Tras el cristal

[Laurels]

Another connection, and now Ambrose was on the ground. Why didn't Ambrose just let Michael take this one? Ambrose had one arm and basically handed the knife to this fucker wrapped in silk. Now Ambrose felt two stinging sensations from his chest and was on his ass. Michael probably could have handled this much more easily.

Ambrose tried to kick his feet and move back as the attacker came towards him. He could feel his heart racing and his makeshift sling starting to come apart. He was probably going to die. Here. In fucking Mexico. At the hands of some guy in roller skates.

"Michael!" Ambrose screamed as Iago got closer with the knife.

[Sh4dE]

Iago Croxley was no person who enjoyed hurting other people. No, it hurt to see Ambrose being hurt. But Iago felt safer and stronger with the knife - there was some hidden power within the knife. He felt a power of safety and power he had not felt since he awoke in this arena. He was scared and afraid of being killed, he hid, he rolled away when he heard noises.

But now he crawled towards Ambrose and crawled on him, knife in hand, ready to stab, having full control over Ambrose's life. Power was such a scary thing. Iago could simply just stab Ambrose and his life. But what monster would Iago be if he did that. He had to, right?

Footsteps. Michael was going to come. Iago was torn between stabbing and running away. Fight or flight. He attempted to stand up, but failed due to the roller blades.

[Fenrir]

Well this had turned into a shit show faster than he had expected. When he saw that Ambrose was going to reach the skater first Michael had held back, slowing down to conserve energy while he let his ally do the running for him; he had expected it to be easy, all Ambrose had to do was stick the knife in him before he got away and even if he failed then all Michael had to do was point and shoot. This fucker might be able to out run them, but he couldn’t skate his way through a cloud of buckshot.

He hadn’t expected Ambrose to try and throw the knife at him, though the idea wasn’t terrible. He definitely hadn’t expected the guy to pick up and the knife and start taking swings at Ambrose instead of trying to escape, Ambrose had been pretty surprised to judging by the look on his face, and now Ambrose was only the ground bleeding from the chest while skater boy climbed on top of him with Ambrose’s own knife in his hand.

Basically things couldn’t have gone worse if they’d fucking planned it.

With little time to spare Michael sprinted towards the pair, dropping the shotgun noisily to the tarmac and lowering his shoulders. As Iago tried to raise himself off of Ambrose Michael launched into him shoulder first as he sought to tackle the boy to the ground.

[Sh4dE]

As Iago tried to balance himself with his feet he did not expect to get rushed down by the black-haired sportsman, who denied all of Iago's attempt of gaining balance. Iago fell backwards and could feel his head being bumped.

Despite the dull pain on his head, he pointed the knife in the direction of Michael to indicate that he should leave Iago alone.

[Fenrir]

Rather than be deterred by the knife being brandished in his direction Michael took advantage of the initiative he’d gained from his surprise attack and lashed out. He rose to his feet and lashed out at Iago with a kick, his heavy, booted foot aimed at the wrist of the hand holding the knife; at the same time he slipped a hand into his pocket and began sliding his fingers into the holes of his brass knuckles.

He should have turned away and retrieved his shotgun instead; Iago would be slow getting back to his feet in those skates and then he could have ended this with one clean shot. But Michael didn’t think of that, he wasn’t used to having a firearm like that as an option so instead he defaulted to the kind of tactics he would use were this a regular schoolyard fight back home. He was larger than Iago, stronger; if he could get rid of the knife then this would be easy. That was all he was thinking right now. As a result, things were going to get needlessly messy.

[Laurels]

((Taking over Iago for this post. All GMing approved))

Iago grunted as he felt each kick from Michael. The punk didn't seem to take his implied threat with any seriousness, so now Iago would have to really show him how serious he was.

Iago tried to get back up, slipping a bit with the roller skates. Before he could get back up, he suddenly felt a large force smash into the side of his face. The shock caused him to drop the knife. He could feel his cheek enflamed with pain. He might have broken something. Before he could react, Iago felt another punch against the face, sending his head back onto the floor.

Iago could only see through one good eye, but he could now see Michael crouched above him, raising his brass knuckled fists high in the air to bring them down onto Iago's face. He only had a moment to see through that eye, as the next few punches caused him to see nothing but a red blur. Iago couldn't even say anything else, as he felt his jaw disconnect and his teeth fall into his mouth.

