((Morton Bishop continued from Yankee Punks Fuck Off))
The primary difference between these so-called dwellings and the massive mountain of wreckage in which Morton had awoken was that here, the rubbish was fashioned into walls and furniture and tacky decorations. He couldn't see the rats, but he could swear he could hear them from time to time, scrabbling along across the floor of the upper level or scratching their way through the walls.
Correction: he couldn't see most of the rats. Michelle was right across from him, and he was not letting her out of his sight.
Morton was slouched on an old, stinky sofa with holes in the bottom bleeding stuffing. The local rodents had been pillaging it for their nests, surely, and there was probably a hideous amount of animal waste somewhere down below, but the closest alternative had been a building with a bullet hole in the stucco by the door and an improbable array of beds strewn in the first room and that had seemed creepy even to him. This place was decrepit and gross, little more than a filthy hovel, but...
Well, actually, but what? It was nasty and dirty and they were just taking a rest for the moment. Soon enough they'd move along, continuing on their mission of oh-wait-you-mean-maybe-we-should-think-of-a-plan? It did feel nice to just sit and do nothing, though, especially with his palm still stinging and the sun beating down relentlessly outside. He was not in a good mood, truth be told, even compared to how he'd felt earlier. Constant vigilance had that effect. It was draining to be perpetually on alert.
They'd been sitting around for a while, words periodic but infrequent and of little consequence. Right now, though, a distraction was in order.
"You'd think they'd at least throw us somewhere nice," he said. "I thought America claimed to be a land of luxury and opportunity. All I see is some slum."
He was addressing this observation to Ashley, of course. Michelle was technically part of the audience, but if she felt unwelcome maybe she'd get the hint and go fall off a pier or something.
Morton's Fork
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MurderWeasel
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((Ashley Pontecorvo continued from Yankee Punks Fuck Off))
"It's not really their land," Ashley said without looking up from the packaged food she'd spread out around her spot on the floor. Her bag was leaning against the wall with the scythe laid across it, and her sad-looking rations spread in a half-circle in front of where she sat, the better to survey the offerings.
As far as moods went, she probably wasn't doing much better than Morton, if she could be said to be better at all, and the fact that nothing she had procured from her bag looked at all appetizing wasn't helping. It was fucking hot outside, and the hangry hadn't crept up on her so much as latched on like an insistent child and refused to let go. They'd found shelter from the sun, but no other people, and Morton couldn't stop being a tit.
"Like they own it, technically, because they put a bunch of fucking soldiers here and told the people already living here that they own it now. But if it's the same place that we rescued those Yank kids from, it's like... fucking Mexico or something." The British government didn't recognize the United States' claim to the parts of South America that they'd invaded, and neither did Ashley. She'd never been a star student, but she could still clearly picture in her mind the old maps on the walls of her classrooms, the warped crescent moon shape that connected the American continents, and the fact that none of that area had "Property of the U.S.A." stamped on it.
"But y'know, next time we get kidnapped, I'll be sure to let 'em know that Princess Morton is with us and he needs his five-star accommodations." After another moment of deliberation, Ashley selected one of the foil packages that declared itself a brownie, and unwrapped it to take a bite.
"Ugh, and they can't fucking cook a decent meal, either. I've had better stuff that was sitting in the school canteen for two days."
"It's not really their land," Ashley said without looking up from the packaged food she'd spread out around her spot on the floor. Her bag was leaning against the wall with the scythe laid across it, and her sad-looking rations spread in a half-circle in front of where she sat, the better to survey the offerings.
As far as moods went, she probably wasn't doing much better than Morton, if she could be said to be better at all, and the fact that nothing she had procured from her bag looked at all appetizing wasn't helping. It was fucking hot outside, and the hangry hadn't crept up on her so much as latched on like an insistent child and refused to let go. They'd found shelter from the sun, but no other people, and Morton couldn't stop being a tit.
"Like they own it, technically, because they put a bunch of fucking soldiers here and told the people already living here that they own it now. But if it's the same place that we rescued those Yank kids from, it's like... fucking Mexico or something." The British government didn't recognize the United States' claim to the parts of South America that they'd invaded, and neither did Ashley. She'd never been a star student, but she could still clearly picture in her mind the old maps on the walls of her classrooms, the warped crescent moon shape that connected the American continents, and the fact that none of that area had "Property of the U.S.A." stamped on it.
