Again, Charlie’s hands lost purchase and her grip faltered. He reached up at her like a corpse clawing its way from its grave.
She tried to lean back, but Dyne’s scrabbling fingers still scored across her jawline. Charlie hissed, and then shifted, planting one foot, kneeling on the opposite leg. For an instant she looked down upon his ruined face and she wanted nothing more in the world than to close her eyes and wipe the sight from her memory.
Instead, with a yell that could have been warcry or scream, Charlie brought down her elbow once, twice. Then, both hands as one, she went again for the throat.
\\\
It turned out that making plans based off of theoretical math was far easier than actually executing upon said plans.
It turned out that seeing someone you knew and thinking about following through on the expectations of General and country was not nearly as simple as rational logic would make it come across.
There was nothing rational or logical about this situation, and when Charlie had peered around a street corner to see a black-haired figure standing in the middle of the road, her plans had snapped clean in two, and then once again as Charlie realised she recognised him. Should she have been surprised? It felt like she shouldn’t. Charlie prided herself on being good with faces, and the contestants were all from her own year.
She couldn’t quite recall his name, but as he slowly raised a hand in greeting, Charlie’s own hand dropped away from the knife at her waist and she stepped out with a nod of acknowledgement.
“Hey. Another unlucky patriot, huh?” There was a touch of bitterness to his tone, and although part of Charlie wanted to bristle at that, the rest of her understood. ‘Unlucky’ was underselling it.
She nodded again. “That’s one way to put it.”
He smiled, it looked forced. “Hockey and US History, right?”
That caught Charlie off guard. He knew her main sports team, which was more surprising than remembering a class she was a vocal participant in. “That’s right.” A few more details were filtering in. “It’s… Dean?”
“Dyne. Travis Dyne.”
“I’m Charles. Charlie.”
His smile quirked up, the good humour finally reaching his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Charles Charlie.”
Rat In A Cage
Phase 1 (0-12 Hours), Open
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The Honeless Beard
- Posts: 894
- Joined: Sat Aug 25, 2018 4:47 am
- Location: Got it? Good, now get inside.
- Team Affiliation: Emmy's Selkies
Nothing came out but choking sounds, spit mixed with blood, the useless flaps of skin on his face hanging loose, showing gritted teeth and a tongue that was bitten so badly it was almost severed, pieces of it hanging between incisors. Travis’ leg shook, his booted foot vibrating against the hardwood floor like a man electrocuted,hands falling on Charlie’s wrists, slipping on the blood accumulated.
A death by a thousand cuts, a death by inches, a death by breath that failed to reach starving lungs.
Eventually, the choking sounds silenced, the spit stopped frothing forth.
The boot stopped vibrating.
A death by a thousand cuts, a death by inches, a death by breath that failed to reach starving lungs.
Eventually, the choking sounds silenced, the spit stopped frothing forth.
The boot stopped vibrating.
So this was what being a fraction of a percent better off in the game felt like.
Like hysterical panic, a pounding pain in her head, and the taste of Dyne's blood in her mouth.
He wasn't moving any more. She'd just strangled him to death with her bare hands. Quick breaths escaped her as she sucked wind, her right eye shut sticky and cloying.
It was everything she could do not to slump on top of him, atop a corpse and pool of blood of her own making. Instead she rose on wobbly legs, turned, and took a single faltering step before stumbling and collapsing right back to her hands and knees.
Her hands were stained almost to the elbow, and her shirt was torn and similarly blood-soaked. Out of the corner of one eye, she could see a slowly encroaching trickle as the pool around Dyne expanded onto the floorboards, bit by bit. Even looking away, the evidence of what she'd just done was inescapable. Every movement of her own lips and tongue felt as if she was shifting another piece of Dyne's face around her mouth.
Charlie's stomach rolled and she gagged, hunched over. Her hands scudded along the floor, leaving dark smears in their wake. She retched again, collapsing into a ball as an acidic taste reached the back of her throat.
She managed not to puke in the end, even with the stench of blood mixing in with the stale scent of the abandoned house they'd found themselves in. How'd they gone from travelling together to fighting to the death? It didn't seem real. Even if she went back and tried to reassemble the events in her head, she couldn't get the pieces to match and fit together. What had prompted it? What had made her put her hand on her knife?
Charlie gave Dyne's body a wide berth as she moved around the room. Fortunately—and Charlie only decided on fortunate after some consideration—the knife hadn't scattered off too far or underneath anything, laying innocuously on the floor in the middle of the room's kitchenette area. She looked at the weapon for several seconds, and then replaced it in its sheath. No sense getting anxious about the knife now; there was ample evidence of her capability to kill without it just sprawled out on the floor.
Part of her was saying that she should pay her respects to Dyne's body, treat him like the good patriot he had demonstrated he was and ensure that his corpse received what small honour she was capable of giving it. Another was questioning the point, questioning where the pride was to be found in all of this. Travis Dyne was dead, and he hadn't laid his life down for his country, protecting friends, family and freedom. He was dead because Charlie had killed him. Charles Cade Junior, another American and another teenager and another patriot.
How the hell was that okay? In what world was Charlie choking Dyne's life away their American Dream?
It was a great force of will to go over to his bag and begin to search through it. The pack was just laying so innocuously on the couch, propped up there just a short while ago whilst the two of them convened. Laid down with all the expectations in the world that it would so shortly be picked up again and they'd both be on their way together.
