His vision was black, his mind lazy receding to oblivion. Death took Virgil Raeburn. The closer it wrapped its claws around the boy, the more welcome he found it. He was ready, even if he hadn't been able to...
No. No no no no no.
He reached out a shaky arm. His hand dug into dry dirt. Virgil let out a sound, halfway between a gasp and a sob. he lifted his head, his vision a blur of scattered lights and chaos. He heard voices. One, two. Only two. He was so close. Virgil pulled himself along the ground. The red stain of the ground around his body came into sight. Virgil was dead. But that did not stop him now. He had a destiny to complete. They were all watching him. The British, the Americans. The living, the dead. They needed him. He needed them.
This time, when he reached his arm out, it closed around cold metal. Back at the pub, ages and ages earlier, control was taken from him. He'd been denied ever since then. A life of being pushed around by fate. Now his life was over, as was his curse. He had choice now. It would be brilliant.
Out of the Depths of Sorrow and of Sacrifice
PV3 Endgame
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Cactus
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"Right."
Something moved in the darkness. For all of the hyper-awareness of the past few days, Fisher didn't notice. He was more focused upon wrenching himself out of his likely concussion-based doldrums. If one were going to face his fate, would it do to have a sullen pall over his mind and a sour look upon his face? No. He would meet fate standing up, with a stiff upper lip and a straightened spine.
Tears? There would be time for tears later. From his parents, from those who knew them. For Fisher, for Galahad, for Virgil, for Pippa — for them all, the time for crying had passed.
His voice was hollow, it had been for days now. Nothing changed there. It took a moment, but in the stillness of the moment, he detected a slur in his own voice. Everything was blurry and whether that came from the injury or the tears that silently ran down his cheeks, he didn't have the mental acuity to find out.
And still, something moved in the darkness.
Fisher blinked a few times, attempting to rid himself of the weakness. He bit down on his lip, the new pain reminding him that he was still alive. He and Galahad, possessing that which no one else did — life. Bringing his forearm up, he wiped his eyes. Things got clearer. He straightened up. There were still things to be done.
The darkness moved again.
Fisher turned to look at Galahad, and now — finally — he noticed.
"Wait, is that—"
Something moved in the darkness. For all of the hyper-awareness of the past few days, Fisher didn't notice. He was more focused upon wrenching himself out of his likely concussion-based doldrums. If one were going to face his fate, would it do to have a sullen pall over his mind and a sour look upon his face? No. He would meet fate standing up, with a stiff upper lip and a straightened spine.
Tears? There would be time for tears later. From his parents, from those who knew them. For Fisher, for Galahad, for Virgil, for Pippa — for them all, the time for crying had passed.
His voice was hollow, it had been for days now. Nothing changed there. It took a moment, but in the stillness of the moment, he detected a slur in his own voice. Everything was blurry and whether that came from the injury or the tears that silently ran down his cheeks, he didn't have the mental acuity to find out.
And still, something moved in the darkness.
Fisher blinked a few times, attempting to rid himself of the weakness. He bit down on his lip, the new pain reminding him that he was still alive. He and Galahad, possessing that which no one else did — life. Bringing his forearm up, he wiped his eyes. Things got clearer. He straightened up. There were still things to be done.
The darkness moved again.
Fisher turned to look at Galahad, and now — finally — he noticed.
"Wait, is that—"
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Pippi
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“Oh my God, I… I think it is…”
Seemed as though Virgil was determined to be more than just a memory.
Galahad was at such a point where his brain didn’t even begin to entertain the multiple potential fantastical scenarios that might explain how a dead boy was now standing again. It was exactly what he’d been thinking earlier; everything he saw was real, everything in front of his eyes was actually happening. Virgil was not a zombie. Virgil was not a ghost. Virgil was not an actor, getting up and walking off set out of sight of the cameras.
Virgil was still alive. And once again, even with the extra complications this introduced, it was something that should be celebrated for now.
Galahad looked at Fisher for a moment longer, before he pushed himself forwards, moving towards Virgil as fast as he could will his shattered body to manage. It certainly wasn’t a run, and he would barely even count it as a jog; he felt out of breath almost immediately, his body resisting his every movement. He felt like he would pass out before he even made it to the other boy.
“Virgil!”
Somehow, he managed to stumble to a stop, pressing his hands into his knees as he gulped in huge lungfuls of air to prevent himself from collapsing. He took a few moments to recover - or get as close to recovery as he could - before he glanced up at Virgil, an expression of relief with no smile to be found on his face.
“Virgil, you’re… you’re still…”
His words left him. Because there was a very, very large puddle of blood currently seeping into the ground, one matched only in size by the crimson stain spread across Virgil’s body. Galahad couldn’t stop himself from staring, the dull feeling of realisation, of tragedy occurring right before his eyes, burrowing its way into his heart. This was not an injury that a couple of plasters and some bandages would solve. Christ, it didn’t look like something that any doctor in the world could fix, this wasn’t… this wasn’t survivable.
He let his ragged breathing slow down again, unable to do anything but stare, as he waited for Fisher to join them both.
Seemed as though Virgil was determined to be more than just a memory.
Galahad was at such a point where his brain didn’t even begin to entertain the multiple potential fantastical scenarios that might explain how a dead boy was now standing again. It was exactly what he’d been thinking earlier; everything he saw was real, everything in front of his eyes was actually happening. Virgil was not a zombie. Virgil was not a ghost. Virgil was not an actor, getting up and walking off set out of sight of the cameras.