"But y'know, next time we get kidnapped, I'll be sure to let 'em know that Princess Morton is with us and he needs his five-star accommodations." After another moment of deliberation, Ashley selected one of the foil packages that declared itself a brownie, and unwrapped it to take a bite.
"Ugh, and they can't fucking cook a decent meal, either. I've had better stuff that was sitting in the school canteen for two days."
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Wham Yubeesling
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((Michelle White, continued from Yankee Punks Fuck Off))
“It’s only the land of the free if you’re the type of person who stands to benefit from what they do,” she said.
She was sitting sideways bunched up in an armchair, bag in her lap and body bunched up all around it, her legs crossed and kept in tight so that her left knee didn’t go off the edge. Her head was placed down onto her bag, but she was still looking up, her eyes unfocused and glazing at a point between the wall and the floor. She knew that there were things that she needed to do and that she’d need to have energy if she were to do what needed to be done over the next few days but she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to get it. Between where they were and seeing the teachers getting their heads shot off and wondering whether her class would keep their humanity and having to be in the same general vicinity with Morton a part of her felt like just finding the nearest bed and crawling under the sheets and dying inside.
She had to pretend as if things were still okay. For the other two — Ashley, more importantly. If she wanted to keep morale up and maybe help others through their issues she had to pretend as if things were going fine for herself. Fake it till she made it, as her mother used to say.
...And oh no oh no now she just thought of her parents and Peacock. How it was so very likely that she’d never be able to see them again. She took a breath, tried to make it sound normal. Went back into what she was previously saying, if only so that she could forget about them again.
“Like, I’ve… heard stuff, from being on the internet. Stories about what happens over here. Apparently if you’re not white or if you’re not rich or if you’re not within their idea of a true American they… abuse you. Make you seem like an enemy. Treat you as if you’re subhuman, and...”
Words came from Ashley’s mouth. Michelle’s point, louder and bolder and better than she ever could have made it.
She placed her head down again. Scrunched it into her bag. There wasn’t any real point in trying to continue off of that.
“It’s only the land of the free if you’re the type of person who stands to benefit from what they do,” she said.
She was sitting sideways bunched up in an armchair, bag in her lap and body bunched up all around it, her legs crossed and kept in tight so that her left knee didn’t go off the edge. Her head was placed down onto her bag, but she was still looking up, her eyes unfocused and glazing at a point between the wall and the floor. She knew that there were things that she needed to do and that she’d need to have energy if she were to do what needed to be done over the next few days but she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to get it. Between where they were and seeing the teachers getting their heads shot off and wondering whether her class would keep their humanity and having to be in the same general vicinity with Morton a part of her felt like just finding the nearest bed and crawling under the sheets and dying inside.
She had to pretend as if things were still okay. For the other two — Ashley, more importantly. If she wanted to keep morale up and maybe help others through their issues she had to pretend as if things were going fine for herself. Fake it till she made it, as her mother used to say.
...And oh no oh no now she just thought of her parents and Peacock. How it was so very likely that she’d never be able to see them again. She took a breath, tried to make it sound normal. Went back into what she was previously saying, if only so that she could forget about them again.
“Like, I’ve… heard stuff, from being on the internet. Stories about what happens over here. Apparently if you’re not white or if you’re not rich or if you’re not within their idea of a true American they… abuse you. Make you seem like an enemy. Treat you as if you’re subhuman, and...”
Words came from Ashley’s mouth. Michelle’s point, louder and bolder and better than she ever could have made it.
She placed her head down again. Scrunched it into her bag. There wasn’t any real point in trying to continue off of that.
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MurderWeasel
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Ashley decided to get all pedantic about things. Michelle contributed nothing of real value, as usual. Yeah, the US was awful and racist and whatever. Also, the pope was Catholic.
Morton, while they talked, dug the knife out of his belt and started poking holes in the sofa. It was actually a little harder than he'd expected, maybe because he wasn't totally jamming the knife in there or anything, maybe because the sofa was so ratty that it had a lot of give to it. He half wanted to cut a strip of the fabric off, just to keep his hands busy, and half was reluctant to discover what lay beneath.
