he knew what was happening. He wheezed in lieu of a scream because he hadn't been given time to inhale, catching himself on the one open hand that had prevented his face from intimately meeting the floor of the boat house. His other arm, the one with his weapon and lifeline, tucked under his body. He probably should have tipped to one side with only the one hand to support him were it not for the weight and positioning of the other boy, the two of them forming a tangled mass of limbs and weakly grunting, gasping, sweating bodies struggling over little more than an inch of ground.
A blessing in disguise, really, that he hadn't been forced onto one side, particularly his right as it would have removed the only line of attack he had. Justin's right arm untucked itself and brought his trusty friend with it, a weak-angled backhanded strike underneath himself aimed at nothing in particular, only wanting to hit somewhere on his assailant. Anywhere would do, just to buy him enough time to worm his way out from a steadily weakening grasp and get on his feet. Still whining and gasping, Justin lurched to the nearest wall to aid him in standing. His shoulder bounced off of the wood moreso than actually resting on it and he struck some irregular shape, ricocheting closer to the center of the room.
That left him face-to-face with the girl, the girl with the gun.
Justin afforded only the quickest glance to the boy on the ground, who may or may not have been in the process of standing up. He didn't look at him long enough. He turned back to her instead, because she had the power to kill him in an instant.
Did she set him up?
Time to go.
There was a split second, after the second boy stepped through the door but before the first boy threw himself at him, where Nia might have been inclined to hope for a peaceful resolution, if she was in the mood to hope at all. The second boy didn't immediately strike her as aggressive, though the piece of metal in his hand naturally gave her pause. Given a few seconds of leeway, perhaps he would have held his hands up in surrender, or at least made his intentions known. The first boy, predictably, did not give him that courtesy.
He gave her the courtesy of making a good distraction, at least. Ideally she wouldn't have to literally run, as doing so would risk ripping her wound open; if the first boy's combat skills were at all adequate he should hold the second boy's attention for at least long enough for her to get out of sight, and at that point hopefully her gun would serve as enough of a deterrent to keep him from chasing her. She had seen his eyes track to the weapons on her hip as he walked in, knew, at least, that he knew she was armed, that she was relatively dangerous on that basis. She had no idea if he knew her name. She did not know his, though the weapon he held struck a vaguely familiar chord.
There was a high likelihood the first boy would die here. As far as she'd seen he had no means but his hands to defend himself. She didn't care, or else she wasn't supposed to care, or else she didn't want to care, or whatever. She thought of Garren, of Bill, of Alexander. Arbitrary distinctions. Lines drawn in blood.
She pulled herself to her feet, and moved to sling her bag over her shoulder.
The strap broke.
...
Static. Nothing but static.
Had the strap been fraying? She should have noticed that, should have taken precautions, but she'd barely noticed anything in so many hours. The added weight of the rifle. Had that made the difference? She stared, blankly, at the space where stitches had lost their grip, she couldn't run, she needed her things, she thought of Garren and Aoi again, starving in the woods. She could run, attack—she could—her bag—
Jeremiah's things were still inside. She still had not touched them.
Her things, their things, she should run, she couldn't. Just static.
She wanted to laugh. It was funny.
Wasn't it?
There was a split second, after the second boy stepped through the door but before the first boy threw himself at him, where Nia might have been inclined to hope for a peaceful resolution, if she was in the mood to hope at all. The second boy didn't immediately strike her as aggressive, though the piece of metal in his hand naturally gave her pause. Given a few seconds of leeway, perhaps he would have held his hands up in surrender, or at least made his intentions known. The first boy, predictably, did not give him that courtesy.
He gave her the courtesy of making a good distraction, at least. Ideally she wouldn't have to literally run, as doing so would risk ripping her wound open; if the first boy's combat skills were at all adequate he should hold the second boy's attention for at least long enough for her to get out of sight, and at that point hopefully her gun would serve as enough of a deterrent to keep him from chasing her. She had seen his eyes track to the weapons on her hip as he walked in, knew, at least, that he knew she was armed, that she was relatively dangerous on that basis. She had no idea if he knew her name. She did not know his, though the weapon he held struck a vaguely familiar chord.
