Oliver stayed rooted to the top of the stall when he saw the gunner go flying backwards. It was a girl. A girl with brown skin and long hair, and that was all he saw before she fell.
His breath halted as he gripped the gun extra tight, waiting any moment for her to resurface. As he kneeled there, he took occasional glances over at Virgil, who was acting a real pillock and still making his food. If Oliver wasn't very sure he'd just won his gunfight he would have done something about it, but he'd put a pin in his anger as he remained focused on the other stall.
She didn't surface.
He didn't know how long he was there, but eventually, Oliver got up. He walked through the stalls, parting looks with Virgil as he made sure the other boy wasn't about to jump him, but no, he really was just making soup. Eventually, he found her stall, and what remained of Victoria Amaro. He'd blown her entire throat out, the entire immediate area misted with blood and her own eyes lifeless and staring into nothing. Eventually, he pieced some information together.
Victoria Amaro. He'd known her back at school, of course, even if she didn't know him. Athletes always sort of tended to bounce around the same circles - she ran, he kicked a ball, never the twain met. In the context of this entire situation, of course, he knew her for the three kills she'd racked up over the past day. It was even more notable as far as crossings went because she had in fact been the one to kill Samuel, finishing the job he'd started back on the first day. In essence, by killing Victoria, Oliver had in fact reclaimed Samuel's death. If he'd been fond of the other dead boy at all it might have been considered a revenge killing, but he had no place for revenge here.
Only facts and logic remained in Oliver's head, or at least that's what he told himself.
Not wasting any time, Oliver looked around, and saw the gun that easily could have turned him into a corpse not so different from Anvi's a few metres away. It was almost as impressive as his own gun, and in fact looked a lot more similar to something he'd used in a videogame, as though the military itself commissioned it. He scooped it from the ground, rounded around to Victoria's bags and found the boxes of ammunition inside, before noticing something else on her corpse besides the large blasted hole where her throat used to be.
She was wearing a large blue vest over her school uniform. It wouldn't have been worth noting, except for the fact that their school uniform didn't have a large blue vest. Oliver stepped forward and poked it with his gun, only to received the sensation of having poked a brick wall. Was this...no way, he couldn't have been that lucky. Not only did he kill the most dangerous person out there besides himself, at least as far as Kill-Death Ratio was concerned, taking out a huge threat in the process, but he got a military-grade weapon and a bullet-proof, which he didn't even have to shoot to get her, in the process?
Oliver would have let out a whoop were he not still kind of concerned for some reason about coming off as a complete knob to Virgil. Then again, who cared about Virgil? He just killed Victoria! Getting to this end of this thing and going ho-
...
Getting to the end of this thing and enacting his plan was going to be a piece of cake now.
Having scavenged both weapons and utility off of Victoria's still-warm corpse, Oliver stood up and turned around to Virgil. He really didn't care what the other boy had to say, but, well, he was there now, Virgil. Just what did you want to say to him now that you had him?
Something to Believe In
Open at your peril
The soup came to a boil. The gunfire continued, then stopped. Virgil thought it was just another round in their fight, that the shooting would come yet again in a few moments. But there were no more gunshots, only the sound of the liquid bubbling.
Virgil was actually quite surprised when the boy rose from his hiding place. It was Oliver, a football player who... honestly, Virgil had always considered him fairly boring. As Oliver crossed the street without being riddled by bullets, the obvious conclusion dawned on Virgil. It was over. Victoria had lost.
Virgil turned off the stove and stood up, jogging to where Oliver was kneeling, where Victoria had been. He wanted to confirm it for himself. He arrived to see her in a blood of blood, spurting from her neck, eyes wide open onto the sky. It was a sad sight, but Virgil didn't react as he had with Rue; he didn't cry or scream or fall to his knees. He'd become desensitized to death- and he had Victoria herself to thank for that. She'd taught him valuable lessons about this new world, she'd helped him in his journey to discover his mission. Virgil wasn't religious; while he believed in some otherworldly force directing his life, he didn't pray to any definable god. he'd read too many stories about too many different gods to believe that anyone could really know the true nature of the supreme power. Still, Virgil offered a silent prayer to Victoria. Whoever or whatever was listening, he hoped they'd treat her kindly.