Virgil was still alive. And once again, even with the extra complications this introduced, it was something that should be celebrated for now.
Galahad looked at Fisher for a moment longer, before he pushed himself forwards, moving towards Virgil as fast as he could will his shattered body to manage. It certainly wasn’t a run, and he would barely even count it as a jog; he felt out of breath almost immediately, his body resisting his every movement. He felt like he would pass out before he even made it to the other boy.
“Virgil!”
Somehow, he managed to stumble to a stop, pressing his hands into his knees as he gulped in huge lungfuls of air to prevent himself from collapsing. He took a few moments to recover - or get as close to recovery as he could - before he glanced up at Virgil, an expression of relief with no smile to be found on his face.
“Virgil, you’re… you’re still…”
His words left him. Because there was a very, very large puddle of blood currently seeping into the ground, one matched only in size by the crimson stain spread across Virgil’s body. Galahad couldn’t stop himself from staring, the dull feeling of realisation, of tragedy occurring right before his eyes, burrowing its way into his heart. This was not an injury that a couple of plasters and some bandages would solve. Christ, it didn’t look like something that any doctor in the world could fix, this wasn’t… this wasn’t survivable.
He let his ragged breathing slow down again, unable to do anything but stare, as he waited for Fisher to join them both.
Virgil pushed himself forward through the dirt and the muck, the stain of blood trailing him as he crawled over. The two candidates started as messy blurs but he soon made out their features. The long blonde hair and the black cap. Four blue eyes. They all were aimed right at Virgil. He came to a stop and pushed himself to a sitting position. He sat neat and cross-legged, leaning his back against a damaged headstone. His left hand pressed against the largest wound on his chest, desperately trying to hold his soul inside for a few moments more. Virgil gave Galahad and Fisher a smile full of genuine warmth and appreciation.
"I'm still..." Virgil rasped. "Alive?" Every word he forced out from his degraded tomb of a body was a Herculean effort. His voice sounded like a garbled message from the deepest pits of Hell.
"No. Not alive. Not me" Just the two of them left. He hadn't seen what happened to Pippa, but he knew she was gone. Just as well. "You two. One lives."
He raised his right arm. It shook as Virgil held the gun. It was heavy, and getting heavier by the moment. As was appropriate. The tool of choice and fate, of death and life, stood at the end of his body. Pointing out at the two of them. Virgil wanted to repeat his whole speech from earlier, but he didn't have the energy or clarity for it. This would be simple.
"One lives for thirty. I decide." A last surge of pride went through him at that. His hand wobbled over and he looked Galahad down the barrel. "Why you? Over Fisher. Why should you live?"
"I'm still..." Virgil rasped. "Alive?" Every word he forced out from his degraded tomb of a body was a Herculean effort. His voice sounded like a garbled message from the deepest pits of Hell.
"No. Not alive. Not me" Just the two of them left. He hadn't seen what happened to Pippa, but he knew she was gone. Just as well. "You two. One lives."
He raised his right arm. It shook as Virgil held the gun. It was heavy, and getting heavier by the moment. As was appropriate. The tool of choice and fate, of death and life, stood at the end of his body. Pointing out at the two of them. Virgil wanted to repeat his whole speech from earlier, but he didn't have the energy or clarity for it. This would be simple.
"One lives for thirty. I decide." A last surge of pride went through him at that. His hand wobbled over and he looked Galahad down the barrel. "Why you? Over Fisher. Why should you live?"
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Pippi
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Well. This was it. No matter what happened, the Program ended here.
Galahad’s breath, harsh and jagged like broken glass, caught in his throat as Virgil raised the gun. It was slow and exhaustingly painful looking, like gravity was pushing down hard on his arm. But he could take as much time as he wanted here. He was the man with the gun, after all. The man with the fatal injury. He held all the power, because he had the deadly weapon, and nothing more to lose any longer.
Galahad opened his mouth, brain instinctively trying to resist, furiously whirring and trying to think of something to say that would talk Virgil out of this. That there had to be another way out of this, that it didn’t have to end in violence and in friends killing friends, that there was almost certainly a third option that they could take that wouldn’t end in two people bleeding out into the earth, that it didn’t have to end this way.
But it did.
If he tried to tackle Virgil, or knock the gun away, then the boy would just shoot him. If he didn’t say anything, and Fisher did, then the decision would be made for him. If neither of them said anything, then, well, maybe Virgil would just pick one of them to shoot at random. Or perhaps his injuries would claim him before he could pull the trigger, and then where would that leave them? Back to square one, hoping for a different solution to drop out of the stars into their laps. The people running this thing wouldn’t let that happen. If neither of them made a move, or showed any inclination towards taking the other out, well, odds were that The General would just give a couple of their snipers a call, and get them to take them both out.
They’d spend this whole time saying they’d cross this bridge when they came to it. Well, here they were, standing right in front of it, and it was very clear that it would only support one of them.
So Galahad nodded at Virgil, and he took a breath, and he let the words tumble out of his mouth.
“If I live, then… then I’m gonna make sure that nobody here gets forgotten. I’m gonna make sure everybody’s memories live on, no matter what happens to me when I get out of here, and I’ll keep on fighting to keep their stories alive until… well, until I’m not.”
He gulped for air, his heartbeat racing, his body finally having caught up to the fact that his life was held in the palm of somebody else entirely.