There was a high likelihood the first boy would die here. As far as she'd seen he had no means but his hands to defend himself. She didn't care, or else she wasn't supposed to care, or else she didn't want to care, or whatever. She thought of Garren, of Bill, of Alexander. Arbitrary distinctions. Lines drawn in blood.
She pulled herself to her feet, and moved to sling her bag over her shoulder.
The strap broke.
...
Static. Nothing but static.
Had the strap been fraying? She should have noticed that, should have taken precautions, but she'd barely noticed anything in so many hours. The added weight of the rifle. Had that made the difference? She stared, blankly, at the space where stitches had lost their grip, she couldn't run, she needed her things, she thought of Garren and Aoi again, starving in the woods. She could run, attack—she could—her bag—
Jeremiah's things were still inside. She still had not touched them.
Her things, their things, she should run, she couldn't. Just static.
She wanted to laugh. It was funny.
Wasn't it?
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Mistakes were made. Turns out having only one working arm and a slippery grip from all the damn humidity and sweat and grease and hunger and exhaustion compromised mechanics more than you'd think.
Johnny convulsed on the damp ground, the aftershock of the tire iron radiating from the knee it had impacted. Not really from pain, though. More like... numbness. He couldn't move. Couldn't feel his leg. Couldn't feel the pain in his arm either, for that matter. Everything was numb. Only thing he felt was the nausea.
He struggled to turn his head to the girl. She was gonna shoot, right?
Right?
...Right?
...The fuck was she doing? She wouldn't just fuck off. Right? Right? RIGHT!?
The bag broke, and she just fucking stood there staring at the fucking bag like a fucking deer in a motherfucking headlight.
Come on!
COME ON!!!
"JUST FUCKING SHOOT HIM!"
Johnny convulsed on the damp ground, the aftershock of the tire iron radiating from the knee it had impacted. Not really from pain, though. More like... numbness. He couldn't move. Couldn't feel his leg. Couldn't feel the pain in his arm either, for that matter. Everything was numb. Only thing he felt was the nausea.
He struggled to turn his head to the girl. She was gonna shoot, right?
Right?
...Right?
...The fuck was she doing? She wouldn't just fuck off. Right? Right? RIGHT!?
The bag broke, and she just fucking stood there staring at the fucking bag like a fucking deer in a motherfucking headlight.
Come on!
COME ON!!!
"JUST FUCKING SHOOT HIM!"
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
The screaming may as well have been a pair of power lines stuffed into his hands and with him completing the circuit, because the jolt running across Justin's heart emulated such an experience to an unsettling degree of accuracy. It was true, what he suspected from the moment he was tackled from behind. The moment he wandered into this boathouse and momentarily forgot, or simply ignored, that there should have been one more person jut because he hadn't been tracking his supplies. Because he'd made blunder after blunder and fell into the dumbest trap he would have chastised a cartoon character for when Diego and Lorenzo completely aped him.
Everybody got the best of Justin, everybody played him for the fool. The girl's bag hit the floor. The boy screamed. Everybody stared at each others and expected something. All Justin expected in this moment was to die. His feet shook and rocked the weight of his body from heel to heel too fast to really register which foot it happened to be on at any given time. He hunched down, almost squatted as he clutched the tire iron right under his chin and stared back at the girl who was supposed to shoot him.
It was probably a second, maybe two, and to use an old cliche Justin would have explained it as feeling much longer, but his sense of anything, including time, had become washed over and tainted by dread. If he wasn't so damn dehydrated he'd probably have pissed himself too, because if you're going to die, why take any dignity with you?
There was a chance where he could have killed her, probably. And it was probably long gone now.
Everybody got the best of Justin, everybody played him for the fool. The girl's bag hit the floor. The boy screamed. Everybody stared at each others and expected something. All Justin expected in this moment was to die. His feet shook and rocked the weight of his body from heel to heel too fast to really register which foot it happened to be on at any given time. He hunched down, almost squatted as he clutched the tire iron right under his chin and stared back at the girl who was supposed to shoot him.
