I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully

[Applesintime]

It was, if Anthony was correct, either approaching or some time past seven or eight AM. In that time, he had gotten approximately 40 minutes of sleep.

((Anthony Golden continued from I Want Blood, Guts and Chocolate Cake))

The acid had been agonising. Even now, it still stung like hell, and this was just a little bit on his face and arm. Britnee was, well, Britnee was dead. Either the acid had killed her, or Diana had put her out of her misery. One was maybe another step home, depending on who the kill went to. Did his reversal, smacking the acid back at her, count as a kill? Or was it still counting for Britnee? Either way, that was another wannabe killer down. He'd have to watch for Diana. She must have had a gun or something, and he didn't fancy getting shot by an angry girl with a gun. No, he'd have to shoot first. Wouldn't he?

Maybe he just wasn’t thinking straight. It was hard to, with the pain coursing through his face, his arm, and the light patter of water hitting his face. He was lying down, upper body in a shower, lower body sticking out. All the burn salve in the world had only helped a little, not being made for chemical burns, but the water was sort of helping. The second he had got in, he had ripped up the bedsheets, wiping at his face, ripping his shirt off – literally, which sucked because it cost a lot of fucking money to ship over here. And it still hurt like a bastard. Even now. But getting the acid off, making sure it couldn’t soak in any further, do any more damage, had helped a lot. It could have got in his eyes, his mouth, and then he’d be a lot worse off.

He let the ice-cold water run off his face. It was nice. It was really fucking cold, but better cold than burning heat in his face. He hadn’t had the chance to take a look at his face yet, but he couldn’t imagine he would get off lightly. He had seen pictures online once, something in the tabloids. It didn’t look pretty. It would hurt if he got up now, but he wanted to see. He needed to see. Pulling himself up from the shower, dripping water onto the floor, Anthony got himself up, walking into the main room, looking in the mirror posted on a wardrobe door.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel any sympathy for Britnee.

His cheek, his forehead, patches of angry red and sickly yellow and melted skin. It would heal. Not entirely, but he could get plastic surgery or something, take the worst of it away. But if Britnee had got her fucking way, had managed to put that in his face, he’d be in a world of agony. The worst death, if not one of the worst you can get. He had no sympathy for her, not anymore. For a second, he caught himself hoping that she died in pain. That disturbed him. He couldn’t forget the human aspect.

Beau Lively. Pineapple Bloodworth. RJ Blackburn. And now, presumably, Britnee Joyner. They had families. They had friends. Maybe they had boyfriend, girlfriends. But now they were dead, their blood on his hands. It was necessary, sure. He had to keep going, but he couldn’t forget that aspect. So many people just saw them as Characters. But they were fucking people, and if someone was going to remember that, if he was going to get out alive, he would make sure they were remembered for who they are. Who they were. All of them.

But for now, Anthony was going to go back in the shower, where it was nice and cold.

[Applesintime]

Anthony burst from his sleep with a panicked gasp, eyes fluttering around as he shot up like a rocket, his wounds complaining as he did so. Fuck fuck fuck, he had fallen asleep. What time was it? Had the announcements gone by already? Pushing himself up with a groan, he forced himself into the bedroom area, not caring about the water dripping off him. Wasn't his room, and he had bigger concerns. Fumbling through a closet for something to wear, as his shirt was lying in tatters on the other side of the room, thanks Britnee, he mumbled to his collar. "Ben? Ben, is it time? Did I miss anything?"

After five minutes of silence, Anthony assumed that he had not missed the announcements. His burns were still sorta sore, but it was a lot better. Sleeping under an ice-cold shower might have done the trick. All he could find that was his size was a plain white shirt that seemed all too thin, and a Chelsea shirt. He was not going to be caught dead wearing a fucking Chelsea shirt. A man had to have limits. And so, it was either the plain white t-shirt, or his Crabs shirt. He picked the third option; raiding another room.

Stepping out into the hallway, shirtless, he cautiously raised the De Lisle, checking both ways, as if a car was gonna barrel down the hallway. He probably needed to practice with the De Lisle a bit. He knew which point went shooty and which point didn't go shooty, and that was the extent of his gun knowledge. Apart from using this gun in Battlegrounds, but he didn't imagine that was too realistic. Carefully, he edged over to the room directly opposite his, opening the door with his elbow and entering.

His scavenging of the room, which was empty, yielded better results; a 1994 Pink Floyd band tour shirt. It had all the dates of the North America tour on the front, and then the rainbow and triangle thing on the back. Anthony wasn't going to say no to something that didn't have a bullet hole in it, and whoever had occupied that room had good music taste. So he put it on, wincing as it rubbed against the gunshot wound. It wasn't bleeding, so he was fine. It would be fine. Sitting down on the bed with a creak, Anthony whipped out his scorecard. He needed to rule RJ off, add him and maybe Britnee to the kill count, and then head out.

