“I would if I could,” Beats said with a degree of hesitation, “But I can’t so I won’t.”
Ace hadn’t looked at Myles or Parker in the eye. Lori had been drugged and it had been in the dark. Meilin had been too far to see. Aliya had already been dead when he got there. Ace got shot before Ivy did. Beats didn't know Saku was dying until it was too late. The reality of murder and the quickness of the act had become ingrained in his mind but the action itself still bore the human cost. The bit of his soul and spirit that he gave up with the taking of every life. The idea of killing Connor was one he could picture without issue. The reality of it was something harder to swallow.
“There’s everything to gain and there’s everything to lose.”
Connor still didn’t get it. How sheltered could he have been? How protected and pampered was the kid? How did he still retain that naiveté after eleven days?
“It ain’t personal.”
It wasn’t.
“I don’t wanna do this.”
He didn’t.
“But that’s the game, ain’t it?”
His arms trembled, his eyes widened. What was he doing? Was he really capable of it? This wasn’t vengeance. This wasn’t spur of the moment. This was calculated. There was no moment to be the prisoner of—Ace had shed those shackles. He was living in the moment now. Directly in the eye of the storm. Connor was no enemy, quite the opposite, Connor was a friend. Could he do it? Then live with himself afterwards? Ace had been shocked at the amount of shame he could survive. What was a few tons more?
“It ain’t ‘bout friendship, it ain’t ‘bout us,” there was a harshness in his voice, “It’s about you. It’s about me.”
Ace needed to win. Ace needed to get home. Connor was cut from the same cloth, built the same way. They were more different than they were alike. There was a time where Connor held so much more experience. There was a place in which he held so much more skill. It wasn’t here. It wasn’t on this island. Ace had overtaken him. Pragmatic, practical Connor Lorenzen had become more naïve than the spastic spaz Ace Ortega. Only took about a dozen or so murders to get there. Ace couldn't let Connor catch up--he'd never beat him on even ground.
“We ain’t little boys on a field anymore bro,” his hands shook, his finger danced on the edge of the trigger, “This the way it gotta go, there ain't no other.”
He swallowed. He steadied his grip again.
"Be a man. There ain't no other choice," steady, solid, "Not for you. Not for me."
The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows
Day 11 evening; private.
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
"You," Connor started, but his mind short-circuited, "can't."
Almost on instinct, he took a single step backwards but the tension in Ace's face stopped him from going any further. He blinked, shook his head and stared at his friend, as though trying to put the pieces together.
"I—" All of the confidence, the bravado, the leadership abilities, they all melted off of his face like layers upon layers of makeup. He was the prom king, he was the team captain, he was the future NFL star — all of it masked the simple truth that had been hiding in plain sight the entire time.
He was a terrified, uncertain teenager, who most of all, was afraid of death.
Standing before Ace, he felt as naked as the day he was born, every lesson that he'd been taught fluttering away like the final moments of his life. His posture evaporated and his face wore a look of incomprehensible disbelief. What he was seeing before him was both the most insane thing he'd ever witnessed and yet was completely expected. Connor felt weak and when he finally found his voice — his real voice, he was struck by how quiet he was.
"Ace," he could barely lift his arms, the pounding in his chest was so great. "You're really— after everything we've been through, you're really going to—"
It was madness. The fear that he'd been pushing down and trying to ignore since he'd awoken finally showed itself upon his face. Reaching up, he ran his hands back through his own hair to try and calm his nerves. He felt frantic.
"This ain't you, man. This is anyone else but you. I know the kind of man you are, you're a good guy, and this," his voice shook, he was pathetic. "This can't be what happens."
How had this all happened? Connor looked at the person standing before him and for the first time, he saw that he couldn't recognize the man wearing Ace's face. It was as though he'd gone through the looking glass, woken up in some insane universe where this was rational, where this made any God-given sense. Had he not been such a coward, he would have picked up on this when he'd first seen Ace. He felt so much shame that Connor couldn't even remember a time when he felt authentically brave.
"You don't— you can't do this. It's not necessary, it's not— we were teammates. We were friends. Friends are supposed to look out for one another. What— how did that stop? Just because they said so?" He didn't just feel frantic now, he sounded it, too.
His hands were visibly shaking now, and every bit of his near six-and-a-half feet was slouching, as though he could shrink into the ground and disappear from the here and the now. He couldn't bear to look Ace in the eyes for fear of what he'd see.
"I don't get it."
He didn't; he wasn't capable.
"This isn't— this isn't how it's supposed to go. You know I never could have hurt you, man. Not in a million Goddamn years, no collars, no guns, there's just no fucking way. That ain't me."
Connor's own words piqued something in the back of his mind but all he could see was the rifle and his own looming mortality.
Almost on instinct, he took a single step backwards but the tension in Ace's face stopped him from going any further. He blinked, shook his head and stared at his friend, as though trying to put the pieces together.
"I—" All of the confidence, the bravado, the leadership abilities, they all melted off of his face like layers upon layers of makeup. He was the prom king, he was the team captain, he was the future NFL star — all of it masked the simple truth that had been hiding in plain sight the entire time.
He was a terrified, uncertain teenager, who most of all, was afraid of death.
Standing before Ace, he felt as naked as the day he was born, every lesson that he'd been taught fluttering away like the final moments of his life. His posture evaporated and his face wore a look of incomprehensible disbelief. What he was seeing before him was both the most insane thing he'd ever witnessed and yet was completely expected. Connor felt weak and when he finally found his voice — his real voice, he was struck by how quiet he was.