Once he was finished, he became acutely aware that Oliver was looking at him. He had multiple guns but wasn't shooting at Virgil, so it was likely that he had finally decided he wanted to talk. Virgil broke away from his mourning to return to the business at hand. He pondered how to broach the subject. Catherine seemed to have reacted negatively to how he'd broached the subject with her, so perhaps it would be wise to phrase his questions a bit more... casually. Like they were back at Saint Editha, engaging in small talk.
"Oliver. Congratulations." he said, giving a gentle smile. "An impressive victory. You've been hard at work, if the announcements are to be believed. Tell me, once you have secured your safe return home, what do you intend to do?"
Virgil was actually quite surprised when the boy rose from his hiding place. It was Oliver, a football player who... honestly, Virgil had always considered him fairly boring. As Oliver crossed the street without being riddled by bullets, the obvious conclusion dawned on Virgil. It was over. Victoria had lost.
Virgil turned off the stove and stood up, jogging to where Oliver was kneeling, where Victoria had been. He wanted to confirm it for himself. He arrived to see her in a blood of blood, spurting from her neck, eyes wide open onto the sky. It was a sad sight, but Virgil didn't react as he had with Rue; he didn't cry or scream or fall to his knees. He'd become desensitized to death- and he had Victoria herself to thank for that. She'd taught him valuable lessons about this new world, she'd helped him in his journey to discover his mission. Virgil wasn't religious; while he believed in some otherworldly force directing his life, he didn't pray to any definable god. he'd read too many stories about too many different gods to believe that anyone could really know the true nature of the supreme power. Still, Virgil offered a silent prayer to Victoria. Whoever or whatever was listening, he hoped they'd treat her kindly.
Once he was finished, he became acutely aware that Oliver was looking at him. He had multiple guns but wasn't shooting at Virgil, so it was likely that he had finally decided he wanted to talk. Virgil broke away from his mourning to return to the business at hand. He pondered how to broach the subject. Catherine seemed to have reacted negatively to how he'd broached the subject with her, so perhaps it would be wise to phrase his questions a bit more... casually. Like they were back at Saint Editha, engaging in small talk.
"Oliver. Congratulations." he said, giving a gentle smile. "An impressive victory. You've been hard at work, if the announcements are to be believed. Tell me, once you have secured your safe return home, what do you intend to do?"
"I'm not going home."
Putting aside the bland smugness of Virgil's feigned congratulations, Oliver was just in no mood to entertain smalltalk. He was there on the unaired condition that Virgil had something profound or interesting to say, but he couldn't even clear that bar. Oliver could have been down to entertain Virgil's idea of philosophy yesterday, or the day before, when he was sure that someone would come to the same conclusion he did, but ever since he got netted in the face he was in this for himself. As he thought of the follow-up statement, he fastened the thick blue vest over his own dirty uniform.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm winning this game. But I'm not leaving this place. You're alive, you must be a smart bloke, so you can figure that one out for yourself."
Oliver shouldered his bag again and holstered his handgun in his pocket, about to turn on his heels and leave Virgil to his whatever of a fate. If he was concerned with actively whittling down his classmates, with hunting them all down and slaughtering them, he would probably have just lifted up either one of his guns and finished the other boy off, but Virgil wasn't a threat. Virgil wasn't going to win this game over Oliver, so Oliver saw no reason to finish him off now. If Oliver had any patience remaining he probably would have thought about shepherding him to the end just to make it so much easier to make his point to the people running this thing, but none remained. Virgil could do whatever he liked, as long as it wasn't to Oliver.
...
However.
Oliver didn't turn on his heels, because the pin fell out of the anger and suddenly Oliver remembered that Virgil sat on the dock like an over-sized child as he was shot at, and made soup as Victoria tried to kill. So rather than turning around with no goodbye, Oliver began to walk past Virgil.
"Oh, and one more thing."
In one hand, Victoria's large gun dangled by the stock. In the other, however, Oliver's original gun became unholstered as he pulled it from the back of his pants. He rounded the small stove so that it sat on the ground between himself and Virgil, aimed at the centre mass, and pulled the trigger of the large magnum. As the explosion echoed from his gun and his wrist ached once again from repeated use, he placed his first gun back in his bag, snaked his left arm through the tiny hoop of the other gun's stock, and flipped both birds skyward towards the other boy.
"Fuck your soup, Virgil!"
His plume of anger vented to the cosmos, Oliver disappeared once again.