“And… and I’m gonna make sure that they get remembered for who they actually were, for the people they were at school, because none of us would have done any of this crap normally, none of us are killers, none of us are cold-blooded murderers. I’m gonna tell everyone I can, I’m gonna tell the world, that… that…”
That we were first loves who deserved so much better, who deserved more than an awkward break-up and months of silence and averted gazes. That we were strangers who had found solace and support in the most unlikely of places, who had been let down when it mattered the most, all because of the actions of one person and the inaction of another. That we were best friends, who were more than we appeared on the surface, who were brave and fierce and loyal and self-confident in all the ways that mattered most, who had touched lives in ways that couldn’t be reflected in words alone, who were unlike anyone else on the planet and who could never be replaced.
“... that we were kids. And that we were so much more than footage on a camera.”
Galahad’s breath, harsh and jagged like broken glass, caught in his throat as Virgil raised the gun. It was slow and exhaustingly painful looking, like gravity was pushing down hard on his arm. But he could take as much time as he wanted here. He was the man with the gun, after all. The man with the fatal injury. He held all the power, because he had the deadly weapon, and nothing more to lose any longer.
Galahad opened his mouth, brain instinctively trying to resist, furiously whirring and trying to think of something to say that would talk Virgil out of this. That there had to be another way out of this, that it didn’t have to end in violence and in friends killing friends, that there was almost certainly a third option that they could take that wouldn’t end in two people bleeding out into the earth, that it didn’t have to end this way.
But it did.
If he tried to tackle Virgil, or knock the gun away, then the boy would just shoot him. If he didn’t say anything, and Fisher did, then the decision would be made for him. If neither of them said anything, then, well, maybe Virgil would just pick one of them to shoot at random. Or perhaps his injuries would claim him before he could pull the trigger, and then where would that leave them? Back to square one, hoping for a different solution to drop out of the stars into their laps. The people running this thing wouldn’t let that happen. If neither of them made a move, or showed any inclination towards taking the other out, well, odds were that The General would just give a couple of their snipers a call, and get them to take them both out.
They’d spend this whole time saying they’d cross this bridge when they came to it. Well, here they were, standing right in front of it, and it was very clear that it would only support one of them.
So Galahad nodded at Virgil, and he took a breath, and he let the words tumble out of his mouth.
“If I live, then… then I’m gonna make sure that nobody here gets forgotten. I’m gonna make sure everybody’s memories live on, no matter what happens to me when I get out of here, and I’ll keep on fighting to keep their stories alive until… well, until I’m not.”
He gulped for air, his heartbeat racing, his body finally having caught up to the fact that his life was held in the palm of somebody else entirely.
“And… and I’m gonna make sure that they get remembered for who they actually were, for the people they were at school, because none of us would have done any of this crap normally, none of us are killers, none of us are cold-blooded murderers. I’m gonna tell everyone I can, I’m gonna tell the world, that… that…”
That we were first loves who deserved so much better, who deserved more than an awkward break-up and months of silence and averted gazes. That we were strangers who had found solace and support in the most unlikely of places, who had been let down when it mattered the most, all because of the actions of one person and the inaction of another. That we were best friends, who were more than we appeared on the surface, who were brave and fierce and loyal and self-confident in all the ways that mattered most, who had touched lives in ways that couldn’t be reflected in words alone, who were unlike anyone else on the planet and who could never be replaced.
“... that we were kids. And that we were so much more than footage on a camera.”
Galahad talked. Virgil put his remaining energy into focusing. He only heard about half of the words, but he understand it all so clearly. Galahad was cooperating. He was speaking from the heart. Finally, after all this time. Somebody else finally saw their place in all of this.
Virgil let out a slow, ragged exhale of breath. Then he laughed. Every hoarse chuckle sent a burst of pain through his chest, like getting shot over again.
"Thank you." he said weakly. It had been a good answer- he thought. De-mythologizing... not what Virgil would do, but what Virgil would do didn't matter. He was impartial. His aim gradually wobbled over to the other boy.
"Fisher... same question."
Virgil let out a slow, ragged exhale of breath. Then he laughed. Every hoarse chuckle sent a burst of pain through his chest, like getting shot over again.
"Thank you." he said weakly. It had been a good answer- he thought. De-mythologizing... not what Virgil would do, but what Virgil would do didn't matter. He was impartial. His aim gradually wobbled over to the other boy.
"Fisher... same question."
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Cactus
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Fisher tasted copper - his lip - he was biting down on it so hard that it was bleeding. He barely noticed the pain, there was too much of it elsewhere to notice. After all, he'd been concussed, he'd been shot, he was bruised all over. Yet still, as his eyes didn't betray him and he took in the situation in front of him, another pain took hold.
This one slashed him deep within his soul; the bitter pain of outrage.
"You," he started, the words coming out as a squeak. Fisher cleared his throat. "You want me to tell you what?"
He didn't need an answer. Galahad knew what was asked of him; he had provided. It was a good answer, a noble one. That was Galahad, noble through and through; truly living up to his name.
Shoulders slumping back, his frustration grew. It was supposed to be over. Galahad wasn't going to kill Fisher. Fisher wasn't going to kill Galahad. They were human beings; they were English, and slaughtering one another in a dirty cemetery wasn't what the English did. Americans, maybe.
It was that lie that he had continued to tell himself. Most of the time, Fisher even believed it. Circumstances had shown him exactly how fallible that concept was and the blood on his own hands was an acrid reminder of his own culpability.
"It doesn't matter." Fisher swallowed some of his own blood. "Galahad is right - whatever we say here, we're a voice for the voiceless, but they're not going to let us go. Some Yank is going to take our statement and then finish us off. But he's right."
A voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to actually make a case, tell Virgil something to declare why he deserved to live over Galahad. He had the gun, after all.
"We were just kids. For a moment, we were just kids." Weakly, he threw his hands up in the air. "And then, all of this - and for what? To prove some point?"
Fisher didn't understand. He couldn't. Perhaps there was some grand military strategy at work, some striking plan at the heart of why the Americans did what they did. But he was just a kid - not even an adult yet. Understanding why this happened was beyond his years, totally away from the scope of his life.
He would never know the why, and that was the most crushing part of all.
"I don't deserve to live over Galahad." The words hung for a moment. "He doesn't deserve to live over me. Neither of us deserve to live more than you." Virgil was broken, obviously at the very end of his life, but for Fisher, that changed nothing.
"We're kids, Virgil. This is over. Put the gun down and let the Yanks do what they will. No one else needs to die."
No one else did, but inevitably, they all might. Fisher let his arms fall to his sides. He was spent - all of the time that he could have used trying to explain why he deserved to live, and for what? Virgil was going to shoot them, or he was going to drop the gun and someone else was going to shoot them. The utter audacity of the situation infuriated him.
That truth burned within his chest.
This one slashed him deep within his soul; the bitter pain of outrage.
"You," he started, the words coming out as a squeak. Fisher cleared his throat. "You want me to tell you what?"
He didn't need an answer. Galahad knew what was asked of him; he had provided. It was a good answer, a noble one. That was Galahad, noble through and through; truly living up to his name.
Shoulders slumping back, his frustration grew. It was supposed to be over. Galahad wasn't going to kill Fisher. Fisher wasn't going to kill Galahad. They were human beings; they were English, and slaughtering one another in a dirty cemetery wasn't what the English did. Americans, maybe.
It was that lie that he had continued to tell himself. Most of the time, Fisher even believed it. Circumstances had shown him exactly how fallible that concept was and the blood on his own hands was an acrid reminder of his own culpability.
"It doesn't matter." Fisher swallowed some of his own blood. "Galahad is right - whatever we say here, we're a voice for the voiceless, but they're not going to let us go. Some Yank is going to take our statement and then finish us off. But he's right."
A voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to actually make a case, tell Virgil something to declare why he deserved to live over Galahad. He had the gun, after all.
"We were just kids. For a moment, we were just kids." Weakly, he threw his hands up in the air. "And then, all of this - and for what? To prove some point?"
Fisher didn't understand. He couldn't. Perhaps there was some grand military strategy at work, some striking plan at the heart of why the Americans did what they did. But he was just a kid - not even an adult yet. Understanding why this happened was beyond his years, totally away from the scope of his life.
He would never know the why, and that was the most crushing part of all.
"I don't deserve to live over Galahad." The words hung for a moment. "He doesn't deserve to live over me. Neither of us deserve to live more than you." Virgil was broken, obviously at the very end of his life, but for Fisher, that changed nothing.
"We're kids, Virgil. This is over. Put the gun down and let the Yanks do what they will. No one else needs to die."
No one else did, but inevitably, they all might. Fisher let his arms fall to his sides. He was spent - all of the time that he could have used trying to explain why he deserved to live, and for what? Virgil was going to shoot them, or he was going to drop the gun and someone else was going to shoot them. The utter audacity of the situation infuriated him.
That truth burned within his chest.
Virgil’s head tilted and he smiled as he let Fisher’s speech watch over him. The boy thought he was refusing to give an answer- but that was but a delusion. Fisher’s speech was as much an answer as Galahad’s. It told Virgil what he needed to know. He didn’t answer Fisher’s final plea, or even acknowledge that he’d heard it. It was an impossible request, and Fisher knew that as well as Virgil himself.
“Thank you.” he rasped. “Both of you, again.”
Now both of the candidates had presented their cases and it was Virgil’s turn to fulfill his part in the ritual. Two candidates. Galahad was ready and eager to live for everyone else. Fisher was much more reluctant- but still, he cared deeply for all their fallen friends. Virgil was completely confident that either one of them could shoulder the burden, if they had to. They weren’t like Victoria, or Oliver, or Pippa: they wouldn’t put their own lives above the others. They also weren’t like Virgil: at their core, they did want to live very badly. Whichever one he chose would live both for himself and for the fallen.
“Thank you.” he repeated “Thank you both.”
It was almost an impossible dilemma, choosing between the two. But it was Virgil’s responsibility, and his destiny. Whoever died would live on in the other.
Virgil closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply through his nose, but mid breath his body was wracked with a coughing fit. He shook as the wet sound of pained coughing came from his body. All the while, Virgil clung the pistol tight to his chest.
After about ten seconds, the convulsions died down and Virgil opened his eyes. At first blurry images of Galahad and Fisher danced before him, until he focused enough for his vision to clear. They formed back into two solid, distinct figures. His eyes darted between the two. Left and right and left again.
He made his choice. The only choice of Virgil Raeburn that would ever matter. His legacy upon the world. His epic.
Virgil raised his arm again. It shook not just from his weakness but the weight of his responsibility. His finger wrapped around the trigger. Virgil was so very very tired.
“I’m so proud of you.”
The choice was hard. Pulling the trigger was easy.
“Thank you.” he rasped. “Both of you, again.”