Finally, Iago stopped trying to do anything. He could barely speak, see, or move. Everything hurt, all he could taste was blood and bone, and Michael just wouldn't stop attacking. Iago wouldn't be escaping this, no matter how much he wished he could roller skate away, so he just resigned, knowing his skates would be hung up for good.

Iago Croxley: Deceased

---

Ambrose coughed a bit and sat up. He could see Michael wailing on the guy, spraying blood, bone, and what might be the roller guy's brains all over the floor. Ambrose didn't have much sympathy for that guy. He was supposed to be a sacrifice to make America better. But Ambrose hurt like hell. The asshole got two swipes on his chest, and now Ambrose could feel his shirt getting sticky with blood. Ambrose cried out as he tried to pull himself up to a seated position, which was ridiculously hard with one arm and a sliced upper torso.

"Michael! I think he's dead!" he finally shouted to his partner.

"Now please! Help me deal with this shit!"

Ambrose coughed a bit, clutched his chest with his good hand. He couldn't die like this. He couldn't be a pathetic casualty in the game. He couldn't let his family see him like this. Betsy already cried over him being drafted, he couldn't stand to think she'd be weak enough to see him mutilated and scarred and collapse like some soldier's widow.

But then it hit him: they already did. His family was surely watching him. They saw that minority bitch fuck him up, saw the roller skate guy nearly have him at his mercy, and they were most assuredly watching him as he was possibly bleeding out from collective injuries. Ambrose Lexington was a broken, bloody mess. A pawn discarded early in the game. One of many corpses dumped into a mass grave because they couldn't be identified. He wasn't going to die a hero or a patriot, but a pathetic wreck.

Ambrose grit his teeth and slammed his good hand into the floor.

"GODDAMMIT!" he cried out. "I FUCKING HATE THIS PLACE!"

[Fenrir]

By the time Michael pulled himself off of Iago’s corpse he was a mess in more ways than one. His hands were obviously covered in blood, but once Iago’s head had been split open the splatter had begun to coat his shirt with gore as well and a fair amount of had even made its way up to his. He was breathing heavily as he stepped away, breathes coming in large gasps as his hands trembled; he kept his eyes downcast, unable to look at what he’d just done.

After the first couple of hits he’d just begun acting on auto pilot, swinging his metal clad fist in a mechanical motion as he sought kill Iago without having to be witness to his own actions. It wasn’t until Ambrose called out that he stopped and actually saw what he’d done; he hadn’t expected the brass knuckles to do that much damage, to leave the boy unrecognisable, or had he just been punching longer than he’d thought? Michael had thought Zach final moments had been bad. The sight of Iago’s ruined face pushed the other boy out of his head entirely.

Turning away from the grisly scene Michael walked over and picked up his shotgun, removing the bloody brass knuckles as he walked and sticking them in his jacket pocket. Ambrose was a wreck, Iago having gotten in a couple of good hits with the knife that left his ally with two bleeding cuts on his chest.

He wouldn’t make it. That fact was never really in question, Michael didn’t intend to let anyone else but him be the one left standing at the end of this, but he hadn’t expected Ambrose’s end to come so soon, mere hours after they had met and teamed up. “You’re a mess. Can you get up?”

[Laurels]

"I can try. Goddammit, I better be able to," he grunted.

Ambrose tried to push himself up, finding it a bit difficult with the amount of blood on the floor. He wasn't even sure if it was his own or the roller boy's. Either way, it was super disgusting and humiliating. Ambrose slipped a bit, and after a few seconds, he was on both feet.

He looked back down at his chest. His shirt and jacket were pretty much ruined. He was going to have to find new clothes if he didn't bleed to death. That would mean taking time to raid these trashy homes and finding something that could fit. But then again, what did it matter? He probably couldn't have clothing over these injuries. He wasn't sure how good Michael was at first aid, but if he couldn't stitch him up, he'd be running around with bandages all over his chest, restricting his movement even more and-

Ambrose proceeded to stomp down on Iago's head. He screamed louder than he ever had before. It was people like this who had ruined him so much. Everything was no massively inconvenient and unpleasant for him because of people like Iago and the minority bitch. Ambrose was going to be walking around like a shrapnel survivor if he managed to survive. It'd be one thing if he was in actual combat, but for shitty people like this, he was finally at his limit.