((Oliver Davies continued elsewhere))
Putting aside the bland smugness of Virgil's feigned congratulations, Oliver was just in no mood to entertain smalltalk. He was there on the unaired condition that Virgil had something profound or interesting to say, but he couldn't even clear that bar. Oliver could have been down to entertain Virgil's idea of philosophy yesterday, or the day before, when he was sure that someone would come to the same conclusion he did, but ever since he got netted in the face he was in this for himself. As he thought of the follow-up statement, he fastened the thick blue vest over his own dirty uniform.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm winning this game. But I'm not leaving this place. You're alive, you must be a smart bloke, so you can figure that one out for yourself."
Oliver shouldered his bag again and holstered his handgun in his pocket, about to turn on his heels and leave Virgil to his whatever of a fate. If he was concerned with actively whittling down his classmates, with hunting them all down and slaughtering them, he would probably have just lifted up either one of his guns and finished the other boy off, but Virgil wasn't a threat. Virgil wasn't going to win this game over Oliver, so Oliver saw no reason to finish him off now. If Oliver had any patience remaining he probably would have thought about shepherding him to the end just to make it so much easier to make his point to the people running this thing, but none remained. Virgil could do whatever he liked, as long as it wasn't to Oliver.
...
However.
Oliver didn't turn on his heels, because the pin fell out of the anger and suddenly Oliver remembered that Virgil sat on the dock like an over-sized child as he was shot at, and made soup as Victoria tried to kill. So rather than turning around with no goodbye, Oliver began to walk past Virgil.
"Oh, and one more thing."
In one hand, Victoria's large gun dangled by the stock. In the other, however, Oliver's original gun became unholstered as he pulled it from the back of his pants. He rounded the small stove so that it sat on the ground between himself and Virgil, aimed at the centre mass, and pulled the trigger of the large magnum. As the explosion echoed from his gun and his wrist ached once again from repeated use, he placed his first gun back in his bag, snaked his left arm through the tiny hoop of the other gun's stock, and flipped both birds skyward towards the other boy.
"Fuck your soup, Virgil!"
His plume of anger vented to the cosmos, Oliver disappeared once again.
((Oliver Davies continued elsewhere))
Virgil lingered after Oliver vanished into the wind. He stood in place, stunned by what Oliver had said. He's winning this game. He's not leaving this place. It was ridiculous, winning meant leaving, leaving meant winning, but Oliver just casually divorced the two. It was... it wasn't right... that wasn't supposed to happen.
Whoever won would carry the lives of the deceased on their shoulders. Virgil needed to find the one who'd live the best life, so the sake of everyone. Oliver, if he was telling the truth, was the opposite of that. He meant to stay here forever, or die, or vanish, or something. He refused to continue on after winning, so if he won, everyone's chance of living on through his actions would end right there. Their deaths would be meaningless. Their lives would be meaningless.
It was evil.
(Shooting his soup was also very unnecessary.)
Virgil had perhaps grown too sure of himself. Sure that he would succeed. This likely wasn't the reality; another was working to destroy everything he hoped to achieve. Virgil didn't know what would happen to him if he failed, but that was insignificant. He needed to find his hero, that was the same, but there was more of an urgency to it now. He had to do it before Oliver could kill them. Oliver had to die himself, at some point. Virgil never wanted to kill anyone, Virgil didn't even think he could kill anyone. But Oliver had to die somehow.
How many were left? How much time did he have? Where were they?
(Virgil Raeburn continued elsewhere)
Whoever won would carry the lives of the deceased on their shoulders. Virgil needed to find the one who'd live the best life, so the sake of everyone. Oliver, if he was telling the truth, was the opposite of that. He meant to stay here forever, or die, or vanish, or something. He refused to continue on after winning, so if he won, everyone's chance of living on through his actions would end right there. Their deaths would be meaningless. Their lives would be meaningless.
It was evil.
(Shooting his soup was also very unnecessary.)
Virgil had perhaps grown too sure of himself. Sure that he would succeed. This likely wasn't the reality; another was working to destroy everything he hoped to achieve. Virgil didn't know what would happen to him if he failed, but that was insignificant. He needed to find his hero, that was the same, but there was more of an urgency to it now. He had to do it before Oliver could kill them. Oliver had to die himself, at some point. Virgil never wanted to kill anyone, Virgil didn't even think he could kill anyone. But Oliver had to die somehow.
How many were left? How much time did he have? Where were they?
(Virgil Raeburn continued elsewhere)