"Ace," he could barely lift his arms, the pounding in his chest was so great. "You're really— after everything we've been through, you're really going to—"
It was madness. The fear that he'd been pushing down and trying to ignore since he'd awoken finally showed itself upon his face. Reaching up, he ran his hands back through his own hair to try and calm his nerves. He felt frantic.
"This ain't you, man. This is anyone else but you. I know the kind of man you are, you're a good guy, and this," his voice shook, he was pathetic. "This can't be what happens."
How had this all happened? Connor looked at the person standing before him and for the first time, he saw that he couldn't recognize the man wearing Ace's face. It was as though he'd gone through the looking glass, woken up in some insane universe where this was rational, where this made any God-given sense. Had he not been such a coward, he would have picked up on this when he'd first seen Ace. He felt so much shame that Connor couldn't even remember a time when he felt authentically brave.
"You don't— you can't do this. It's not necessary, it's not— we were teammates. We were friends. Friends are supposed to look out for one another. What— how did that stop? Just because they said so?" He didn't just feel frantic now, he sounded it, too.
His hands were visibly shaking now, and every bit of his near six-and-a-half feet was slouching, as though he could shrink into the ground and disappear from the here and the now. He couldn't bear to look Ace in the eyes for fear of what he'd see.
"I don't get it."
He didn't; he wasn't capable.
"This isn't— this isn't how it's supposed to go. You know I never could have hurt you, man. Not in a million Goddamn years, no collars, no guns, there's just no fucking way. That ain't me."
Connor's own words piqued something in the back of his mind but all he could see was the rifle and his own looming mortality.
“God-fucking-damn it! Be a fuckin’ man Connor! Quit with the school spirit bullshit!”
Ace yelled in frustration. Connor was right, in his own way. They were friends. This wasn’t who Ace was—but it was who he had become. This was life and death. This was the end and if things didn’t end badly, shit, they wouldn’t have to end at all would they? Ace would’ve never hurt Connor in a million years either. If not for the guns. If not for the collars. Connor had maybe chosen to ignore those things, deny those realities. Connor probably had the privilege of hope. His daddy had always bailed him out of everything. Ace’s daddy had bailed out on his momma and Ace had never really realized he was mad at him about it until they were back together. They were a lot alike...but they were still very much different.
Connor was given the world. The world had always been giving it to Ace. Least these last eleven days.
“Friendship ain’t fuckin’ enough! What do we fuckin’ do when it’s me and you, huh? Rock paper scissors?! Get fuckin’ real,” he tried to harden his heart, “I don’t wanna do this—I gotta do this. It’s you or me and if you ain’t figured that shit out yet,” he sighed, “I can’t give you time to do so! I can’t beat you when it’s just me and you. I’ll come up short. I’ll fuckin’ hesitate. I’ll give you the win because you’re better than me and you deserve it more...”
Why do tomorrow what you could do today?
“I'm gonna win this shit,” he said finally, “I’m gonna go home,” his hands shook again, “No one can stop me.”
He kept eye contact, his finger on the trigger, his body shaking. His right leg and foot thumping like a rabbits. His arms and aim wavering.
“Not even you.”
Ace yelled in frustration. Connor was right, in his own way. They were friends. This wasn’t who Ace was—but it was who he had become. This was life and death. This was the end and if things didn’t end badly, shit, they wouldn’t have to end at all would they? Ace would’ve never hurt Connor in a million years either. If not for the guns. If not for the collars. Connor had maybe chosen to ignore those things, deny those realities. Connor probably had the privilege of hope. His daddy had always bailed him out of everything. Ace’s daddy had bailed out on his momma and Ace had never really realized he was mad at him about it until they were back together. They were a lot alike...but they were still very much different.
Connor was given the world. The world had always been giving it to Ace. Least these last eleven days.
“Friendship ain’t fuckin’ enough! What do we fuckin’ do when it’s me and you, huh? Rock paper scissors?! Get fuckin’ real,” he tried to harden his heart, “I don’t wanna do this—I gotta do this. It’s you or me and if you ain’t figured that shit out yet,” he sighed, “I can’t give you time to do so! I can’t beat you when it’s just me and you. I’ll come up short. I’ll fuckin’ hesitate. I’ll give you the win because you’re better than me and you deserve it more...”
Why do tomorrow what you could do today?
“I'm gonna win this shit,” he said finally, “I’m gonna go home,” his hands shook again, “No one can stop me.”
He kept eye contact, his finger on the trigger, his body shaking. His right leg and foot thumping like a rabbits. His arms and aim wavering.
“Not even you.”
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
"I don't," his disagreement was nothing but a whisper.
The words had cut deep, the sword of betrayal plunging itself as far down into his soul as it could go. Ace yelled at him, he raged at him, he tried to explain himself but all the while all Connor could do was stare off into the distance behind him, barely even seeing the man who would be king. Something he had said, things Ace had yelled at him — the pieces were sliding together in his mind, better late than never.
Be a fuckin' man, Connor!
That ain't me.
Be a man, there ain't no other choice.
...you deserve it more.
That ain't me.
There it was, plain as day for him to see. Connor's arms hung limply at his side and when the realization finally hit him, he just about fell over. The last twelve days of his life had been guided by avoidance, by terror. He had woken up and tried to play the role that he'd always played, a role that he'd been groomed for. Connor was a leader, he was the guy that everyone turned to when they weren't sure what to do. His first attempt at leadership should have gone well, but instead it almost immediately blew up in his face. Waking up the victims of a kidnapping had done something to the overall psyche of his classmates.