"God, fuck all of this!" Ambrose screamed. "Seriously, fuck! Everything! Here!"

He stomped on the head again, not caring that he was sliding a bit or ruining his shoes.

"This fucking sucks!" he continued, stomping repeatedly. "Why do I have to suffer like this? Why do I have to let people like this guy take advantage of me? Why is this the best way to show my patriotism and duty to my country? For fuck's sake, what's the point? Why is this my destiny? Why is this my service? Why am I forced to be here? I'd much rather be front line infantry than this fucking shit! Fuck! All! Of! THIS!"

Ambrose stopped stomping and panted. He probably shouldn't get this worked up while bleeding to death, but surely Michael would permit a momentary release of emotion.

[Fenrir]

Michael let Ambrose get up by himself; partly to preserve the boys pride, mostly just to see if he was still capable of doing so. It took a few seconds and it was a near thing but eventually Ambrose was able to put himself back on his feet and Michael watched as he walked over to the fresh corpse, presumably to retrieve his knife.

It was a bit of a surprise when instead Ambrose began to stomp of Iago’s body, but when he began screaming and shouting Michael could only let out a frustrated sigh. They didn’t have time for petty outbursts like this and Michael didn’t have the patience to listen to the tantrum of someone who was on death’s door. “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t thrown your knife away. You let a punk on roller skates get the better of you; you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

[Laurels]

"I don't give a fuck about that!" Ambrose said in response to Michael's criticism. "Who gives a shit about what I should have done or not? I was a good patriot! I was good to America! And yet, here I am, in some shithole town in some shithole country suffering because the government decided to empower idiots, rabble, and subhumans! How does this make our country better when we're losing our best people to give fucking pricks like this guy a chance at greatness?"

Ambrose shook his head. He was starting to get a bit woozy. They probably needed to address his wounds soon.

"I'm not having fun anymore. I'm disadvantaged, and this place is just making it easier and easier for these motherfuckers to get me. Fuck. This. Game."

[Fenrir]

Letting out another sigh, this one with a hint of resignation to it, Michael hefted his shotgun up to hold it with both hands and began to pace towards Ambrose. “This game you hate so much is an American institution. I don’t know why it started, or why we need it, but it is what it is and it’s not our place to question it.”

There was no anger in Michael’s voice, no heat, just an even toned certainty to what he was saying. Maybe there was a tinge of disappointment to it as well, to hear someone he had once considered a likeminded friend suddenly start spouting such nonsense, traitorous nonsense at that, but if there was it was subtle.

He stopped a few steps away from Ambrose, just beyond the injured teens reach. “One thing I do know is that it’s the great equaliser; a place where all patriots, regardless of their background or who they were out there, can serve their country to the best of their ability. This was never about fun. This was about doing our duty.

“So far that rabble or idiots and sub-humans are doing a better job of that than you are. Maybe you need to rethink who the best this country has to offer really is; because I don’t think it’s some entitled asshole who thinks this country owes him something.”

[Laurels]

Great. Michael wasn't agreeing with Ambrose. Michael seemed to have more sympathy for the guy whose face he caved in than Ambrose. That's not how it was supposed to go. The Program was supposed to reward and affirm patriots like him. Maybe some of those lower-class scum had the chance to rise up, but it wasn't like America cared to see them succeed. Most Americans were probably glad they didn't know where the winners went if it was people like Iago.

But more importantly, Ambrose didn't like that Michael was stroking his gun like his penis and calling Ambrose names. Ambrose would have to respond to that.

"Oh, well I'm sure you'd feel as peachy-keen as I am if our positions were switched," Ambrose said, adjusting his tone to be full of as much vitriol as before, but a little quieter. "Oh. Wait. No you wouldn't. You wouldn't at all. You'd probably be just like me."

Ambrose glared at Michael.

"Cause let's face it, Mike. The only real advantage you have is that fucking gun. You'd be shitting yourself like this motherfucker if things weren't going your way. It's easy to feel privileged when you have every advantage given to you, and maybe I don't have that luxury here like I did back home, but I certainly deserve better than to hear your smarmy ass trying to act like you have this shit figured out completely. It's not like your chance of winning is any better than mine right now, so maybe don't patronize me!"