"I mean," he said, "I guess on the other hand you do have to hand it to them."
The knife sunk deeper this time, more force behind it, and its tip nicked something more solid within, likely part of the frame. He twisted it around a little, not sure what he was expecting to happen. The actual result was more nothing. The stench of sea and rot had faded a bit, but thinking about that brought it all right back, and his irritation flared.
He was aware that the other two were more or less commiserating with him, but that wasn't proving emotionally fulfilling right now so what the hell, he was gonna take the opposite stance anyways. Kind of, at least.
"I mean, they snuck into our country and manage to nab us all, and we're on guard for that sort of nonsense. That has to be harder than swiping a bunch of kids the yanks didn't want anyways."
He tugged the knife loose again and turned it over in his palm, examining the blade and the rip it had gouged in the sofa, contemplating the faint yellow foam showing through the gash.
Morton, while they talked, dug the knife out of his belt and started poking holes in the sofa. It was actually a little harder than he'd expected, maybe because he wasn't totally jamming the knife in there or anything, maybe because the sofa was so ratty that it had a lot of give to it. He half wanted to cut a strip of the fabric off, just to keep his hands busy, and half was reluctant to discover what lay beneath.
"I mean," he said, "I guess on the other hand you do have to hand it to them."
The knife sunk deeper this time, more force behind it, and its tip nicked something more solid within, likely part of the frame. He twisted it around a little, not sure what he was expecting to happen. The actual result was more nothing. The stench of sea and rot had faded a bit, but thinking about that brought it all right back, and his irritation flared.
He was aware that the other two were more or less commiserating with him, but that wasn't proving emotionally fulfilling right now so what the hell, he was gonna take the opposite stance anyways. Kind of, at least.
"I mean, they snuck into our country and manage to nab us all, and we're on guard for that sort of nonsense. That has to be harder than swiping a bunch of kids the yanks didn't want anyways."
He tugged the knife loose again and turned it over in his palm, examining the blade and the rip it had gouged in the sofa, contemplating the faint yellow foam showing through the gash.
"Bull fucking shit." The words didn't come out as powerfully as intended, since Ashley still had a mouthful of dense brownie. She wasn't sure if she had ever chewed with outrage before, but she was doing it now. Finally choking the food down and swiping the back of her hand over her mouth to clear away a few stray crumbs, she shot Morton a glare.
"We're not 'on guard' for this sort of thing. Why the hell would you be? Nobody would swoop in to another country for hostages just to take them back and have them killed unless they were fucking psychos. You know, the kind of thing they lied about us doing?"
Ashley didn't care about Morton's reasons for deciding to play devil's advocate. He could have defended almost anyone but the bullshit country that had made her and countless others orphans, but of course he decided to go with the worst possible choice. Ever the rat. She didn't like the knife in his hand either, and especially not together with his words.
The food hadn't helped her irritation one bit, and as Morton only fanned the flames, Ashley got to her feet. Anger always made her need to move. Just move, blow it off, let it all out, and then she'd be fine.
Except she wouldn't. Not here, not now. And not with Morton still being his stupid asshole self, for sure.
"If you could pick one day in your whole life to not be an insufferable prick, today could've been the day, y'know? You maybe wanna give it another try? Just for shits 'n giggles?"
He could still take it back. Do the smart thing, realize the way his words cut her, and man the fuck up and apologize.
He could do that, or Ashley could kick his ass like she should have done in the very beginning.
"We're not 'on guard' for this sort of thing. Why the hell would you be? Nobody would swoop in to another country for hostages just to take them back and have them killed unless they were fucking psychos. You know, the kind of thing they lied about us doing?"
Ashley didn't care about Morton's reasons for deciding to play devil's advocate. He could have defended almost anyone but the bullshit country that had made her and countless others orphans, but of course he decided to go with the worst possible choice. Ever the rat. She didn't like the knife in his hand either, and especially not together with his words.
The food hadn't helped her irritation one bit, and as Morton only fanned the flames, Ashley got to her feet. Anger always made her need to move. Just move, blow it off, let it all out, and then she'd be fine.
Except she wouldn't. Not here, not now. And not with Morton still being his stupid asshole self, for sure.