It was probably a second, maybe two, and to use an old cliche Justin would have explained it as feeling much longer, but his sense of anything, including time, had become washed over and tainted by dread. If he wasn't so damn dehydrated he'd probably have pissed himself too, because if you're going to die, why take any dignity with you?
There was a chance where he could have killed her, probably. And it was probably long gone now.
She had to run. But she couldn't.
Her bag. Her things, their things, could she carry the whole bag, scoop it up in her arms and go? She could carry the weight, obviously she had been with her shoulder for days now but it wasn't the same, different muscle groups, dispersion of surface area, she could, literally, physically, but the change in weight distribution would almost certainly throw off her balance, the slightest stumble would kill her. Kill her. Jeremiah's empty face. She could leave her things and run, yes, she would get away, most likely, but for what, Garren and Aoi starving up on the cliffs, hungry eyes, begging, she'd done this already, moving in circles. "Freeze" was sometimes listed alongside fight or flight, as a reflex response to survival situations. Her hands moved unconsciously over the bag as though grabbing for an answer that refused to present itself.
If she ran her wound would open, she had the supplies to fix it but she wouldn't, if she ran, she would bleed out long before dehydration or starvation took her, Alexander clutching at his stomach in the rain, she could take things from her bag, maybe, the most important things, but what was most important? How much could she hold in her arms, what would she regret, what would she miss? What mattered objectively and what mattered to her were different matters, she knew, she needed water, she needed food, she needed bandages, she had to keep Jeremiah's things but she didn't because Jeremiah was dead and gone and had been for a long long time and it hadn't been her fault and it hadn't stopped being her fault and Michael signing his last words at her but he was a liar—
She could drag it, maybe, he would catch up to her. She could do—something—maybe—she'd thought out her options and chose the correct path and it had failed her for a reason beyond her reckoning unless it wasn't and she had been careless and missed the signs that the strap was giving way for days now and that would figure, with how far her mind had fallen, with how much she'd missed, her notes squirreled away under Garren's arm, written in another life, next to Jeremiah, next to Alexander, she remembered smiling, once upon a time—
"JUST FUCKING SHOOT HIM!"
Like shattering glass.
She drew her gun.
Her bag. Her things, their things, could she carry the whole bag, scoop it up in her arms and go? She could carry the weight, obviously she had been with her shoulder for days now but it wasn't the same, different muscle groups, dispersion of surface area, she could, literally, physically, but the change in weight distribution would almost certainly throw off her balance, the slightest stumble would kill her. Kill her. Jeremiah's empty face. She could leave her things and run, yes, she would get away, most likely, but for what, Garren and Aoi starving up on the cliffs, hungry eyes, begging, she'd done this already, moving in circles. "Freeze" was sometimes listed alongside fight or flight, as a reflex response to survival situations. Her hands moved unconsciously over the bag as though grabbing for an answer that refused to present itself.
If she ran her wound would open, she had the supplies to fix it but she wouldn't, if she ran, she would bleed out long before dehydration or starvation took her, Alexander clutching at his stomach in the rain, she could take things from her bag, maybe, the most important things, but what was most important? How much could she hold in her arms, what would she regret, what would she miss? What mattered objectively and what mattered to her were different matters, she knew, she needed water, she needed food, she needed bandages, she had to keep Jeremiah's things but she didn't because Jeremiah was dead and gone and had been for a long long time and it hadn't been her fault and it hadn't stopped being her fault and Michael signing his last words at her but he was a liar—
She could drag it, maybe, he would catch up to her. She could do—something—maybe—she'd thought out her options and chose the correct path and it had failed her for a reason beyond her reckoning unless it wasn't and she had been careless and missed the signs that the strap was giving way for days now and that would figure, with how far her mind had fallen, with how much she'd missed, her notes squirreled away under Garren's arm, written in another life, next to Jeremiah, next to Alexander, she remembered smiling, once upon a time—
She stared into the void and let it stare back. She felt the air rise and fall in slow motion.Analysis paralysis (or paralysis by analysis) describes an individual or group process when overanalyzing or overthinking a situation can cause forward motion or decision-making to become "paralyzed", meaning that no solution or course of action is decided upon.
