It all happened so fast.
God, that was a painful cliché, Olivia knew. But you never realize that even the most clichéd of clichés have some tiny glimmer of truth to them until you see them unfold before your very eyes.
And when the gun roared...
Always a little more bloodshed to be had, in the end. This was SOTF, after all. How could it possibly have ended any other way? Not with a whimper... but with a BANG!
A resigned ah, well was all her thoughts could manage for Ivan. Far be it for Olivia del Rio to slander her own teammate, but he'd basically brought it on himself by kicking Verity while she was down. You just didn't do that! The Selkies had already won, of course — everyone back at home knew it too — hadn't he ever heard of good sportsmanship?
(She conveniently forgot, of course, all those times that she, herself, had gotten carried away in the middle of a match. Unnecessary roughness, she'd spat one night, was the referee's way of saying you can't give 'em everything you've got. Her teammates might've caught the hypocrisy. At least, they might've if they were privy to her thoughts as she gazed blankly out at the carnage all around her.)
Whalebones
TV3 Endgame, Part 10 of 10.
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carduinal-cyn
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Amanda called 911.
They responded in French, and she asked in English for help. There was a hint of panic in her tone. How long had he been seizing? A minute? Three? Five? She knew the basic care of seizures - don't put things in their mouth, turn them to the side, put something underneath their head so they didn't bang it on the floor, etc. But how long has this been going? How long has he been doing this? Amanda didn't know, and that was the part that scared her. She had seen him do this, repeatedly. It wasn't a new occurrence by any means. It was from the repeated concussion.
They said they'd come. The woman on the phone asked her if she wanted to stay with her until the ambulance came.
Amanda said yes.
Ivan laid face first on the ground, a hole at the base of his back. The pain in his knee was now numb like it had been plunged in frozen water. He muttered something his hands pushing himself off the ground.
"-legs." He spat. "Can't feel-"
They responded in French, and she asked in English for help. There was a hint of panic in her tone. How long had he been seizing? A minute? Three? Five? She knew the basic care of seizures - don't put things in their mouth, turn them to the side, put something underneath their head so they didn't bang it on the floor, etc. But how long has this been going? How long has he been doing this? Amanda didn't know, and that was the part that scared her. She had seen him do this, repeatedly. It wasn't a new occurrence by any means. It was from the repeated concussion.
They said they'd come. The woman on the phone asked her if she wanted to stay with her until the ambulance came.
Amanda said yes.
Ivan laid face first on the ground, a hole at the base of his back. The pain in his knee was now numb like it had been plunged in frozen water. He muttered something his hands pushing himself off the ground.
"-legs." He spat. "Can't feel-"
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Wham Yubeesling
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No way.
No fucking way.
Verity thought, maybe, she’d miss her shot, in the end. It was all against her. A gun she’d never actually used before, a guide that’d told her (however long ago she’d read it) that this particular gun was no good if used above water, a pair of arms too weak to take any more shots, only one eye to make it. She’d expected the shot to sail past her target. For some combination of the new gun’s recoil or her own, borked aim to make it go wild. She’d miss Ivan. All he’d feel was the wind rush right next to his head. He’d look back at her, give one last reminder that he was the winner, and she the loser, and keep walking, out of sight, as she desperately, fruitlessly tried to aim again. Hello Zepp. Jigsaw locking the guy in the bathroom vibes.
But that wasn’t what happened. No. No. Verity had let rip. And for a moment, the world around her lost focus. The boom of the gun as it went off in her hands. The flash of the muzzle as the rocket exploded forward. A sight that took away her own. A noise that hit the floor below, the air around her, made it shake and quiver and feel all so less stable. Usually there were still things left, things she could focus on, little bits of the world around her that let her know she was still here. But she didn’t have anything. Not anymore. Not here, bleeding out, on the floor.
So when she’d let rip, all there was was the shot. Sound and thunder. The whole world disappeared around her.
And when it all came back, when the remnant of the flash faded before her eye, Ivan was on the floor with her. Back blown open. Mouthing something like, like- ’I can’t feel my legs-’
And Verity-
She-
She-
No fucking way.
Verity thought, maybe, she’d miss her shot, in the end. It was all against her. A gun she’d never actually used before, a guide that’d told her (however long ago she’d read it) that this particular gun was no good if used above water, a pair of arms too weak to take any more shots, only one eye to make it. She’d expected the shot to sail past her target. For some combination of the new gun’s recoil or her own, borked aim to make it go wild. She’d miss Ivan. All he’d feel was the wind rush right next to his head. He’d look back at her, give one last reminder that he was the winner, and she the loser, and keep walking, out of sight, as she desperately, fruitlessly tried to aim again. Hello Zepp. Jigsaw locking the guy in the bathroom vibes.
But that wasn’t what happened. No. No. Verity had let rip. And for a moment, the world around her lost focus. The boom of the gun as it went off in her hands. The flash of the muzzle as the rocket exploded forward. A sight that took away her own. A noise that hit the floor below, the air around her, made it shake and quiver and feel all so less stable. Usually there were still things left, things she could focus on, little bits of the world around her that let her know she was still here. But she didn’t have anything. Not anymore. Not here, bleeding out, on the floor.