"If you could pick one day in your whole life to not be an insufferable prick, today could've been the day, y'know? You maybe wanna give it another try? Just for shits 'n giggles?"
He could still take it back. Do the smart thing, realize the way his words cut her, and man the fuck up and apologize.
He could do that, or Ashley could kick his ass like she should have done in the very beginning.
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Wham Yubeesling
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There was something in the air. Tension, if Michelle were to try and guess. Morton was being his usual Morton self again and now it seemed that it was wearing on people who weren’t Michelle. She breathed in and let her head sink down even lower into her bag. Trying to speak even further seemed like a waste of her time.
...She giggled at Ashley’s last remark though, louder than she meant it to be. Man, did she wish she was cool and also socially capable enough to put Morton in his place like that. That would be the best.
...She giggled at Ashley’s last remark though, louder than she meant it to be. Man, did she wish she was cool and also socially capable enough to put Morton in his place like that. That would be the best.
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MurderWeasel
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Morton sighed and leaned back a bit, raising and lowering his shoulders. This was more or less what he was fishing for; Ashley was getting all flustered and insulting, and not making very good points, making her easy to respond to.
Okay, he didn't actually like the insults. Did she really have to act like they were in primary school? She was getting all personally offended on behalf of the crown, which was fine and all except really this was mostly on Prime Minister Vokes being a waffly wimp. Clarifying that probably wouldn't help, but he did it anyways.
"I mean," he said, "we, England, really should be watching for this. The yanks pull dirty tricks all the time, and if we'd been prepared for that, like we used to be, then we—as in, us, you and me and her—" that one punctuated by a vague jerk of the knife in the direction of Michelle, who Morton took a quick glance at just to make sure she wasn't pulling an Uzi out while they were distracted, "wouldn't be here."
He shrugged, more fully this time, and his tone shifted a little. He was talking to Ashley a little more like he'd talk to a kid now, or a kind of dim dog, or Michelle.
"I know it's frustrating, but really you should just chill out."
And right then, he was seized by this moment of pure genius inspiration and pointed the knife straight between Ashley's eyes, still a nice distance away because he wasn't going to hurt her or threaten her or anything, just startle her. With a grin, Morton thumbed the button and discharged the CO2 canister straight into her face, a wonderful satisfying hiss and kick of compressed gas spraying a cold stream right at his heated companion.
Almost instantly, Morton devolved into giggles.
Okay, he didn't actually like the insults. Did she really have to act like they were in primary school? She was getting all personally offended on behalf of the crown, which was fine and all except really this was mostly on Prime Minister Vokes being a waffly wimp. Clarifying that probably wouldn't help, but he did it anyways.
"I mean," he said, "we, England, really should be watching for this. The yanks pull dirty tricks all the time, and if we'd been prepared for that, like we used to be, then we—as in, us, you and me and her—" that one punctuated by a vague jerk of the knife in the direction of Michelle, who Morton took a quick glance at just to make sure she wasn't pulling an Uzi out while they were distracted, "wouldn't be here."
He shrugged, more fully this time, and his tone shifted a little. He was talking to Ashley a little more like he'd talk to a kid now, or a kind of dim dog, or Michelle.
"I know it's frustrating, but really you should just chill out."
And right then, he was seized by this moment of pure genius inspiration and pointed the knife straight between Ashley's eyes, still a nice distance away because he wasn't going to hurt her or threaten her or anything, just startle her. With a grin, Morton thumbed the button and discharged the CO2 canister straight into her face, a wonderful satisfying hiss and kick of compressed gas spraying a cold stream right at his heated companion.
Almost instantly, Morton devolved into giggles.
Morton was still waving the knife around, and Ashley didn't like it, and his words were doing nothing but pissing her off more, and then the blade of the knife was pointed right in her face. Ashley's fists curled instinctively, primed for violence.
The shock of cold air in her face drew out nothing but a startled squeak.
What-?
She stood frozen was Morton collapsed into giggling, trying to parse what had just happened. A joke. A joke, after telling her to chill out about her dead fucking parents.
Ashley let her response be voiced in the crack of her fist meeting Morton's nose.
The shock of cold air in her face drew out nothing but a startled squeak.
What-?
She stood frozen was Morton collapsed into giggling, trying to parse what had just happened. A joke. A joke, after telling her to chill out about her dead fucking parents.