"Nobody deserves to live — or die — any more than anyone else," he managed.
People were doing things that were dramatically out of character. Murder, for the majority of his peers, wasn't an aspiration. Once the terrorists slipped an explosive collar around one's neck, they were all irrevocably altered. Teenagers would react differently when their lives were on the line, just like anyone. Some people would cower in fear, others would try and take charge. People who considered themselves followers would emerge as leaders and the privileged became the poor.
As soon as his initial attempts to form a group had imploded, the sensical thing seemed to be to keep to the shadows. There had been hope, sure — deep down inside though, he knew. His father wasn't coming. Nobody was. There was a reason that these terrorists had been doing what they were for over a decade. Well-organized, connected and established, they weren't going away just because of one rich kid.
He knew that. So why had he hidden?
"Friendship is damn well enough and I reckon it always has been." A tiny bastion of strength returned to his voice. All he could see was something far away in the forest that looked like eternity.
Why had he done all that he could to stay to the shadows, eschewing the spotlight for the first time in his life? Some of it could have been protection, self-preservation at its core instinct, but there was more behind it than that. He just wasn't able to see it.
Until now.
It was the same reason that he'd been kind and generous when he'd encountered anyone. Why his first instincts had been to help the people that he'd come across. He had been waiting for a rescue that had never come, sure, but when given the choice, he'd been courteous and respectful. When he'd left people behind, he didn't stay to rub it in, it was simply a quick and silent exit. Was it fear? Sure it was. That was absolutely part of it. Connor wouldn't have been human had he not been scared of what was going on. His psyche had jumped on that train and had followed it to the wrong station.
"Survival ain't everything." It was a lot, yet there was more. "Life ain't worth much if you don't have anyone in it to live it with."
Fear was not equal to cowardice. Connor saw that now — at what could potentially be the moment of his reckoning, he understood. He'd said it himself and even still the truth had been masked behind so much doubt and fear that he hadn't seen it, though he should have.
That ain't me.
It never would be.
It never could be.
Connor Lorenzen wasn't a coward, after all, he'd just managed to do the nigh-impossible and that was what was likely going to get him killed.
Somehow, against all odds, Connor had held onto his humanity.
Ace was telling him to drop the act, but he couldn't. There were layers, of course, but deep down inside, he didn't have the makeup of a coward after all. He could never do the things that others could in order to survive. It was the reason why he couldn't go off and find Madison. Why he'd let Wyatt go off with Tirzah, why the first meeting with Ace had ended how it did. Faith had seen it, she'd understood it before he did, and she'd cut bait. It was a smart call. Connor couldn't adapt to that world, because he was firmly ensconced in the real one.
This was one game that he could never play, let alone win, and that was okay.
Winning isn't everything.
Ace was right, Connor was a better person than he was. He had stared Survival of the Fittest in the face, and it had not changed him. He had retained his humanity and if he was going to die, he was going to die as the man he was, the man he had always known he'd become.
A man his parents could be proud of.
One last piece of the puzzle fit together and finally, Connor smiled. His faraway stare focused, and his posture straightened a bit. Turning his head, he met Ace's stare, his green eyes focused, calm. His strength had returned.
"You still have a choice, brother. There's always a choice. You do this and there ain't no turnin' back. Y'all might never be able to look yourself in the mirror ever again." There was a kindness, a maturity to his voice that he hadn't felt in days. "I don't want that for you, Ace."
The words had cut deep, the sword of betrayal plunging itself as far down into his soul as it could go. Ace yelled at him, he raged at him, he tried to explain himself but all the while all Connor could do was stare off into the distance behind him, barely even seeing the man who would be king. Something he had said, things Ace had yelled at him — the pieces were sliding together in his mind, better late than never.
Be a fuckin' man, Connor!
That ain't me.
Be a man, there ain't no other choice.
...you deserve it more.
That ain't me.
There it was, plain as day for him to see. Connor's arms hung limply at his side and when the realization finally hit him, he just about fell over. The last twelve days of his life had been guided by avoidance, by terror. He had woken up and tried to play the role that he'd always played, a role that he'd been groomed for. Connor was a leader, he was the guy that everyone turned to when they weren't sure what to do. His first attempt at leadership should have gone well, but instead it almost immediately blew up in his face. Waking up the victims of a kidnapping had done something to the overall psyche of his classmates.
"Nobody deserves to live — or die — any more than anyone else," he managed.
People were doing things that were dramatically out of character. Murder, for the majority of his peers, wasn't an aspiration. Once the terrorists slipped an explosive collar around one's neck, they were all irrevocably altered. Teenagers would react differently when their lives were on the line, just like anyone. Some people would cower in fear, others would try and take charge. People who considered themselves followers would emerge as leaders and the privileged became the poor.
As soon as his initial attempts to form a group had imploded, the sensical thing seemed to be to keep to the shadows. There had been hope, sure — deep down inside though, he knew. His father wasn't coming. Nobody was. There was a reason that these terrorists had been doing what they were for over a decade. Well-organized, connected and established, they weren't going away just because of one rich kid.
He knew that. So why had he hidden?
"Friendship is damn well enough and I reckon it always has been." A tiny bastion of strength returned to his voice. All he could see was something far away in the forest that looked like eternity.