"JUST FUCKING SHOOT HIM!"
Like shattering glass.
She drew her gun.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Motion.
Nerves, neither thought nor emotion but sheer base animal instinct and twitchy reflexes, dictated Justin now. He wailed desperately while swinging the tire iron down, the end of the iron tool scraping underneath his chin from where he'd been holding it before. He acted without regard for anything but the weapon in the girl's hands that, if allowed to be pointed at him, spelled death.
Guns tore through people right in front of him and left him with all the power of a fly on the wall while everybody around him held swatters. Ned hadn't stood a chance. If he hadn't gotten out of there as quick as he did, he probably would have been dropped all the same. For a brief moment, Justin had the power to decide at a distance who lived or died and most likely exercised that on Jackson, if the boy had indeed died. Then, that power was wrenched from his grasp, and once again he stood to be on the wrong side of a barrel.
Not again. Fuck you, and fuck him. But he could properly feel these sentiments only after he finished bringing the iron down on the girl's hands. No amount of steeling his guts could have prepared him for the loud clang of metal against metal, a high-pitched chime ringing out like a frenzied musical note. Maybe a D. With the swing completed, Justin allowed himself to be surprised by the ease of the follow-through. He'd been expecting more resistance, but this wasn't a tree or a building or somebody's skull, he supposed. Just a gun held in somebody's hands.
Used to be held in somebody's hands.
Now it was on the floor, between the two of them.
He held the tire iron, and their eyes met.
He was still trembling.
Nerves, neither thought nor emotion but sheer base animal instinct and twitchy reflexes, dictated Justin now. He wailed desperately while swinging the tire iron down, the end of the iron tool scraping underneath his chin from where he'd been holding it before. He acted without regard for anything but the weapon in the girl's hands that, if allowed to be pointed at him, spelled death.
Guns tore through people right in front of him and left him with all the power of a fly on the wall while everybody around him held swatters. Ned hadn't stood a chance. If he hadn't gotten out of there as quick as he did, he probably would have been dropped all the same. For a brief moment, Justin had the power to decide at a distance who lived or died and most likely exercised that on Jackson, if the boy had indeed died. Then, that power was wrenched from his grasp, and once again he stood to be on the wrong side of a barrel.
Not again. Fuck you, and fuck him. But he could properly feel these sentiments only after he finished bringing the iron down on the girl's hands. No amount of steeling his guts could have prepared him for the loud clang of metal against metal, a high-pitched chime ringing out like a frenzied musical note. Maybe a D. With the swing completed, Justin allowed himself to be surprised by the ease of the follow-through. He'd been expecting more resistance, but this wasn't a tree or a building or somebody's skull, he supposed. Just a gun held in somebody's hands.
Used to be held in somebody's hands.
Now it was on the floor, between the two of them.
He held the tire iron, and their eyes met.
He was still trembling.
Her finger had almost made it to the trigger.
Nia didn't know if it would have mattered. In the heat of the motion she hadn't thought to check the safety, didn't even remember how many bullets were in the gun. Would it have been better, if she'd had the time to hear a dull click, if her fate was guided by a different kind of incompetence? She wasn't short on things to blame herself for.
There was no click. There was certainly no bang, no vibration through her shoulders, no dull thud on contact, Aoi's face blown into oblivion, Bill tumbling to the ground, the boy stood solid and strong in front of her, the gun was gone. She more intuited what happened to it than actually saw it, it didn't really feel like she was seeing anything right now, anyway, the world was a thing happening around her and she felt it the way she felt resistance when she pushed her hand through water.
The sharp sound of metal on metal, a sudden ache as her arm was yanked in a direction it didn't expect. The slow-motion clatter to the ground. The empty space between them vast and minuscule. He was trembling. She was trembling, too.
She willed it to be funny.
She remembered, through the haze, the crack of bone.
She drew Jeremiah's hammer and lunged.
Nia didn't know if it would have mattered. In the heat of the motion she hadn't thought to check the safety, didn't even remember how many bullets were in the gun. Would it have been better, if she'd had the time to hear a dull click, if her fate was guided by a different kind of incompetence? She wasn't short on things to blame herself for.