Ashley let her response be voiced in the crack of her fist meeting Morton's nose.
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MurderWeasel
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The crack of fist against face brought Morton up short. His giggles died, swallowed like the blood suddenly dribbling from his nose that fell to his lips or passed through his sinuses or something, he didn't know, there was pain and blood and some of it was in his mouth and he was reeling backwards, head snapping back because he was taller than the ragged sofa.
It took him by surprise. He did pause, for just a moment, eyes wide and unfocused. He hadn't expected that. Jokes were, well, he knew a lot of people were little bitches about jokes, but there was a big difference between getting all huffy and actually decking someone. His nose hurt something fierce, and Ashley was probably so satisfied with herself. She probably thought she'd showed him who was boss. That classic rhetorical flourish, the sucker punch. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of the knife, unconsciously.
A lot of people got certain things impressed upon them at a young age. For boys, "don't hit girls, ever," was one of those. And yeah, Morton had heard it. It'd always struck him as a little hypocritical, like, "treat girls as equals except for all these exceptions," but hey, he wasn't really about hitting anyone, especially those too weak to defend themselves properly. And people didn't really force the issue with him, usually. But now Ashley had struck first, and while Morton hadn't personally been grilled too much on this one, "don't let someone hit you and get away with it," was another of those classic lessons.
So after a blink or two, a moment of pause, he shoved his arms behind him for leverage and bounced back up off the couch, straight at Ashley, grabbing and flailing at her. The knife wasn't really a considered part of the attack, but he didn't drop it either. Fuck her. He could scare her a little, or like stab her. Just a little. Lightly. Not to kill her or anything, just to make an impression.
It took him by surprise. He did pause, for just a moment, eyes wide and unfocused. He hadn't expected that. Jokes were, well, he knew a lot of people were little bitches about jokes, but there was a big difference between getting all huffy and actually decking someone. His nose hurt something fierce, and Ashley was probably so satisfied with herself. She probably thought she'd showed him who was boss. That classic rhetorical flourish, the sucker punch. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of the knife, unconsciously.
A lot of people got certain things impressed upon them at a young age. For boys, "don't hit girls, ever," was one of those. And yeah, Morton had heard it. It'd always struck him as a little hypocritical, like, "treat girls as equals except for all these exceptions," but hey, he wasn't really about hitting anyone, especially those too weak to defend themselves properly. And people didn't really force the issue with him, usually. But now Ashley had struck first, and while Morton hadn't personally been grilled too much on this one, "don't let someone hit you and get away with it," was another of those classic lessons.
So after a blink or two, a moment of pause, he shoved his arms behind him for leverage and bounced back up off the couch, straight at Ashley, grabbing and flailing at her. The knife wasn't really a considered part of the attack, but he didn't drop it either. Fuck her. He could scare her a little, or like stab her. Just a little. Lightly. Not to kill her or anything, just to make an impression.
So Ashley probably could have thought this through better.
She had solved a lot of problems in her life with her fists (and probably created just as many at the same time, but whatever). None of those problems so far had ever included knife-wielding maniacs, or even regular knife-wielding assholes.
Still, when Morton came at her, she was expecting it and ready, and she met him rather than backing up. He was taller, and as always there was the fucking knife, but he was also some pampered teacher's pet who had never been in a fight in his life. Ashley took the couple of hits that he flailed at her with a grunt, instead focusing on grabbing for his arm to try and control where the blade went.
The knuckles of her right hand were stinging afresh, the bandaged cuts reopened from the impact with Morton's face. There was another little sting of pain when she curled another fist and drove it into his stomach.
She had solved a lot of problems in her life with her fists (and probably created just as many at the same time, but whatever). None of those problems so far had ever included knife-wielding maniacs, or even regular knife-wielding assholes.
Still, when Morton came at her, she was expecting it and ready, and she met him rather than backing up. He was taller, and as always there was the fucking knife, but he was also some pampered teacher's pet who had never been in a fight in his life. Ashley took the couple of hits that he flailed at her with a grunt, instead focusing on grabbing for his arm to try and control where the blade went.
The knuckles of her right hand were stinging afresh, the bandaged cuts reopened from the impact with Morton's face. There was another little sting of pain when she curled another fist and drove it into his stomach.