Why had he done all that he could to stay to the shadows, eschewing the spotlight for the first time in his life? Some of it could have been protection, self-preservation at its core instinct, but there was more behind it than that. He just wasn't able to see it.
Until now.
It was the same reason that he'd been kind and generous when he'd encountered anyone. Why his first instincts had been to help the people that he'd come across. He had been waiting for a rescue that had never come, sure, but when given the choice, he'd been courteous and respectful. When he'd left people behind, he didn't stay to rub it in, it was simply a quick and silent exit. Was it fear? Sure it was. That was absolutely part of it. Connor wouldn't have been human had he not been scared of what was going on. His psyche had jumped on that train and had followed it to the wrong station.
"Survival ain't everything." It was a lot, yet there was more. "Life ain't worth much if you don't have anyone in it to live it with."
Fear was not equal to cowardice. Connor saw that now — at what could potentially be the moment of his reckoning, he understood. He'd said it himself and even still the truth had been masked behind so much doubt and fear that he hadn't seen it, though he should have.
That ain't me.
It never would be.
It never could be.
Connor Lorenzen wasn't a coward, after all, he'd just managed to do the nigh-impossible and that was what was likely going to get him killed.
Somehow, against all odds, Connor had held onto his humanity.
Ace was telling him to drop the act, but he couldn't. There were layers, of course, but deep down inside, he didn't have the makeup of a coward after all. He could never do the things that others could in order to survive. It was the reason why he couldn't go off and find Madison. Why he'd let Wyatt go off with Tirzah, why the first meeting with Ace had ended how it did. Faith had seen it, she'd understood it before he did, and she'd cut bait. It was a smart call. Connor couldn't adapt to that world, because he was firmly ensconced in the real one.
This was one game that he could never play, let alone win, and that was okay.
Winning isn't everything.
Ace was right, Connor was a better person than he was. He had stared Survival of the Fittest in the face, and it had not changed him. He had retained his humanity and if he was going to die, he was going to die as the man he was, the man he had always known he'd become.
A man his parents could be proud of.
One last piece of the puzzle fit together and finally, Connor smiled. His faraway stare focused, and his posture straightened a bit. Turning his head, he met Ace's stare, his green eyes focused, calm. His strength had returned.
"You still have a choice, brother. There's always a choice. You do this and there ain't no turnin' back. Y'all might never be able to look yourself in the mirror ever again." There was a kindness, a maturity to his voice that he hadn't felt in days. "I don't want that for you, Ace."
"Man how many more times I gotta say this shit?!”
Ace should just shoot him right now. Connor was pleading and desperate—kinda? Connor was still trying to keep his cool beneath his fear.Lorenzen was trying to kill him with kindness. Appeal to their friendship and relationship. He was manipulating him, trying to get into his head in the way only loved ones could. Ace steeled his mind and his soul. It was him or Connor—only one person could go home. This wasn’t a team sport. This wasn’t a path he could walk with a partner. It was a lonely road and Ace Ortega had to walk it alone. This whole thing would end in two or so days. Ace would die or Connor would die. It didn’t matter who killed either of them. It didn’t matter who did what to who. Not when it came to the game.
“You still don’t get it Cap’n,” Beats grunted, “It ain’t 'bout want no more!”
His hands still shook as he gripped the BR-18 and looked down the sight. Green eyes met green eyes and all Ace could see was red. Beneath Connor’s iris Ace could see thousands of moments. Plays on the field, moments in the hallway, him dancing with Ivy at prom. Those days were gone. That version of Connor and that version of Ace didn’t exist anymore. Ace couldn’t allow that. Things were different. He was different. Connor was different. If that was a lie…Ace would fight on that lie. He'd die for it and kill for it too.
“If I make it home I’ll take it up with a shrink,” he said with a firmness, “If I die I’ll take it up with the devil.”
Connor was right. After this, there would be no turning back. But there was no turning back after he heard Dante and Toby died. There was no turning back after Meilin had perished. There was no turning back after Aliya. After Bret. After Wyatt. After Parker. After Myles. After Ivy. After Lori. After Saku. Ace always seemed to find another corner. So many times he had hesitated and failed. So often he went all in thinking he was right and it turned out all wrong. What if he was making a mistake? What the fuck was one more to a person like him?
Why did all those people who died because of him and by his hand die if not for his survival? Meilin told him to make it. Saku told him to finish things. They believed in him. He needed to live. He needed to do it for them. What other way was there to survive out here? There was only one. If Connor hadn’t figured it out yet—Ace couldn’t let him. Still, Connor's eye contact was too much. Ace couldn't do this like this. Connor was getting to him. Ace was going to hesitate. He was going to come up short. Beats wasn’t much of a man either.
“I'm sorry bro, it's over, ” Ace said finally, “Turn around. I’ll be quick.”
Ace should just shoot him right now. Connor was pleading and desperate—kinda? Connor was still trying to keep his cool beneath his fear.Lorenzen was trying to kill him with kindness. Appeal to their friendship and relationship. He was manipulating him, trying to get into his head in the way only loved ones could. Ace steeled his mind and his soul. It was him or Connor—only one person could go home. This wasn’t a team sport. This wasn’t a path he could walk with a partner. It was a lonely road and Ace Ortega had to walk it alone. This whole thing would end in two or so days. Ace would die or Connor would die. It didn’t matter who killed either of them. It didn’t matter who did what to who. Not when it came to the game.
“You still don’t get it Cap’n,” Beats grunted, “It ain’t 'bout want no more!”