Family. His mind was drawn to that topic for some reason as he scribbed. Maybe it was just the natural continuation of his thoughts. He had Mum and Dad, of course. Probably worrying themselves sick over him. He had some like, ancient aunt back in Italy who he only remembered because she sent him a birthday card last year, He probably had, like, a whole branch of family back there in Italy, but that had died with his biological mum. And then over here, on the Cuban side of the family, he had a whole host of aunts and uncles and cousins. He had met a couple of them a few years ago, at the wedding. They seemed like a cool bunch. And then, his anti-SOTF gang - maybe not family per say, but he had hung out enough with them back in London to consider them family. They probably weren't very happy with what he was doing right now, but he was in too deep to just reverse course.

And did he want to reverse course? When he finally had a gun, could finally go toe-to-toe with Seo-yun and Fisk and Gabby and Verity and everyone else who thought they could just murder and kill with impunity and get away with it?

No.

No, he didn't.

[Applesintime]

The empty bottle of Gatorade clattered out of the window as a .45 ACP bullet passed through it, tumbling down through the air before landing on the balcony of a room three decks below. Anthony worked the bolt, ejecting the empty cartridge, and then pushed it back in, loading another bullet. The quietness was useful. He didn't need to fight, didn't need to get shot or have acid thrown at him, if he just shot a player before they could even see him. Do what RJ didn't. One to bring them down, and then another to make sure they were dead. He didn't need anybody else with a grudge against him going after him, trying to kill him just for the act of hunting players.

Who was there? Nadine, Luanne, probably Diana. At least, that was who he knew about. Everyone had friends, everyone had acquaintances and people who had a crush on them but were too scared to say so, and Anthony could understand wanting to get revenge. That was what he was doing. Getting revenge for those who couldn't get it themselves because they were murdered by players. But if their friends played, that friend had no right to life. That was revoked when they started murdering for their own selfish desires. When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers. Proverbs 21:15. And if the idea of someone killing players brought terror to you, then you were probably an evildoer.

He pulled the trigger, and another bottle followed its friend out of the window. This gun already had blood drawn by it. RJ murdered Leo with it, and would have murdered Anthony with it, given the chance. But he missed, hit the wrong place, and Anthony ended his reign of terror before it had a chance to start. Now Anthony had the gun, and he had the chance to do a lot better with it. But he couldn't cock it up like RJ, couldn't miss and leave an opening for him to be killed. They were halfway by now, or at least were rapidly approaching the halfway mark, and he had to learn from those who had died. They couldn't be far from the announcements now.

Pulling the bolt back, ejecting the cartridge, Anthony decided that was enough target practice for now. How hard could a person be to hit anyway? The ammo he had needed to be saved, because it wasn't like Battlegrounds where you could just find some more. Every bullet was a promise of victory, someone's name wrote on it, and he couldn't just fuck that away shooting bottles.

[Applesintime]

The announcement came quickly and slowly all at the same time. Anthony spilled a bottle of water all over the sheets in his frantic scramble for his notebook, flipping it open just in time for them to start announcing. Seo-yun had another kill. Fuck. Gabby had killed Hannah. Beau told him to fucking protect her, to make sure she was safe, and what had he done but let her fall to a player? The failure, the failure of Beau's last wish almost brought a tear to his eye. She was on his team, but that didn't matter as much as the red-hot anger coursing through his veins right now. She was dead. She was going to have to die, not just for her previous two murders, but for this specific one. That was what had to happen. That's what would happen. And now he had a gun, he had the right tool for the job, he just needed to use it in the right way.

Ivan killed someone else; another Respect. It wasn't madness. There was a method to it. He needed to talk to Ivan, figure out his game. Figure out what he was planning. The F. The fucking F. F to pay Respects. They had targeted him, and he was fighting back. That was some food for thought. Another Verity kill. Another person to avenge. God, it all seemed so natural now. This was what SOTF turned you into. Someone who weighed human life and death in the same way you might view a bug dying. Amanda Brooks. Added to the list. A DZ kill. May she rest in God's arms. RJ's death. Sergio Gallo. And then Ritzy addressed him directly, guessing his methods perfectly.

Britnee was dead at his hands.

He was the second deadliest person on this flotilla.

That was food for thought.

And then a mutual murder. Anthony stayed for a moment longer, refilling his now empty water bottle, making sure he added the kills precisely. He could catch up to Seo-yun. End her, take her out, and then he'd be just a few more players to home.

But he had to actually go out to do that. So, checking his bandages once more, Anthony picked up the De Lisle, slung his bag over his shoulders, and walked out into the brand new morning.

((Anthony Golden continued in The Paradox(es) of Heroism))