So when she’d let rip, all there was was the shot. Sound and thunder. The whole world disappeared around her.
And when it all came back, when the remnant of the flash faded before her eye, Ivan was on the floor with her. Back blown open. Mouthing something like, like- ’I can’t feel my legs-’
And Verity-
She-
She-
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Wham Yubeesling
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She laughed.
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Wham Yubeesling
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She laughed.
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Wham Yubeesling
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She laughed.
And she laughed.
And she laughed.
And she laughed.
And she laughed.
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Wham Yubeesling
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It came out loud, scratched, spluttered. From the belly. From the lungs. It didn’t matter how many holes they had. It didn’t matter how much pooled in, how much backwashed up her throat. She couldn’t stop herself. Her eyes closed. Her head leaned back, as far as it could on the deck. Her arms, her legs splayed out around her, her gun dropped to her side, now that they weren’t needed anymore. Now that she couldn’t feel them. Now that she couldn’t feel anything except the steel trap closing around her lungs, the blood clogging up her throat, the banshee shrieks ejecting from her mouth. And she couldn’t stop. And she didn’t want to. Because- because-
Because it was so funny. Ivan, flopped over on the floor like that. Trying to call out. Trying to get himself to move. He’d thought- he’d thought he’d won. He’d thought he was untouchable. He’d thought that- that he could just walk out of here, and that there was nothing anybody could do to give him an ego check, and now he’d paid the price. And now he was never going to walk again. And now he was forever going to be the guy who’d peak in SotF. He wouldn’t have the legs to take all the opportunities he could’ve taken. He wouldn’t have the brain to just fucking keep his mouth shut and not let the whole world know just how much of a tool he truly was. And he wouldn’t have anywhere to go. He wouldn’t have anything to look forward to. In ten years, he’d wake up, and he’d still be the same guy he was even before this. And he’d still think he was the winner. And he’d still think he’d beaten her.
“Fu-”
And there wouldn’t be any escape. Not for Ivan. Never, ever, ever. Not unless he actually learned something. Not unless somebody ever got through to him. Not unless he found out that the world didn’t revolve around him, that the ocean and the sky and the stars didn’t exist just to suck his dick. And maybe he would. Maybe he’d actually grow. Maybe he’d actually change. But Verity was never going to see that. She was going to die, here, as blood and bile filled up her throat, as her laughs became coughs, became chokes, so why did she need to wonder what’d actually happen? She had the image, in her head. And she was going to carry it to her grave. And she was never going to have anything challenge that assumption. Not now. Never again.
“Fuck-”
And- and you know what else was funny?
That this was the final page. That this was how it all ended. She coughed, she coughed, but she didn’t have enough left to get anything out, and her lungs were desperate to breathe, and her throat was desperate to get one last gasp of air, and- and- and this was where she was going to die. All those questions she’d had, about who she was, about her story, and it didn’t even matter. She was never going to get any answers. She’d told herself she wouldn’t burn out, she told herself she wouldn’t be the girl they’d casted just to get the game running, but why had she even cared? There’d- there’d maybe been a reason, but she couldn’t remember it, and she probably wasn’t ever going to remember it again- so- so why had it mattered? This wasn’t a show she was going to watch. This was- this was a posthumous manuscript. A book in every pair of hands except the one who wrote it.
“Fucking owned-”
And that- and that was so funny. How- how none of this had even mattered to her. How she was never going to know why she’d done what she’d done. How she- how she’d done so many things she’d never, ever be able to take back. How she’d put so much stock, so much hope that maybe she, and Fisk, and Keegan, and all the others, that they could’ve made it through. How it was all for this. How she was never actually going to face any consequences. How this- how this was- how this was her ending. How she was laughing. How she could ride this high to wherever was next and she could- how she could close the book, on all this, and she wouldn’t have to suffer the burden of caring about it anymore. How many days she’d spent here. How many times she’d feared about how it was all going to end. How- how somehow the her before this had actually wanted this, wanted to be here.
How- how many people who’d become a part of her.
How- how many friends she could’ve made at school had she just fucking tried.
So she kept laughing. Because even as it choked her, even as it killed her, every laugh was like a breath. And every breath was one more sentence she got to spend alive. And maybe wanting to be alive was okay. And maybe she never actually needed a reason to want that.
And she kept laughing, even as the feeling faded, even as all the pain in her chest and her throat and her brain became too much to bear. Because she didn’t have to think about anything anymore. She didn’t have to remember. She didn’t have to deal with being her any longer.
And she kept laughing. And she opened her eyes. And even as she could tell her vision was darkening, even as she realized this was the last time she'd ever have them open, she could finally see the stars. All- all there. All in the sky. All- so far away. So many galaxies. All out there. All so much bigger than this.
And she kept laughing.