[Fenrir]

Michael let out a bark of bitter laughter as Ambrose finished his rant. The irony of Ambrose talking about privilege given his upbringing was too much, as was the fact that a guy covered in his own blood was trying to say he had the same chance of surviving as the guy who just had to pull his ass out of the fire.

“No, I wouldn’t be anything like you. I wouldn’t turn my back on my country the first time things didn’t go my way; if I have to die here then at least I’ll try and go out like a man instead of blaming everyone else. You’d rather be front line infantry than here? Is that a joke? You’d shit yourself and beg someone to take you home the first time you had to put yourself at risk.”

Ambrose had always been a little full of himself, a little arrogant, and he had little regard for his fellow American’s if they didn’t happen to be white. But in spite of that Michael had always thought of him as a genuine patriot when it mattered. He was a proud American, he spoke about his conscription almost like it was something he was looking forward to, and Michael had expected him to treat the Program the same way; it was their duty as patriotic American’s to take part in the Program the same way it was their duty to serve their nation’s army.

But such patriotism was nothing until it was tested, as it was being tested now, and it seemed like Ambrose’s dedication to his country was a little more fickle than Michael’s own. It was disappointing to see.

“Don’t act like the only reason you’re in this situation and I’m not is because of luck. I didn’t start the game with this gun, I had to kill someone for it; you had a knife and still got fucked up by a guy on roller skates. If I gave you this gun you’d probably only shoot yourself in the foot with it anyway.”

Such fair weather American’s were a disgrace. Your loyalty to your nation shouldn’t be dependent on how well off you are and it should be stronger than to break anytime you fall on hard times; ‘ask not what your country can do for you’ and all that shit.

“Face it Ambrose, you never had a chance here. The only reason I didn’t shoot you back when we met was because I thought you’d be useful to keep around for a while; but then the first time I expect you to actually do something you fuck up this badly and I have to save your ass.”

Maybe he was being harsh. Maybe in the future Michael would look back on this moment and feel some regret for the anger he felt towards Ambrose, the betrayal. Maybe he would see his former friend as someone who was simply lashing out in anger at the entity he saw as responsible for his misfortune and not as a loud-mouthed dissident finally showing his true colours.

“Fuck it.”

Michael raised the shotgun in his hands and levelled it at Ambrose’s chest and pulled the trigger.

((M27 - Michael Baird continued in ...And An Ending))

[Laurels]

Ambrose listened as Michael tried to level him with his own rant. Ambrose was fine to listen. Michael clearly had as much to get off his chest, much like how Ambrose had a lot now literally off his chest. They could have their spat and then recoup and work on fixing Ambrose up so they could continue on with the game. Sometimes you just had to unload a bit, and maybe they both needed to get this two days of stress off their chest. Ambrose still wanted to be with Michael since Michael proved to be a good ally so far.

Fuck it.

But maybe he wasn't that good an ally. Michael raised his gun at Ambrose's chest and fired. Ambrose didn't even get the chance to say anything before he felt his entire torso figuratively explode. He was thrown back a bit and fell onto his back, blood spraying out his mouth. Now Iago's knife slashes didn't seem to matter that much. Ambrose couldn't lift his head up, but he was quite sure his chest was blown open. If he did look up, he could probably see his breakfast.

Ambrose was fading fast. He wasn't going to be able to get any parting words in or do anything to get revenge on Michael. Michael had won this fight. Whether he'd win the war remained to be seen, but now Ambrose was banking on literally everyone else still alive to kill him. Even that minority girl from yesterday. He'd take her winning over fucking Michael.

Suddenly, Ambrose was starting to understand why Betsy was crying when he was selected. It wasn't pride or sorrow, but pity. She must have known he wouldn't survive. She could probably see him like Michael did, and she knew he was going to fail horribly. She was a bright girl, so she could probably tell he was doomed to die miserably. Now, Ambrose was sure he would be crying too. Betsy had him pegged. Michael had him pegged. America had him pegged. They knew exactly who he was, and that was why he was sent to The Program.

Ambrose Concord Lexington was not an American patriot. He was an idiot, and the country would probably find itself better off without him.

And, for that, he cried.

M07: Ambrose Lexington: Deceased