There was no click. There was certainly no bang, no vibration through her shoulders, no dull thud on contact, Aoi's face blown into oblivion, Bill tumbling to the ground, the boy stood solid and strong in front of her, the gun was gone. She more intuited what happened to it than actually saw it, it didn't really feel like she was seeing anything right now, anyway, the world was a thing happening around her and she felt it the way she felt resistance when she pushed her hand through water.
The sharp sound of metal on metal, a sudden ache as her arm was yanked in a direction it didn't expect. The slow-motion clatter to the ground. The empty space between them vast and minuscule. He was trembling. She was trembling, too.
She willed it to be funny.
She remembered, through the haze, the crack of bone.
She drew Jeremiah's hammer and lunged.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
In the daydream, they just stood there, then they both started laughing. Maybe shared some food and drink, and all went their separate ways. Even with the sad knowledge that they'd all have to keep trying to kill one another, the reprieve meant something. It could have been like that time in World War... one? Two? One of the big world wars that they talked about in World History two years ago or something, with the Germans and Americans who sang Christmas songs at each other and played a game of soccer in No Man's Land. And for just a few minutes, everybody could have remembered that they were human.
No. They were far too gone for that by now, weren't they?
The girl started to move, clearly reaching for another weapon. Justin was already scowling, his face screwed up into an unmaintained visage of many things bubbling over inside of him, the least of which was frustration. Because none of this had to happen, or so the surface thought went. Maybe his problems ran deeper than that, because everybody had their own reasons for doing things, most of which he'd never understood even before all of this chaos being thrown at them. This all didn't have to happen, but with the benefit of hindsight, the likelihood ran high. Perhaps what was most frustrating to Justin was that this was all out of his control.
Not entirely out of his control. He had the power to end this the way he wanted. He just had to be faster than the girl, faster than whatever it was she was in the process of fetching. He didn't want to - he HAD to.
He didn't want to. He had to.
His body went through the natural, primal motions: a tire iron, a baseball bat, a caveman's bone club. They were all the same object and handled all in the same way. He reeled back and swung just slightly off-level at the girl's head, angling just over her left shoulder and above her jaw, slanting upwards. Justin could never play baseball because he flinched and turned away from the ball when it was thrown in his general direction, even if it put him in greater danger of getting hit by it. He remained transfixed on the girl's face the whole time, unable to turn away regardless of his will.
The only conscious thought he retained in that moment was that he found her kind of pretty.
No. They were far too gone for that by now, weren't they?
The girl started to move, clearly reaching for another weapon. Justin was already scowling, his face screwed up into an unmaintained visage of many things bubbling over inside of him, the least of which was frustration. Because none of this had to happen, or so the surface thought went. Maybe his problems ran deeper than that, because everybody had their own reasons for doing things, most of which he'd never understood even before all of this chaos being thrown at them. This all didn't have to happen, but with the benefit of hindsight, the likelihood ran high. Perhaps what was most frustrating to Justin was that this was all out of his control.
Not entirely out of his control. He had the power to end this the way he wanted. He just had to be faster than the girl, faster than whatever it was she was in the process of fetching. He didn't want to - he HAD to.
He didn't want to. He had to.
His body went through the natural, primal motions: a tire iron, a baseball bat, a caveman's bone club. They were all the same object and handled all in the same way. He reeled back and swung just slightly off-level at the girl's head, angling just over her left shoulder and above her jaw, slanting upwards. Justin could never play baseball because he flinched and turned away from the ball when it was thrown in his general direction, even if it put him in greater danger of getting hit by it. He remained transfixed on the girl's face the whole time, unable to turn away regardless of his will.
The only conscious thought he retained in that moment was that he found her kind of pretty.
Same moves, same actions.
Her weapon again went clattering across the floor, this time from her fingers going limp, the hammer slipping from her grasp mid-swing. She remembered Jeremiah's roar as he leapt at Nick's back, she remembered the sound of crushed flesh and bone, she heard it between her ears, she remembered thinking for all her life how annoying it must be to hear your own voice echoing inside your skull, too loud, she thought. The sound of her skull cracking was probably louder. Her frame of reference was a muted memory from seventeen years past, childhood amnesia, the illusory truth effect, she remembered pain, too, the worst she'd ever felt. This was not worse.