(she couldn’t tell at what moment she stopped)
Because it was so funny. Ivan, flopped over on the floor like that. Trying to call out. Trying to get himself to move. He’d thought- he’d thought he’d won. He’d thought he was untouchable. He’d thought that- that he could just walk out of here, and that there was nothing anybody could do to give him an ego check, and now he’d paid the price. And now he was never going to walk again. And now he was forever going to be the guy who’d peak in SotF. He wouldn’t have the legs to take all the opportunities he could’ve taken. He wouldn’t have the brain to just fucking keep his mouth shut and not let the whole world know just how much of a tool he truly was. And he wouldn’t have anywhere to go. He wouldn’t have anything to look forward to. In ten years, he’d wake up, and he’d still be the same guy he was even before this. And he’d still think he was the winner. And he’d still think he’d beaten her.
“Fu-”
And there wouldn’t be any escape. Not for Ivan. Never, ever, ever. Not unless he actually learned something. Not unless somebody ever got through to him. Not unless he found out that the world didn’t revolve around him, that the ocean and the sky and the stars didn’t exist just to suck his dick. And maybe he would. Maybe he’d actually grow. Maybe he’d actually change. But Verity was never going to see that. She was going to die, here, as blood and bile filled up her throat, as her laughs became coughs, became chokes, so why did she need to wonder what’d actually happen? She had the image, in her head. And she was going to carry it to her grave. And she was never going to have anything challenge that assumption. Not now. Never again.
“Fuck-”
And- and you know what else was funny?
That this was the final page. That this was how it all ended. She coughed, she coughed, but she didn’t have enough left to get anything out, and her lungs were desperate to breathe, and her throat was desperate to get one last gasp of air, and- and- and this was where she was going to die. All those questions she’d had, about who she was, about her story, and it didn’t even matter. She was never going to get any answers. She’d told herself she wouldn’t burn out, she told herself she wouldn’t be the girl they’d casted just to get the game running, but why had she even cared? There’d- there’d maybe been a reason, but she couldn’t remember it, and she probably wasn’t ever going to remember it again- so- so why had it mattered? This wasn’t a show she was going to watch. This was- this was a posthumous manuscript. A book in every pair of hands except the one who wrote it.
“Fucking owned-”
And that- and that was so funny. How- how none of this had even mattered to her. How she was never going to know why she’d done what she’d done. How she- how she’d done so many things she’d never, ever be able to take back. How she’d put so much stock, so much hope that maybe she, and Fisk, and Keegan, and all the others, that they could’ve made it through. How it was all for this. How she was never actually going to face any consequences. How this- how this was- how this was her ending. How she was laughing. How she could ride this high to wherever was next and she could- how she could close the book, on all this, and she wouldn’t have to suffer the burden of caring about it anymore. How many days she’d spent here. How many times she’d feared about how it was all going to end. How- how somehow the her before this had actually wanted this, wanted to be here.
How- how many people who’d become a part of her.
How- how many friends she could’ve made at school had she just fucking tried.
So she kept laughing. Because even as it choked her, even as it killed her, every laugh was like a breath. And every breath was one more sentence she got to spend alive. And maybe wanting to be alive was okay. And maybe she never actually needed a reason to want that.
And she kept laughing, even as the feeling faded, even as all the pain in her chest and her throat and her brain became too much to bear. Because she didn’t have to think about anything anymore. She didn’t have to remember. She didn’t have to deal with being her any longer.
And she kept laughing. And she opened her eyes. And even as she could tell her vision was darkening, even as she realized this was the last time she'd ever have them open, she could finally see the stars. All- all there. All in the sky. All- so far away. So many galaxies. All out there. All so much bigger than this.
And she kept laughing.
(she couldn’t tell at what moment she stopped)
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Wham Yubeesling
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FR07: VERITY STEWART: DECEASED
ONE TEAM REMAINS
ONE TEAM REMAINS
Amanda looked at him, and he didn’t look at her.
The first-responders came to her home thirty minutes after Ivan had stopped. He hadn’t awakened yet, if he ever would. A woman with dark hair and tan skin had talked to her with a French accent as Amanda’s eyes welled up in tears.
They dragged him away with a blanket covering his chest, and from the corner of her eyes, she waited for the white sheet to be pulled over his face. While that didn’t come, the woman asked her for his name.
She responded with his name, Ivan Rodriguez. The EMT didn’t seem to know what it meant for the small town - or if she did, she didn’t let it show on her face - but Amanda did. Ivan would be put in another media circus.
And with that, Ivan was gone as the red and white lights erupted once again.
When Marisa pulled him into the helicopter, she could swear that she heard someone cry.
The first-responders came to her home thirty minutes after Ivan had stopped. He hadn’t awakened yet, if he ever would. A woman with dark hair and tan skin had talked to her with a French accent as Amanda’s eyes welled up in tears.
They dragged him away with a blanket covering his chest, and from the corner of her eyes, she waited for the white sheet to be pulled over his face. While that didn’t come, the woman asked her for his name.
She responded with his name, Ivan Rodriguez. The EMT didn’t seem to know what it meant for the small town - or if she did, she didn’t let it show on her face - but Amanda did. Ivan would be put in another media circus.
And with that, Ivan was gone as the red and white lights erupted once again.
When Marisa pulled him into the helicopter, she could swear that she heard someone cry.
ES12: IVAN RODRIGUEZ: CO-WINNER
ONE PERSON REMAINS