His hands still shook as he gripped the BR-18 and looked down the sight. Green eyes met green eyes and all Ace could see was red. Beneath Connor’s iris Ace could see thousands of moments. Plays on the field, moments in the hallway, him dancing with Ivy at prom. Those days were gone. That version of Connor and that version of Ace didn’t exist anymore. Ace couldn’t allow that. Things were different. He was different. Connor was different. If that was a lie…Ace would fight on that lie. He'd die for it and kill for it too.
“If I make it home I’ll take it up with a shrink,” he said with a firmness, “If I die I’ll take it up with the devil.”
Connor was right. After this, there would be no turning back. But there was no turning back after he heard Dante and Toby died. There was no turning back after Meilin had perished. There was no turning back after Aliya. After Bret. After Wyatt. After Parker. After Myles. After Ivy. After Lori. After Saku. Ace always seemed to find another corner. So many times he had hesitated and failed. So often he went all in thinking he was right and it turned out all wrong. What if he was making a mistake? What the fuck was one more to a person like him?
Why did all those people who died because of him and by his hand die if not for his survival? Meilin told him to make it. Saku told him to finish things. They believed in him. He needed to live. He needed to do it for them. What other way was there to survive out here? There was only one. If Connor hadn’t figured it out yet—Ace couldn’t let him. Still, Connor's eye contact was too much. Ace couldn't do this like this. Connor was getting to him. Ace was going to hesitate. He was going to come up short. Beats wasn’t much of a man either.
“I'm sorry bro, it's over, ” Ace said finally, “Turn around. I’ll be quick.”
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
"How many— no." Connor cut himself off as he processed Ace's request. No matter what he said, it wasn't going to make any difference, so this was it. His buddy was really going to take the leap across the chasm and burn the bridge down behind him. He felt a stillness in his stomach as he processed the knowledge that his life was about to end. After a moment, he looked up, and smirked at him.
"No, I don't think so."
Somehow, in the last moments, he didn't feel afraid anymore. In fact, it was empowering to know that no matter what Mr. Danya and the terrorists could throw at them all, that Connor Lorenzen wasn't going to stoop down to their level. He wasn't going to play their game. Ace had been drawn in, he was in the thick of it. They had gotten to almost everyone. Almost. Calmly reaching into his pocket, Connor took out the multitool. When he'd tried to practice stabbing a water bottle, he'd failed at it. Hours earlier, he'd chastised himself for that. Now, he was proud of himself. Taking one last look at it, he haphazardly tossed it to the side. He didn't need it; never had.
"Y'all can keep saying it as much as you want. I know deep down, you don't believe it." Connor looked over at the shelter that he'd made days earlier. It still stood, it had outlived Juliette and likely himself, he supposed. That was the funny thing about legacy. No matter what anyone believed would be the imprint that they left behind, it wasn't up to them to decide. Rather, the only people who got to decide what a person's legacy was were those that they left behind. Perhaps people would look at him and see a coward. Maybe they'd see a man who couldn't adjust to his surroundings and floated through the game until he died.
Connor didn't care about any of that. He knew that the people who knew him best would see someone who refused to compromise his own humanity for the sake of anything, including his own life. He cared about Ace, as much as he cared about any of his friends. Perhaps their friendships wouldn't have lasted, but they would have always had their history.
History was all that was left.
"After all we've been through, you think I'm going to turn around and make this easy on you? No fuckin' way." He shook his head. "What is that you keep saying to me?"
Connor took a look up at the sky, poking through the trees above them. It was blue and mixed in with the green of the leaves that sheltered them, it made him feel at ease. It felt good, like a long-lost jacket. For the last moments he would ever have, the quarterback was in control. It was time to call one last play.
"I would if I could," he looked back down with a smile, first at the rifle, "but I can't so I won't."
His legs no longer shook as he took a step forward and his green eyes pierced right through Ace's. The smile fell away, there was no more reticence or fear, only determination. Connor was going to face fate on his own terms with his head held high and his pride and humanity intact. It was just a damn shame that it was going to cost someone else — a friend, even — theirs.
"This ain't a choice you ever had to make. No one's twisting your arm, that's all you," his voice was forceful and boomed through the trees one last time; the captain had returned. "but if that's it, if this is what you're gonna do?"
The seconds ticked away. Time was almost up.
"Y'all better have the damn respect to look me in the eyes while you do it."
One last hail-mary.
"No, I don't think so."
Somehow, in the last moments, he didn't feel afraid anymore. In fact, it was empowering to know that no matter what Mr. Danya and the terrorists could throw at them all, that Connor Lorenzen wasn't going to stoop down to their level. He wasn't going to play their game. Ace had been drawn in, he was in the thick of it. They had gotten to almost everyone. Almost. Calmly reaching into his pocket, Connor took out the multitool. When he'd tried to practice stabbing a water bottle, he'd failed at it. Hours earlier, he'd chastised himself for that. Now, he was proud of himself. Taking one last look at it, he haphazardly tossed it to the side. He didn't need it; never had.
"Y'all can keep saying it as much as you want. I know deep down, you don't believe it." Connor looked over at the shelter that he'd made days earlier. It still stood, it had outlived Juliette and likely himself, he supposed. That was the funny thing about legacy. No matter what anyone believed would be the imprint that they left behind, it wasn't up to them to decide. Rather, the only people who got to decide what a person's legacy was were those that they left behind. Perhaps people would look at him and see a coward. Maybe they'd see a man who couldn't adjust to his surroundings and floated through the game until he died.