Now both of the candidates had presented their cases and it was Virgil’s turn to fulfill his part in the ritual. Two candidates. Galahad was ready and eager to live for everyone else. Fisher was much more reluctant- but still, he cared deeply for all their fallen friends. Virgil was completely confident that either one of them could shoulder the burden, if they had to. They weren’t like Victoria, or Oliver, or Pippa: they wouldn’t put their own lives above the others. They also weren’t like Virgil: at their core, they did want to live very badly. Whichever one he chose would live both for himself and for the fallen.
“Thank you.” he repeated “Thank you both.”
It was almost an impossible dilemma, choosing between the two. But it was Virgil’s responsibility, and his destiny. Whoever died would live on in the other.
Virgil closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply through his nose, but mid breath his body was wracked with a coughing fit. He shook as the wet sound of pained coughing came from his body. All the while, Virgil clung the pistol tight to his chest.
After about ten seconds, the convulsions died down and Virgil opened his eyes. At first blurry images of Galahad and Fisher danced before him, until he focused enough for his vision to clear. They formed back into two solid, distinct figures. His eyes darted between the two. Left and right and left again.
He made his choice. The only choice of Virgil Raeburn that would ever matter. His legacy upon the world. His epic.
Virgil raised his arm again. It shook not just from his weakness but the weight of his responsibility. His finger wrapped around the trigger. Virgil was so very very tired.
“I’m so proud of you.”
The choice was hard. Pulling the trigger was easy.
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Cactus
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There was nothing more to say, no more cases to make. The annoyance did nothing but smoulder within Fisher's chest — there wasn't time for it to flame into something more. Perhaps it had, hours before. Before all of the killing, the murder, the choosing between life and death, Fisher would believe himself capable of fighting until the bitter end. But all he could do was stare at Virgil, shoulders slumped as the boy's dying eyes shifted from left to right.
The gun quivered in his unsteady hand, but it quivered, not fell.
A loud report of the weapon might have surprised him once, but he knew in his heart what was about to happen. Defiance instead of pride; frustration instead of despair.
Virgil fired; something flashed in the moonlight.
Expectation.
Fisher found himself sprawling to the ground, his chest tight. His whole body screamed at him from the blow. He couldn't take a breath — oh God, he couldn't take a breath. The grass was damp beneath him and his eyes found the stars as panic flooded his body. He searched for breath, gasped for it. His arms grasped at his own chest, his eyes bulged as his lungs searched for air.
He was dying; Fisher wasn't ready.
Was anyone?
The gun quivered in his unsteady hand, but it quivered, not fell.
A loud report of the weapon might have surprised him once, but he knew in his heart what was about to happen. Defiance instead of pride; frustration instead of despair.
Virgil fired; something flashed in the moonlight.
Expectation.
Fisher found himself sprawling to the ground, his chest tight. His whole body screamed at him from the blow. He couldn't take a breath — oh God, he couldn't take a breath. The grass was damp beneath him and his eyes found the stars as panic flooded his body. He searched for breath, gasped for it. His arms grasped at his own chest, his eyes bulged as his lungs searched for air.
He was dying; Fisher wasn't ready.
Was anyone?
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Pippi
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His shoulder ached.
Weird thing to focus on at a time like this, he knew, but it was impossible to ignore the dull, seeping pain that had snaked its way into his arm, burrowing deep into the marrow of his bones. His teeth were grit, his ears still ringing even now that the gunshot was a faint and fading echo, and at the heart of it all, this long, long night was finally reaching its dawn.
But despite all of that, the thrumming pain in his shoulder was the only thing he kept coming back to.
‘Selfish,’ said a faint, soft voice inside his head. ‘Selfish for focusing on that. Selfish for focusing on me. Selfish for looking at yourself and nobody else. Your friend’s on the ground. Your friend’s sprawled out. Selfish.”
Was friend the correct word? He’d never really thought about it all that much. Another strange thing for his mind to turn to, he was fully aware. Stranger still that he didn’t immediately count Fisher as a buddy; even outside of the classes they shared, they were both on the hockey team together. Maybe it was because he liked near everybody he met. Could someone who liked everyone qualify all those people as friends? And if not, what was a better term? ‘Teammates’ held no meaning any longer. ‘Acquaintances’ was far too cold. ‘Allies’ felt too impersonal. And ‘friends’? ‘Friends’ worked. ‘Friends’ felt correct. ‘Friends’ wrapped up the bond they now shared and the tribulations they had now gone through.
God, his shoulder really did hurt a lot now, though, and it felt like it was spreading too, down into his arm and across into his chest, like he was a colouring book being slowly filled in. One of his fingertips felt kinda numb. Just how hard had he jostled himself, anyway?
“Fisher,” Galahad muttered. “I, uh… I think…
I think Freya’s gonna be… pissed at me…”
The veil of shock drifted away into the night sky, as the first drops of blood fell to the ground.
Weird thing to focus on at a time like this, he knew, but it was impossible to ignore the dull, seeping pain that had snaked its way into his arm, burrowing deep into the marrow of his bones. His teeth were grit, his ears still ringing even now that the gunshot was a faint and fading echo, and at the heart of it all, this long, long night was finally reaching its dawn.
But despite all of that, the thrumming pain in his shoulder was the only thing he kept coming back to.
‘Selfish,’ said a faint, soft voice inside his head. ‘Selfish for focusing on that. Selfish for focusing on me. Selfish for looking at yourself and nobody else. Your friend’s on the ground. Your friend’s sprawled out. Selfish.”