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MurderWeasel
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Morton had this thought that being bigger and presumably in significantly better shape than Ashley was pretty much all there was to this. He'd overpower her, smack her around just a little, make his statement that he wasn't someone she could take a swing at free of consequences, and then...
Look, he was busy grappling with her. The "and then" hadn't really been on his mind when he got started, so it would have to wait until "then" to get sorted out. Probably he'd leave or something, because these two were obviously worthless anyways and better to be alone than in the company of those who would slug you for a joke and all that. But that was sort of distant because Ashley wasn't crumpling like wet newspaper. She was struggling, fighting back, and that wasn't really how this was supposed to go.
Morton's current activities had been conceptualized, when it all came down to it, as a retributive beating, not a fight. Now, the girl he was grappling with was throwing herself into it, hand on his wrist, twisting and turning and trying to control the knife that wasn't even really that important to this. He would've even dropped it, except that he was starting to realize something: Ashley was nuts. She was playing for keeps, probably had been since the first blow. If he let a weapon out of his hand, she might grab it and do anything. So no, Morton would keep hold of it, thank you very much.
Then she punched him in the gut, hard, and the wind and fight went out of him, not entirely but enough that his resistance weakened, the tip of the knife slid away from Ashley, and Morton didn't worry too much about that. He had more important things in mind, like gasping for air.
Look, he was busy grappling with her. The "and then" hadn't really been on his mind when he got started, so it would have to wait until "then" to get sorted out. Probably he'd leave or something, because these two were obviously worthless anyways and better to be alone than in the company of those who would slug you for a joke and all that. But that was sort of distant because Ashley wasn't crumpling like wet newspaper. She was struggling, fighting back, and that wasn't really how this was supposed to go.
Morton's current activities had been conceptualized, when it all came down to it, as a retributive beating, not a fight. Now, the girl he was grappling with was throwing herself into it, hand on his wrist, twisting and turning and trying to control the knife that wasn't even really that important to this. He would've even dropped it, except that he was starting to realize something: Ashley was nuts. She was playing for keeps, probably had been since the first blow. If he let a weapon out of his hand, she might grab it and do anything. So no, Morton would keep hold of it, thank you very much.
Then she punched him in the gut, hard, and the wind and fight went out of him, not entirely but enough that his resistance weakened, the tip of the knife slid away from Ashley, and Morton didn't worry too much about that. He had more important things in mind, like gasping for air.
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Wham Yubeesling
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And immediately after there’d been a moment of levity — as minor and at someone else’s expense as it was — everything went down again, to a level far worse than before.
Michelle had seen Morton threatening Ashley. She watched as Ashley bit back, punched Morton in the face. Now the two of them were grabbing, threatening to kill one another and Michelle felt locked in place, unable to do anything about any of this. One of them would probably end up killing the other and then they would go to Michelle and act as if it was a total accident and that everything would be totally fine now that the obvious bad egg was out of the picture and because of how her mind was right now because of this whole situation she’d have no choice but to follow them because she wasn’t able to do anything on her own. She wanted to try and unite her class, bring peace upon them, show the Americans that they weren’t going to kill just because they were told to because she knew in her heart that her class was better than that.
But they weren’t.
“Stop it!”
She had stood up off her chair to see the evidence right in front of her very eyes. The two people proving America right and her wrong were standing in front of her and it was on Michelle that this was happening in the first place. Morton was a sleazy pompous jerk who hadn’t done anything to prove that getting put here had changed him and she should’ve noticed, should’ve done something about it sooner. Ashley was someone Michelle had seen as cool and awesome and someone she maybe should have become friends with earlier but now she realized she’d been too in awe to assume wrong of her, that she too was fallible. Maybe Michelle wasn’t to blame for the actions of others, but-
No. No. This was on her. If she’d just gotten over all of this quickly enough and done something to try and stop this then they wouldn’t be fighting. She had to try and stop this fight. She had to try and calm the two of them down.
“You two, stop fighting!”
It was clear that the words were lost, that they weren’t going to listen if she was just doing this. No. No. She had to do something more. She had to push them apart. Get between them. Make sure they didn’t try going for one another again.
Good plan?
…
…
She honestly wasn’t sure, but it was the only thing she had. She moved. Rushed forward, between the two of them.