Connor didn't care about any of that. He knew that the people who knew him best would see someone who refused to compromise his own humanity for the sake of anything, including his own life. He cared about Ace, as much as he cared about any of his friends. Perhaps their friendships wouldn't have lasted, but they would have always had their history.
History was all that was left.
"After all we've been through, you think I'm going to turn around and make this easy on you? No fuckin' way." He shook his head. "What is that you keep saying to me?"
Connor took a look up at the sky, poking through the trees above them. It was blue and mixed in with the green of the leaves that sheltered them, it made him feel at ease. It felt good, like a long-lost jacket. For the last moments he would ever have, the quarterback was in control. It was time to call one last play.
"I would if I could," he looked back down with a smile, first at the rifle, "but I can't so I won't."
His legs no longer shook as he took a step forward and his green eyes pierced right through Ace's. The smile fell away, there was no more reticence or fear, only determination. Connor was going to face fate on his own terms with his head held high and his pride and humanity intact. It was just a damn shame that it was going to cost someone else — a friend, even — theirs.
"This ain't a choice you ever had to make. No one's twisting your arm, that's all you," his voice was forceful and boomed through the trees one last time; the captain had returned. "but if that's it, if this is what you're gonna do?"
The seconds ticked away. Time was almost up.
"Y'all better have the damn respect to look me in the eyes while you do it."
One last hail-mary.
That was the thing about asking for something over and over again—somebody might just end up giving it to you. It always stung hearing your own words thrown at you. Connor wasn’t makin’ it easy. That was fine. That was preferable. Ace didn’t want it to be easy. That hurt? That pain? Beats wanted to feel that. He wanted to swim in it.
And did that boy drown or what?
“That’s a low fuckin’ blow,” Beats spat, “You playin’ dirty, huh? Tryna to tug on my heart strings like that,” he was babbling, blubbering, near tears again, “This ain’t fuckin’ easy already, y’know? Like,” this is what he asked for, “It ain’t fuckin’ personal, you don’t gotta ma--,” his body still shook, “Fuck man! Shit! Fuck you bro! Goddamn!”
He couldn’t form his thoughts, he wanted to close his eyes but he couldn’t look away from Connor’s. Beats had the gun. Beats was going for the win. Somehow Connor looked like victory.
“Fuck you,” he said with the same tone he’d say when Connor would beat him in Madden, half chuckle and half curse, “S’all good,” he said to himself, “This the way it has to go,” if it was a lie—he’d have to be ready to die on it, kill for it, “This is the way it has to be. It ain't my fault you don't get it! It's too fuckin' late...”
Too late for who? Beats wanted to close his eyes. Ace wanted to just pull the trigger and end it now. He was too far gone. There was no way out. He was in too deep.
“Be a man,” he said to Connor, “Be brave,” green eyes stared holes into green eyes, “Be a man,” he repeated to himself, “Be br—”
And did that boy drown or what?
“That’s a low fuckin’ blow,” Beats spat, “You playin’ dirty, huh? Tryna to tug on my heart strings like that,” he was babbling, blubbering, near tears again, “This ain’t fuckin’ easy already, y’know? Like,” this is what he asked for, “It ain’t fuckin’ personal, you don’t gotta ma--,” his body still shook, “Fuck man! Shit! Fuck you bro! Goddamn!”
He couldn’t form his thoughts, he wanted to close his eyes but he couldn’t look away from Connor’s. Beats had the gun. Beats was going for the win. Somehow Connor looked like victory.
“Fuck you,” he said with the same tone he’d say when Connor would beat him in Madden, half chuckle and half curse, “S’all good,” he said to himself, “This the way it has to go,” if it was a lie—he’d have to be ready to die on it, kill for it, “This is the way it has to be. It ain't my fault you don't get it! It's too fuckin' late...”
Too late for who? Beats wanted to close his eyes. Ace wanted to just pull the trigger and end it now. He was too far gone. There was no way out. He was in too deep.
“Be a man,” he said to Connor, “Be brave,” green eyes stared holes into green eyes, “Be a man,” he repeated to himself, “Be br—”
BRRAT-BRRAT!!!
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
The ball sailed harmlessly past the end zone; time was up.
Perhaps the most fascinating thing about the two quick impacts that staggered him backwards was the one thing that Connor had never counted on — he didn't feel any pain. Throughout any media that he'd ever seen, be it television, film or even in the odd video game, anyone who was shot cried out with a bloodcurdling scream, collapsing dramatically as they writhed around in pain.
Connor didn't even fall over.
"Huh."
Instead, he simply blinked in surprise at the sudden pressure that covered his entire chest and looked down. His hand went instinctively to the pressure and returned covered in a dark crimson. There was no doubt, his story was complete. It had been written with the wrong ending, it was not the story that he would have told was he behind it, but he was satisfied with it all the same. While no, he would never learn what it meant to play college football, he would also never grow old and have a wife, know the beauty of what it was to be someone's father, nor would he ever see his parents grow old and pass on. All of those experiences would be absent from the story of Connor Lorenzen and that saddened him. The pressure in his chest continued to mount; sitting down was probably a good idea right about now.
Taking a few staggering steps towards Ace, he didn't even give the boy a glance as he walked over towards a tree, its thick trunk embodying many lifetimes of memories and experiences. This tree was likely older than every student on the island combined. It survived, it thrived even after everything that happened around it. Flicking some of the blood off of his hand, he reached down to sit by the tree. His legs buckled, but he was able to steel himself and slowly lower himself to the ground.