Was friend the correct word? He’d never really thought about it all that much. Another strange thing for his mind to turn to, he was fully aware. Stranger still that he didn’t immediately count Fisher as a buddy; even outside of the classes they shared, they were both on the hockey team together. Maybe it was because he liked near everybody he met. Could someone who liked everyone qualify all those people as friends? And if not, what was a better term? ‘Teammates’ held no meaning any longer. ‘Acquaintances’ was far too cold. ‘Allies’ felt too impersonal. And ‘friends’? ‘Friends’ worked. ‘Friends’ felt correct. ‘Friends’ wrapped up the bond they now shared and the tribulations they had now gone through.
God, his shoulder really did hurt a lot now, though, and it felt like it was spreading too, down into his arm and across into his chest, like he was a colouring book being slowly filled in. One of his fingertips felt kinda numb. Just how hard had he jostled himself, anyway?
“Fisher,” Galahad muttered. “I, uh… I think…
I think Freya’s gonna be… pissed at me…”
The veil of shock drifted away into the night sky, as the first drops of blood fell to the ground.
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Cactus
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2018 6:25 pm
- Location: Toronto, Canada
- Team Affiliation: Malcolm's Mariners
His lungs ached for air; precious breaths that seemed so far away. Emotions ran through him as a choking noise came from his lips — despair, fear, fury at just how unfair this all was, uncertainty at what happened next.
What did happen, of course, he didn't expect.
The raspy wheeze turned into a breath, Fisher's lungs greedily took it all in. First one breath, then two, then he lost count. He wasn't dead. He wasn't going to die, at least, not yet. The night was still young, even though it felt like the longest of his short life.
Coughing, Fisher blinked through the fog that caused his vision to swim. Days of survival were taking their toll, his adrenaline starting to race at the realisation of what Virgil had just done. Much as he had said he would do, Virgil had made his choice.
Fate - through the pure heart of Galahad Matthews — had offered a different conclusion.
It was the only answer to what had happened that made any sense and as his classmate stammered the lightest of apologies, Fisher could see through the veil of darkness a new stain begin to spread over Galahad's chest. The colour wasn't apparent but it brought a new clarity to why his ears were ringing.
A stain began to form within his chest as well; rather than a colour it was a feeling: the stiffness of outrage. It wasn't as though he'd forgotten what that felt like - perhaps it had been there all along, masked by his own fear.
"What," he managed to spit out, "did you do?!"
The question was rhetorical, of course. Virgil had made his intentions clear and acted upon them, just as he said he would. He didn't listen to their arguments, there wasn't a chance he was to spare either of them and wait for death to come. It was inevitable, of course. If their classmates didn't get them, the Americans would.
It was a no-win scenario.
As the air filled his lungs, Fisher pawed at the ground, crawling his way forward. He wasn't sure where he was headed, but he had to get to his feet. He had to get to Galahad, he had to do something, anything. But Virgil still had the gun, was still calling the sho—
Fisher's hands found metal — the pistol he had haphazardly discarded — and the rest was just instinct. Sitting up on his knees, he raised his arm towards what remained of Virgil Raeburn and the graveyard filled with the twisted fury of man-made anguish.
Tears streamed down his face. In the moment, it all sounded so loud — the gunshots, his own screaming, and the eventual clicking of the trigger over and over — this was hell.
This was hell.
Of that, there could be no doubt.
What did happen, of course, he didn't expect.
The raspy wheeze turned into a breath, Fisher's lungs greedily took it all in. First one breath, then two, then he lost count. He wasn't dead. He wasn't going to die, at least, not yet. The night was still young, even though it felt like the longest of his short life.
Coughing, Fisher blinked through the fog that caused his vision to swim. Days of survival were taking their toll, his adrenaline starting to race at the realisation of what Virgil had just done. Much as he had said he would do, Virgil had made his choice.
Fate - through the pure heart of Galahad Matthews — had offered a different conclusion.
It was the only answer to what had happened that made any sense and as his classmate stammered the lightest of apologies, Fisher could see through the veil of darkness a new stain begin to spread over Galahad's chest. The colour wasn't apparent but it brought a new clarity to why his ears were ringing.
A stain began to form within his chest as well; rather than a colour it was a feeling: the stiffness of outrage. It wasn't as though he'd forgotten what that felt like - perhaps it had been there all along, masked by his own fear.
"What," he managed to spit out, "did you do?!"
The question was rhetorical, of course. Virgil had made his intentions clear and acted upon them, just as he said he would. He didn't listen to their arguments, there wasn't a chance he was to spare either of them and wait for death to come. It was inevitable, of course. If their classmates didn't get them, the Americans would.
It was a no-win scenario.
As the air filled his lungs, Fisher pawed at the ground, crawling his way forward. He wasn't sure where he was headed, but he had to get to his feet. He had to get to Galahad, he had to do something, anything. But Virgil still had the gun, was still calling the sho—
Fisher's hands found metal — the pistol he had haphazardly discarded — and the rest was just instinct. Sitting up on his knees, he raised his arm towards what remained of Virgil Raeburn and the graveyard filled with the twisted fury of man-made anguish.
Tears streamed down his face. In the moment, it all sounded so loud — the gunshots, his own screaming, and the eventual clicking of the trigger over and over — this was hell.
This was hell.
Of that, there could be no doubt.
"No..."
M010: Virgil Raeburn - DECEASED
The ghost of a whine escaped his mouth and was blown away into the sky unheard. Virgil's useless arm dropped to the side. Fisher was still alive. Galahad was bleeding. This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd asked to live. Why...?