Nia did not scream. Not even in the way she could, soundless sharp exhales, choking on air. There was only the silence she'd known so well as she stepped backward, staring blankly at the boy in front of her, dully aware of dripping liquid down the side of her head. She could not see the dent in her skull, but she could imagine.
He reminded her of Bill. He looked so afraid.
It was funny. After all.
She remembered Jeremiah's resignation, she remembered the desperation in Stepney's voice, she remembered Alexander's rage, she wanted that, that fire, that indignation, but it did not come to her. She remembered missing Jeremiah's last words, not being present for Stepney's, whatever they had been, she remembered Alexander's, once again, and how badly she had failed him, and she was only tired. She would not have last words. No one here could understand her. Not even her parents, if the cameras bothered to pick her up, if they had the temerity to watch.
Her body clattered across the floor, too. Bathed in orange light, she heard only breathing. She would live to hear it stop. Hearing was the last sense to go.
She had wanted to be a doctor.
Nia's head lolled sickly at her one attempt to move from her position. It was all she could manage, along with a few quick motions of her right hand, but it was enough to point her eyes toward the horizon, to the sunset she'd made the mistake of admiring in a life that already felt unfamiliar.
The sun dipped under the horizon. She followed it down.
"I-T-R-I-E-D."
[G014] APOLLONIA "NIA" KARAHALIOS: DECEASED
Her weapon again went clattering across the floor, this time from her fingers going limp, the hammer slipping from her grasp mid-swing. She remembered Jeremiah's roar as he leapt at Nick's back, she remembered the sound of crushed flesh and bone, she heard it between her ears, she remembered thinking for all her life how annoying it must be to hear your own voice echoing inside your skull, too loud, she thought. The sound of her skull cracking was probably louder. Her frame of reference was a muted memory from seventeen years past, childhood amnesia, the illusory truth effect, she remembered pain, too, the worst she'd ever felt. This was not worse.
Nia did not scream. Not even in the way she could, soundless sharp exhales, choking on air. There was only the silence she'd known so well as she stepped backward, staring blankly at the boy in front of her, dully aware of dripping liquid down the side of her head. She could not see the dent in her skull, but she could imagine.
He reminded her of Bill. He looked so afraid.
It was funny. After all.
She remembered Jeremiah's resignation, she remembered the desperation in Stepney's voice, she remembered Alexander's rage, she wanted that, that fire, that indignation, but it did not come to her. She remembered missing Jeremiah's last words, not being present for Stepney's, whatever they had been, she remembered Alexander's, once again, and how badly she had failed him, and she was only tired. She would not have last words. No one here could understand her. Not even her parents, if the cameras bothered to pick her up, if they had the temerity to watch.
Her body clattered across the floor, too. Bathed in orange light, she heard only breathing. She would live to hear it stop. Hearing was the last sense to go.
She had wanted to be a doctor.
Nia's head lolled sickly at her one attempt to move from her position. It was all she could manage, along with a few quick motions of her right hand, but it was enough to point her eyes toward the horizon, to the sunset she'd made the mistake of admiring in a life that already felt unfamiliar.
The sun dipped under the horizon. She followed it down.
"I-T-R-I-E-D."
[G014] APOLLONIA "NIA" KARAHALIOS: DECEASED
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
...Heh...
...Heh heh heh...
What a fucking circus. Couldn't make this shit up if you tried.
Girl got got just like that. Maybe he should've dove for the shotgun back at the houses and fired back. Maybe things would've been different if he was still packing. Still would only have one arm, but like seriously how do you fuck up with a gun when someone has a glorified fucking stick?
Top comedy.
Justin was so red. Lookin like a lobster. Red fucking M&M lookin' Billy West fucker.
It wasn't funny, but Johnny laughed. It hurt just the same as the raspy breaths, but he couldn't stop.
Maybe it was better than being the whining puppy he really was.
...Heh heh heh...
What a fucking circus. Couldn't make this shit up if you tried.