Blinking again, Connor tried to breathe in, a haggard noise matched only by a strange sucking sound that after a moment, he realized was coming from the two holes in his chest. The harder he tried to breathe, the louder the noise was. After a few attempts to breathe that was replaced by the awful noise, his shoulders shook.
He started to laugh — or tried to.
"Fuck that's— I think y'all got me, big man."
Connor looked up at Ace and grinned, his teeth now stained with dark red blood. His tone was sarcastic, guttural. Another half-laugh, and he coughed, blood now expelling itself from his mouth. Putting his palms up in a sort of half-shrug, he reached up with his non-bloody hand and wiped his mouth. He would maintain his dignity to the very end. Reaching into his shirt, he grabbed the chain he wore around his neck and held it in his hand, using the last of his strength to yank it off his neck. Looking away from his murderer, Connor looked down at the cross. Never having been overly religious, the item was mainly sentimental in nature, a gift from his grandfather that had been passed down from his father and then to him once he entered high school. Spitting some blood onto the ground, Connor wheezed as he recited a silent prayer. Wherever he was heading next, he supposed he would need the help. With any luck, he might have a few friends waiting for him. Perhaps even Madison.
The pressure on his chest was even heavier now and Connor was starting to feel weak. His legs were numb, he tried to move them out of pure curiosity and found that they weren't going to cooperate. Glancing back down, he saw that his own blood was starting to pool underneath him. His formerly blue shirt was filthy with eleven days of dirt and grime, but the crimson had soaked through and rendered it unidentifiable. He was a complete mess, there could be absolutely no doubt.
This was it.
Through it all, he still didn't feel any pain. The fear and the anxiety that had been ruling him were totally absent and Connor felt comfortable. He had done all that he could, fought through Survival of the Fittest the best that he knew how. He didn't win, but he was going to die with his head held high and his humanity intact.
That may not have been winning, but it sure as hell wasn't a loss.
"Ace," he croaked, his voice deadly serious and the ability to breathe starting to become a luxury. "Look at me."
Connor held his hand up to his chest and pressed on his wound as if to earn himself another extra moment.
"You— you're gonna have to live with this for— for a long time." He was interrupted by a coughing spasm, one that sent blood spurting from his lips. He didn't bother to wipe it off this time, his hands were otherwise occupied, but he looked at his murderer — his friend — and smiled.
"A long time," he repeated as a speck of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, "and I hope you do, brother. Really."
Moving his hand from his chest, he lowered it to rest against his stomach. His fingers were outstretched but his thumb was tucked in; four fingers extended. A message; Connor knew that it would be received loud and clear. The pressure on his chest was insurmountable now, and it was time to pack it in. With one last sigh, he let his body relax; the last feeling he allowed to linger through his consciousness was pride.
For Connor Lorenzen, the game was finally over.
B042 - LORENZEN, CONNOR -- DECEASED
Perhaps the most fascinating thing about the two quick impacts that staggered him backwards was the one thing that Connor had never counted on — he didn't feel any pain. Throughout any media that he'd ever seen, be it television, film or even in the odd video game, anyone who was shot cried out with a bloodcurdling scream, collapsing dramatically as they writhed around in pain.
Connor didn't even fall over.
"Huh."
Instead, he simply blinked in surprise at the sudden pressure that covered his entire chest and looked down. His hand went instinctively to the pressure and returned covered in a dark crimson. There was no doubt, his story was complete. It had been written with the wrong ending, it was not the story that he would have told was he behind it, but he was satisfied with it all the same. While no, he would never learn what it meant to play college football, he would also never grow old and have a wife, know the beauty of what it was to be someone's father, nor would he ever see his parents grow old and pass on. All of those experiences would be absent from the story of Connor Lorenzen and that saddened him. The pressure in his chest continued to mount; sitting down was probably a good idea right about now.
Taking a few staggering steps towards Ace, he didn't even give the boy a glance as he walked over towards a tree, its thick trunk embodying many lifetimes of memories and experiences. This tree was likely older than every student on the island combined. It survived, it thrived even after everything that happened around it. Flicking some of the blood off of his hand, he reached down to sit by the tree. His legs buckled, but he was able to steel himself and slowly lower himself to the ground.
Blinking again, Connor tried to breathe in, a haggard noise matched only by a strange sucking sound that after a moment, he realized was coming from the two holes in his chest. The harder he tried to breathe, the louder the noise was. After a few attempts to breathe that was replaced by the awful noise, his shoulders shook.
He started to laugh — or tried to.
"Fuck that's— I think y'all got me, big man."
Connor looked up at Ace and grinned, his teeth now stained with dark red blood. His tone was sarcastic, guttural. Another half-laugh, and he coughed, blood now expelling itself from his mouth. Putting his palms up in a sort of half-shrug, he reached up with his non-bloody hand and wiped his mouth. He would maintain his dignity to the very end. Reaching into his shirt, he grabbed the chain he wore around his neck and held it in his hand, using the last of his strength to yank it off his neck. Looking away from his murderer, Connor looked down at the cross. Never having been overly religious, the item was mainly sentimental in nature, a gift from his grandfather that had been passed down from his father and then to him once he entered high school. Spitting some blood onto the ground, Connor wheezed as he recited a silent prayer. Wherever he was heading next, he supposed he would need the help. With any luck, he might have a few friends waiting for him. Perhaps even Madison.