Virgil threw his head back into the headstone with enough force that a crack rang in his ears. His body convulsed, his lungs heaving with a mix of laughter and crying that came out only as manic wheeze. His only choice had been taken away. His role. His fate. What was it, then? Was his life's purpose to be a fool? A joke? Whatever gods beings truly cruel enough to exist in this world were laughing at him. The boy who thought he could be important.
Do you want to punish me for my hubris? Is that your aim? Virgil would have said, had he been able. I won't apologize.
He locked eyes with Fisher. The boy looked at him with abject hatred. Fisher raised a gun. Even if Virgil had wanted to fight back, his body could not.
I don't hate you, Fisher. Not even now. Virgil would have said, had he been alive. I love you. I loved all of you.
The convulsions of Virgil's body intensified as it was struck by a barrage of bullets, ripping into organ after organ until even the body's most basic functions ceased. The disconnected mass of flesh and bone that rested against the broken headstone no longer had any ability to affect the world around it, or to pretend at control.
Maybe I was a little selfish. Perhaps I wanted a taste of greatness. Virgil would have said, had he a body. But above all, I just wanted to save all of us. Was that so awful? Even if it wasn't my destiny, It wasn't wrong for me to try. I don't regret anything I've done.
Virgil heard a divine voice, laughing at him. Virgil didn't know what would happen to him from here, but he was sure it would be painful. A punishment fit for his blasphemy. He would suffer without complaint.
You can take my choice and you can take my control, but you cannot take my devotion. I will remain. Thus spoke Virgil Raeburn.
M010: Virgil Raeburn - DECEASED
The ghost of a whine escaped his mouth and was blown away into the sky unheard. Virgil's useless arm dropped to the side. Fisher was still alive. Galahad was bleeding. This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd asked to live. Why...?
Virgil threw his head back into the headstone with enough force that a crack rang in his ears. His body convulsed, his lungs heaving with a mix of laughter and crying that came out only as manic wheeze. His only choice had been taken away. His role. His fate. What was it, then? Was his life's purpose to be a fool? A joke? Whatever gods beings truly cruel enough to exist in this world were laughing at him. The boy who thought he could be important.
Do you want to punish me for my hubris? Is that your aim? Virgil would have said, had he been able. I won't apologize.
He locked eyes with Fisher. The boy looked at him with abject hatred. Fisher raised a gun. Even if Virgil had wanted to fight back, his body could not.
I don't hate you, Fisher. Not even now. Virgil would have said, had he been alive. I love you. I loved all of you.
The convulsions of Virgil's body intensified as it was struck by a barrage of bullets, ripping into organ after organ until even the body's most basic functions ceased. The disconnected mass of flesh and bone that rested against the broken headstone no longer had any ability to affect the world around it, or to pretend at control.
Maybe I was a little selfish. Perhaps I wanted a taste of greatness. Virgil would have said, had he a body. But above all, I just wanted to save all of us. Was that so awful? Even if it wasn't my destiny, It wasn't wrong for me to try. I don't regret anything I've done.
Virgil heard a divine voice, laughing at him. Virgil didn't know what would happen to him from here, but he was sure it would be painful. A punishment fit for his blasphemy. He would suffer without complaint.
You can take my choice and you can take my control, but you cannot take my devotion. I will remain. Thus spoke Virgil Raeburn.
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Pippi
- Posts: 1118
- Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2018 6:32 pm
- Location: I'm Pip!
- Team Affiliation: Stephanie's Buccaneers
There had always been a love-hate relationship between Galahad and his name.
His father had named him, to no great surprise, after the hero of Arthurian legend. A knight of the Round Table, one of the three achievers of the Holy Grail, a man so gallant and brave and bold that he was considered the pinnacle of knighthood, the perfect standard of which his father had briefly brushed with. It was a name that came fully fitted with expectations, with an image formed in your mind. The sort of person you needed to be to share such heritage.
Galahad, the boy from Bellingham, had long held a fascination with the origin of his name, of all the myths and legends and tales that came alongside it. Not to the extent of his father, of course; it was very difficult to beat Dominic Matthews when it came to love for the Arthurian Cycle, and Galahad was pretty sure he’d have given his children names that fell much more on the side of ordinary. Skirting boring, perhaps. Jamie or Aidan for a boy, he’d considered, Elise for a girl. At one point he’d even thought about naming his hypothetical daughter after his best friend, but she had threatened to deck him if he tried it. So he’d given up on that idea pretty sharpish.
He’d studied up on the stories of Sir Galahad, back home, back at school. All of them glowing with praise for the one true knight, each challenge he faced overcome with ease. The seat of Siege Perilous, his own sword drawn from the stone, his journeys with Bors and Percival for the Grail, his final heavenly ascension. He’d absorbed all of the tales of chivalry and derring-do. He’d always, internally, felt a point of pride, to be associated with such a thing.
But never once had he felt as though he’d embodied the spirit of the name he’d borrowed.
What qualities had he shared with Gallant Galahad, after all, back at school when such a thing had mattered? He was decently smart, he supposed. He was polite. He was kind. He was friendly. He was sort of fast on the hockey field. But he wasn’t strong. He wasn’t bold. He wasn’t heroic enough to throw himself into danger, the safety and livelihood of those in need the only things on his mind. And he certainly wasn’t brave. He could barely stand up for himself, after all, let alone the beaten and the broken.
And out here, in this little lost village? He’d only found Freya when it had been far too late for him to do anything. He’d stood there, motionless, three times over, as Barry and Penny and Rajni were cut down before his very eyes. He’d never even seen Rue. So many people he could have saved, or at the very damn least tried to protect, and a grand total of none of them that he’d successfully managed to keep alive. Some knight he was.