Girl got got just like that. Maybe he should've dove for the shotgun back at the houses and fired back. Maybe things would've been different if he was still packing. Still would only have one arm, but like seriously how do you fuck up with a gun when someone has a glorified fucking stick?
Top comedy.
Justin was so red. Lookin like a lobster. Red fucking M&M lookin' Billy West fucker.
It wasn't funny, but Johnny laughed. It hurt just the same as the raspy breaths, but he couldn't stop.
Maybe it was better than being the whining puppy he really was.
-
MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
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The girl collapsed to the floor, taking her pretty face attached to her busted head with her. She collapsed onto the floor like a sack of meat and before she hit the deck, Justin shrieked.
It had all happened again. He hadn't gone into this looking for it, and at the same time he shouldn't have regretted that it happened. This was the path he set for himself now, that was on him. He knew it all had to happen to get the bomb off of his neck so he could swallow the unceasing lump in his throat without having to be reminded of the metal ring chaining him like some dog in a back yard. And still, just a moment of peace would have been nice.
But he'd gotten carried away, said the remnants of his guilt, tattered and malformed and stretched around the frame of his ideals of what it meant to be a person. Some stupid illogical strand... no, fuck that, it was all stupid and it was ALL illogical, every single one of their actions here. Every soul was little more than a scared child taking a stab at pretend competence. Justin was starting to figure that out now. The farce playing out before them all in the boat house told him everything he'd need to know going forward.
In the moment, he'd always hate it. He'd always be scared. But then he'd look back and understand it was all necessary.
Justin puffed and panted, prying his eyes off of the girl whose blood profusely gushed from her head and seeped into the half-rotten floorboards. He looked to the boy now, the boy who had tackled and scared him when he had a glimmer of hope that just once, things would go right. He'd ruined everything, and now he was laughing as if he understood the joke to all of it that Justin couldn't get. Never get it. Never get it. Laughing. Never get it.
He wrung his palms back and forth along the handle of the tire iron, grinding his wrists as if adjusting his grip. It never felt comfortable no matter how long he did it, it only felt sweaty and irritating, irritating just like that damned laughter. Justin's nostrils flared as the adrenaline high took him, stepping forward.
If murder was so fucking funny, he thought, then let's write the world's greatest fucking comedy.
On the first swing, Justin thought he heard his own back pop.
It had all happened again. He hadn't gone into this looking for it, and at the same time he shouldn't have regretted that it happened. This was the path he set for himself now, that was on him. He knew it all had to happen to get the bomb off of his neck so he could swallow the unceasing lump in his throat without having to be reminded of the metal ring chaining him like some dog in a back yard. And still, just a moment of peace would have been nice.
But he'd gotten carried away, said the remnants of his guilt, tattered and malformed and stretched around the frame of his ideals of what it meant to be a person. Some stupid illogical strand... no, fuck that, it was all stupid and it was ALL illogical, every single one of their actions here. Every soul was little more than a scared child taking a stab at pretend competence. Justin was starting to figure that out now. The farce playing out before them all in the boat house told him everything he'd need to know going forward.
In the moment, he'd always hate it. He'd always be scared. But then he'd look back and understand it was all necessary.
Justin puffed and panted, prying his eyes off of the girl whose blood profusely gushed from her head and seeped into the half-rotten floorboards. He looked to the boy now, the boy who had tackled and scared him when he had a glimmer of hope that just once, things would go right. He'd ruined everything, and now he was laughing as if he understood the joke to all of it that Justin couldn't get. Never get it. Never get it. Laughing. Never get it.
He wrung his palms back and forth along the handle of the tire iron, grinding his wrists as if adjusting his grip. It never felt comfortable no matter how long he did it, it only felt sweaty and irritating, irritating just like that damned laughter. Justin's nostrils flared as the adrenaline high took him, stepping forward.
If murder was so fucking funny, he thought, then let's write the world's greatest fucking comedy.
On the first swing, Justin thought he heard his own back pop.
And Johnny howled and laughed until he couldn't any longer.
B022 Johnny Silva Ruiz - Werewolf of Chattanooga
81 Students Remain
81 Students Remain