The pressure on his chest was even heavier now and Connor was starting to feel weak. His legs were numb, he tried to move them out of pure curiosity and found that they weren't going to cooperate. Glancing back down, he saw that his own blood was starting to pool underneath him. His formerly blue shirt was filthy with eleven days of dirt and grime, but the crimson had soaked through and rendered it unidentifiable. He was a complete mess, there could be absolutely no doubt.
This was it.
Through it all, he still didn't feel any pain. The fear and the anxiety that had been ruling him were totally absent and Connor felt comfortable. He had done all that he could, fought through Survival of the Fittest the best that he knew how. He didn't win, but he was going to die with his head held high and his humanity intact.
That may not have been winning, but it sure as hell wasn't a loss.
"Ace," he croaked, his voice deadly serious and the ability to breathe starting to become a luxury. "Look at me."
Connor held his hand up to his chest and pressed on his wound as if to earn himself another extra moment.
"You— you're gonna have to live with this for— for a long time." He was interrupted by a coughing spasm, one that sent blood spurting from his lips. He didn't bother to wipe it off this time, his hands were otherwise occupied, but he looked at his murderer — his friend — and smiled.
"A long time," he repeated as a speck of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, "and I hope you do, brother. Really."
Moving his hand from his chest, he lowered it to rest against his stomach. His fingers were outstretched but his thumb was tucked in; four fingers extended. A message; Connor knew that it would be received loud and clear. The pressure on his chest was insurmountable now, and it was time to pack it in. With one last sigh, he let his body relax; the last feeling he allowed to linger through his consciousness was pride.
For Connor Lorenzen, the game was finally over.
B042 - LORENZEN, CONNOR -- DECEASED
When the shots rang out—Ace entered a state of shock. When Connor stumbled forward, mumbling and going through his final motions—Ace didn’t know what to do. He would like to tell you that he was listening to Connor. Being moved by his words and the dignity in which he approach death…but that would be a lie. Three words were ringing through Ace’s mind. Pumping with his pulse like an 808 drum.
Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again!
In the end, the shots Ace wanted to hit always missed. The shots he wanted to miss always hit. The shots that did the most damage were the ones he didn't take at all.
In the moment, he was never capable of making the right decision. In the moment, he was only capable of being wrong. Connor had been his friend and teammate. Connor had never hurt a fly. He had been the prom king and he had danced with Ivy the prom queen. Ace had seen them both die. Beats had pretty much killed 'em both. Lorenzen was going to Notre Dame. Connor had the golden ticket and was gonna be a Golden Domer. He had been a good guy. He didn’t deserve to die. Ace didn’t want to kill him.
But want didn’t matter.
After the bullets rang and Connor walked off and died, there was no big grand gesture of guilt. No screaming and begging for forgiveness. No more loud tears or desperate cries and curses. There was just quiet. Dead silence. Staring. Eye contact that burned from Ace's skull to his stomach and persisted long after Connor had stopped. Ace felt nothing. Beats didn't move a muscle.
Then he puked. Loudly. Violently.
Because he had barely eaten anything of substance in a week—all that came out was bile. Then loud dry heaving. When he gained his composure he picked up his bag and stumbled away from the scene. He noticed the knife Connor had thrown and he picked that shit up too. He walked away with a quickness. He walked away with a focus. The focus was on trying to forget. Three day old words from a three day dead friend rang true in his soul. Memory was a cruel, twisting knife.
It couldn’t be for nothing. It wouldn't be meaningless.
Ace wouldn’t let it.
[ Ace Ortega Continued In: What we are in the dark ]
Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again! Shoot him again!
In the end, the shots Ace wanted to hit always missed. The shots he wanted to miss always hit. The shots that did the most damage were the ones he didn't take at all.
In the moment, he was never capable of making the right decision. In the moment, he was only capable of being wrong. Connor had been his friend and teammate. Connor had never hurt a fly. He had been the prom king and he had danced with Ivy the prom queen. Ace had seen them both die. Beats had pretty much killed 'em both. Lorenzen was going to Notre Dame. Connor had the golden ticket and was gonna be a Golden Domer. He had been a good guy. He didn’t deserve to die. Ace didn’t want to kill him.
But want didn’t matter.
After the bullets rang and Connor walked off and died, there was no big grand gesture of guilt. No screaming and begging for forgiveness. No more loud tears or desperate cries and curses. There was just quiet. Dead silence. Staring. Eye contact that burned from Ace's skull to his stomach and persisted long after Connor had stopped. Ace felt nothing. Beats didn't move a muscle.
Then he puked. Loudly. Violently.
Because he had barely eaten anything of substance in a week—all that came out was bile. Then loud dry heaving. When he gained his composure he picked up his bag and stumbled away from the scene. He noticed the knife Connor had thrown and he picked that shit up too. He walked away with a quickness. He walked away with a focus. The focus was on trying to forget. Three day old words from a three day dead friend rang true in his soul. Memory was a cruel, twisting knife.
“I hope you're right Cap'n," he said quietly, finally, "I really do."Aliya wrote: "Hey, you killed someone and you've gotta carry that now. You made the choice to shoot that gun and tomorrow they're gonna tell you the name of who it was and you need to carry that too. You made a mistake, but you can't let it destroy you. You can't let their death be meaningless."
It couldn’t be for nothing. It wouldn't be meaningless.
Ace wouldn’t let it.
[ Ace Ortega Continued In: What we are in the dark ]
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'