“I said stop it!”
Her left hand went towards Morton’s waist, while her right went to Ashley’s chest. There was the feeling of a force far greater than she thought she had, the resistance of their bodies, and then the empty air, as both were pushed away from each other.
Michelle had seen Morton threatening Ashley. She watched as Ashley bit back, punched Morton in the face. Now the two of them were grabbing, threatening to kill one another and Michelle felt locked in place, unable to do anything about any of this. One of them would probably end up killing the other and then they would go to Michelle and act as if it was a total accident and that everything would be totally fine now that the obvious bad egg was out of the picture and because of how her mind was right now because of this whole situation she’d have no choice but to follow them because she wasn’t able to do anything on her own. She wanted to try and unite her class, bring peace upon them, show the Americans that they weren’t going to kill just because they were told to because she knew in her heart that her class was better than that.
But they weren’t.
“Stop it!”
She had stood up off her chair to see the evidence right in front of her very eyes. The two people proving America right and her wrong were standing in front of her and it was on Michelle that this was happening in the first place. Morton was a sleazy pompous jerk who hadn’t done anything to prove that getting put here had changed him and she should’ve noticed, should’ve done something about it sooner. Ashley was someone Michelle had seen as cool and awesome and someone she maybe should have become friends with earlier but now she realized she’d been too in awe to assume wrong of her, that she too was fallible. Maybe Michelle wasn’t to blame for the actions of others, but-
No. No. This was on her. If she’d just gotten over all of this quickly enough and done something to try and stop this then they wouldn’t be fighting. She had to try and stop this fight. She had to try and calm the two of them down.
“You two, stop fighting!”
It was clear that the words were lost, that they weren’t going to listen if she was just doing this. No. No. She had to do something more. She had to push them apart. Get between them. Make sure they didn’t try going for one another again.
Good plan?
…
…
She honestly wasn’t sure, but it was the only thing she had. She moved. Rushed forward, between the two of them.
“I said stop it!”
Her left hand went towards Morton’s waist, while her right went to Ashley’s chest. There was the feeling of a force far greater than she thought she had, the resistance of their bodies, and then the empty air, as both were pushed away from each other.
Ashley's focus had completely tunneled in on Morton and struggling for control of the knife. Just like she'd expected, it only really took one good hit for him to mostly fold, but he didn't try to back away or give up his hold on the weapon. Ashley had just managed to get a better grip on his wrist, turning the blade away from herself - and maybe with a good twist, she'd be able to get him to drop it completely - when Michelle decided to remind both of them that she existed.
Ashley nearly swatted her aside on reflex, but then Michelle just straight up grabbed her by the boob. Shoved her by the boob, whatever. The important thing was that the surprise and indignation of somebody's hand landing on her chest without permission were enough to snap Ashley out of it.
"Hey!" She moved with the shove, and Morton's arm jerked out of her grip. Opposite momentum carried Ashley to the floor, and the knife back towards its owner.
Ashley nearly swatted her aside on reflex, but then Michelle just straight up grabbed her by the boob. Shoved her by the boob, whatever. The important thing was that the surprise and indignation of somebody's hand landing on her chest without permission were enough to snap Ashley out of it.
"Hey!" She moved with the shove, and Morton's arm jerked out of her grip. Opposite momentum carried Ashley to the floor, and the knife back towards its owner.
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MurderWeasel
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Well, okay, the fight wasn't going great, but Morton was just about to turn it around again. Just wait. Any second now, he was going to catch his breath and shake off Ashley's cheap shots and then get the knife back under control from whatever she was doing to his wrist and then she'd know who was boss. Yep. Any second.
He wasn't grateful that Michelle was intervening. Absolutely not. She was just sparing Ashley the incoming drubbing she so clearly deserved, but maybe he could cut Michelle some slack, accept that it was for the best that this end in a draw—it was a draw; Ashley had scored more hits so far but the advantage was turning in Morton's favor, so it was even—and they all calm down and then he take the high road and leave or something.
Except then, as he was manhandled slightly more easily than expected by the girl he'd not been struggling with, he felt a piercing pain in his gut.
Okay, so on second thought fuck Michelle, Morton was actually not grateful to her one bit now. He coughed, and that sent a jolt of pain through him, and his hand spasmed and there was this unsettling pop sound and feeling.