He was being too harsh on himself, he knew that. This was a zero-sum game, at the end of the day. A life for a life was the way The Program had to work. It wasn’t fair to blame himself for deaths he physically could never have prevented. Wasn’t fair to start kicking himself when it had been made abundantly clear only one person could walk away from this mess.
And he’d made a promise too, he knew, he knew that all too well. ‘If not for himself but for her’, those words had never once left his head since he’d shared them with Rajni. There were stories to tell. Memories to keep alive. He’d pledged to keep them all going. For the truth, blurred and obscured by the static view of security footage, to be brought to light, no matter what it took.
But Fisher had promised that as well. And Fisher might not have known the full story of Freya Nygard, of Rue von Schroeder, of Rajni Smith. But the same could be said for Galahad and all of Fisher’s companions. Each of them could learn enough. Each of them could pass that information along.
He simply couldn’t bear to see one more person die in front of him, when he had the power to save them.
His legs shook, as the cacophony of gunfire and screaming retreated into the night, a haze of smoke left behind in its wake. Overkill, he thought. Virgil had even less time than he did, before Fisher had made certain of that fact. Galahad looked down at the other boy, hunched on his knees, then across, as his legs gave way beneath him, and he sat down hard on the grass. He didn’t even feel it. He was struggling to feel much of anything, any longer.
“Fisher?”
There was a harsh edge to his voice, the word dragged along the edge of a razor before it left his mouth. One hand had found its way to his midriff. There was blood, a slow seeping waterfall, filtering between his fingers, dripping into his lap.
“H-Hey… Fisher? Can you hear me?”
His father had named him, to no great surprise, after the hero of Arthurian legend. A knight of the Round Table, one of the three achievers of the Holy Grail, a man so gallant and brave and bold that he was considered the pinnacle of knighthood, the perfect standard of which his father had briefly brushed with. It was a name that came fully fitted with expectations, with an image formed in your mind. The sort of person you needed to be to share such heritage.
Galahad, the boy from Bellingham, had long held a fascination with the origin of his name, of all the myths and legends and tales that came alongside it. Not to the extent of his father, of course; it was very difficult to beat Dominic Matthews when it came to love for the Arthurian Cycle, and Galahad was pretty sure he’d have given his children names that fell much more on the side of ordinary. Skirting boring, perhaps. Jamie or Aidan for a boy, he’d considered, Elise for a girl. At one point he’d even thought about naming his hypothetical daughter after his best friend, but she had threatened to deck him if he tried it. So he’d given up on that idea pretty sharpish.
He’d studied up on the stories of Sir Galahad, back home, back at school. All of them glowing with praise for the one true knight, each challenge he faced overcome with ease. The seat of Siege Perilous, his own sword drawn from the stone, his journeys with Bors and Percival for the Grail, his final heavenly ascension. He’d absorbed all of the tales of chivalry and derring-do. He’d always, internally, felt a point of pride, to be associated with such a thing.
But never once had he felt as though he’d embodied the spirit of the name he’d borrowed.
What qualities had he shared with Gallant Galahad, after all, back at school when such a thing had mattered? He was decently smart, he supposed. He was polite. He was kind. He was friendly. He was sort of fast on the hockey field. But he wasn’t strong. He wasn’t bold. He wasn’t heroic enough to throw himself into danger, the safety and livelihood of those in need the only things on his mind. And he certainly wasn’t brave. He could barely stand up for himself, after all, let alone the beaten and the broken.
And out here, in this little lost village? He’d only found Freya when it had been far too late for him to do anything. He’d stood there, motionless, three times over, as Barry and Penny and Rajni were cut down before his very eyes. He’d never even seen Rue. So many people he could have saved, or at the very damn least tried to protect, and a grand total of none of them that he’d successfully managed to keep alive. Some knight he was.
He was being too harsh on himself, he knew that. This was a zero-sum game, at the end of the day. A life for a life was the way The Program had to work. It wasn’t fair to blame himself for deaths he physically could never have prevented. Wasn’t fair to start kicking himself when it had been made abundantly clear only one person could walk away from this mess.
And he’d made a promise too, he knew, he knew that all too well. ‘If not for himself but for her’, those words had never once left his head since he’d shared them with Rajni. There were stories to tell. Memories to keep alive. He’d pledged to keep them all going. For the truth, blurred and obscured by the static view of security footage, to be brought to light, no matter what it took.
But Fisher had promised that as well. And Fisher might not have known the full story of Freya Nygard, of Rue von Schroeder, of Rajni Smith. But the same could be said for Galahad and all of Fisher’s companions. Each of them could learn enough. Each of them could pass that information along.
He simply couldn’t bear to see one more person die in front of him, when he had the power to save them.
His legs shook, as the cacophony of gunfire and screaming retreated into the night, a haze of smoke left behind in its wake. Overkill, he thought. Virgil had even less time than he did, before Fisher had made certain of that fact. Galahad looked down at the other boy, hunched on his knees, then across, as his legs gave way beneath him, and he sat down hard on the grass. He didn’t even feel it. He was struggling to feel much of anything, any longer.
“Fisher?”
There was a harsh edge to his voice, the word dragged along the edge of a razor before it left his mouth. One hand had found its way to his midriff. There was blood, a slow seeping waterfall, filtering between his fingers, dripping into his lap.
“H-Hey… Fisher? Can you hear me?”