Morton blinked. He was on the ground. He didn't know how that had happened. He didn't know what was going on. It was hard to see, to hear, to focus. Everything was hazy and unclear, and he felt like he had to do something. There was something important that he'd been just about to do, just a second ago. What was it?
Oh right. Michelle had stabbed him on his own knife. He had to pull that out and patch himself up and probably kick her ass. His arms felt leaden but he managed to raise his right hand and grope around his waist, searching for the knife handle, but he couldn't find it. He was distracted by how open and slippery and goopy and wet everything felt. That was not how his stomach had felt ever before. He wanted to look and see what was going on, but his vision was really fuzzy, so instead he just let his hand fall away again. That was less distressing.
"I," he said, but then nothing else came to mind. What was he even trying to say?
Everything hurt, but he felt so tired and when he closed his eyes the pain felt a little less. So he closed his eyes and figured he'd just take a few moments to pull himself together and then get the knife out and figure out what was wrong and then clobber everyone who needed clobbering.
Yeah, that was the plan. That was good.
He wasn't grateful that Michelle was intervening. Absolutely not. She was just sparing Ashley the incoming drubbing she so clearly deserved, but maybe he could cut Michelle some slack, accept that it was for the best that this end in a draw—it was a draw; Ashley had scored more hits so far but the advantage was turning in Morton's favor, so it was even—and they all calm down and then he take the high road and leave or something.
Except then, as he was manhandled slightly more easily than expected by the girl he'd not been struggling with, he felt a piercing pain in his gut.
Okay, so on second thought fuck Michelle, Morton was actually not grateful to her one bit now. He coughed, and that sent a jolt of pain through him, and his hand spasmed and there was this unsettling pop sound and feeling.
Morton blinked. He was on the ground. He didn't know how that had happened. He didn't know what was going on. It was hard to see, to hear, to focus. Everything was hazy and unclear, and he felt like he had to do something. There was something important that he'd been just about to do, just a second ago. What was it?
Oh right. Michelle had stabbed him on his own knife. He had to pull that out and patch himself up and probably kick her ass. His arms felt leaden but he managed to raise his right hand and grope around his waist, searching for the knife handle, but he couldn't find it. He was distracted by how open and slippery and goopy and wet everything felt. That was not how his stomach had felt ever before. He wanted to look and see what was going on, but his vision was really fuzzy, so instead he just let his hand fall away again. That was less distressing.
"I," he said, but then nothing else came to mind. What was he even trying to say?
Everything hurt, but he felt so tired and when he closed his eyes the pain felt a little less. So he closed his eyes and figured he'd just take a few moments to pull himself together and then get the knife out and figure out what was wrong and then clobber everyone who needed clobbering.
Yeah, that was the plan. That was good.
M11 - Morton Bishop: DECEASED
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Wham Yubeesling
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There were sounds as Michelle pushed both Morton and Ashley away, but they were muted, muddled, indiscernible for a few seconds. Once they both hit the ground and once the fight seemed to be over, the translation made its way into her head. She turned her head to Ashley.
“Sorry, I just needed to stop you two, and-”
Her other senses came back. The remnant touch of something warm, slightly pointed was on her hand. It took… longer than it should have for Michelle to realize what it was.
“Oh, I- I… um… sorry. Seriously didn’t mean to touch you there. Just wanted to get you and Morton away-”
Morton. Right. What was he going to do? He was probably going to be mad that Michelle pushed him to the ground and there was a chance that he’d need to attack back so she turned towards him took a step back and-
Saw his body on the ground.
…
Stared at it for a few seconds.
…
…
Stopped.
“Sorry, I just needed to stop you two, and-”
Her other senses came back. The remnant touch of something warm, slightly pointed was on her hand. It took… longer than it should have for Michelle to realize what it was.
“Oh, I- I… um… sorry. Seriously didn’t mean to touch you there. Just wanted to get you and Morton away-”
Morton. Right. What was he going to do? He was probably going to be mad that Michelle pushed him to the ground and there was a chance that he’d need to attack back so she turned towards him took a step back and-
Saw his body on the ground.
…
Stared at it for a few seconds.
…
…
Stopped.