Now, Charlie was looting it.
She had no reason to expect his assigned weapon would be anything other than what he'd told her, nor that he'd done anything with it other than toss it away. Indeed, nothing was forthcoming inside, just more of the same provisions and equipment that Charlie had uncovered in her own daypack. A small and selfish thought told her that she had no way of knowing if Dyne was telling the truth or not, but what justification could she draw from that? Even had he been lying, the concealed weapon would have still been hidden away inside his bag. Not being used to threaten somebody. Everywhere her fingers touched, she left dark little smudges across the canvas.
She took a water bottle and started unscrewing the cap as she walked over to the kitchenette's sink. She wasn't sure if the water was running here and she didn't trust it even if it was. Charlie poured it out onto her hands, watching the blood drip off and sluice away into the drain. She picked up a rag by the sink and did her best to wipe, but soon enough it was saturated itself, doing little more than spread the stains around the rest of her skin.
She looked down at her hands for a moment and then lowered them. Returning to the bag, she dug out the first aid kit and grabbed a roll of bandages. Wiping up what she could of her hands, she went to her head next, a slight hiss of pain escaping between her teeth as the cloth made contact with the throbbing cut above her eyebrow. Charlie probed at it for a second and then grimaced. It was still bleeding freely, and although she was no doctor, she was fairly sure that a wound like that would need stitches to close. First things first though, she needed to get herself cleaned up.
Up went the bandages, down they came again and again covered in more and more blood until she had a pile of them in a tangled mass on the couch. That'd have to do. The first aid kit included wipes too, and she gritted her teeth, braced herself, and then swiped one across the wound.
It stung badly, but Charlie stuck through the pain. Treating it properly was more important than a little discomfort.
Another wipe. She looked down at Dyne. Her stomach roiled again.
Like hysterical panic, a pounding pain in her head, and the taste of Dyne's blood in her mouth.
He wasn't moving any more. She'd just strangled him to death with her bare hands. Quick breaths escaped her as she sucked wind, her right eye shut sticky and cloying.
It was everything she could do not to slump on top of him, atop a corpse and pool of blood of her own making. Instead she rose on wobbly legs, turned, and took a single faltering step before stumbling and collapsing right back to her hands and knees.
Her hands were stained almost to the elbow, and her shirt was torn and similarly blood-soaked. Out of the corner of one eye, she could see a slowly encroaching trickle as the pool around Dyne expanded onto the floorboards, bit by bit. Even looking away, the evidence of what she'd just done was inescapable. Every movement of her own lips and tongue felt as if she was shifting another piece of Dyne's face around her mouth.
Charlie's stomach rolled and she gagged, hunched over. Her hands scudded along the floor, leaving dark smears in their wake. She retched again, collapsing into a ball as an acidic taste reached the back of her throat.
She managed not to puke in the end, even with the stench of blood mixing in with the stale scent of the abandoned house they'd found themselves in. How'd they gone from travelling together to fighting to the death? It didn't seem real. Even if she went back and tried to reassemble the events in her head, she couldn't get the pieces to match and fit together. What had prompted it? What had made her put her hand on her knife?
Charlie gave Dyne's body a wide berth as she moved around the room. Fortunately—and Charlie only decided on fortunate after some consideration—the knife hadn't scattered off too far or underneath anything, laying innocuously on the floor in the middle of the room's kitchenette area. She looked at the weapon for several seconds, and then replaced it in its sheath. No sense getting anxious about the knife now; there was ample evidence of her capability to kill without it just sprawled out on the floor.
Part of her was saying that she should pay her respects to Dyne's body, treat him like the good patriot he had demonstrated he was and ensure that his corpse received what small honour she was capable of giving it. Another was questioning the point, questioning where the pride was to be found in all of this. Travis Dyne was dead, and he hadn't laid his life down for his country, protecting friends, family and freedom. He was dead because Charlie had killed him. Charles Cade Junior, another American and another teenager and another patriot.
How the hell was that okay? In what world was Charlie choking Dyne's life away their American Dream?
It was a great force of will to go over to his bag and begin to search through it. The pack was just laying so innocuously on the couch, propped up there just a short while ago whilst the two of them convened. Laid down with all the expectations in the world that it would so shortly be picked up again and they'd both be on their way together.
Now, Charlie was looting it.
She had no reason to expect his assigned weapon would be anything other than what he'd told her, nor that he'd done anything with it other than toss it away. Indeed, nothing was forthcoming inside, just more of the same provisions and equipment that Charlie had uncovered in her own daypack. A small and selfish thought told her that she had no way of knowing if Dyne was telling the truth or not, but what justification could she draw from that? Even had he been lying, the concealed weapon would have still been hidden away inside his bag. Not being used to threaten somebody. Everywhere her fingers touched, she left dark little smudges across the canvas.
She took a water bottle and started unscrewing the cap as she walked over to the kitchenette's sink. She wasn't sure if the water was running here and she didn't trust it even if it was. Charlie poured it out onto her hands, watching the blood drip off and sluice away into the drain. She picked up a rag by the sink and did her best to wipe, but soon enough it was saturated itself, doing little more than spread the stains around the rest of her skin.
She looked down at her hands for a moment and then lowered them. Returning to the bag, she dug out the first aid kit and grabbed a roll of bandages. Wiping up what she could of her hands, she went to her head next, a slight hiss of pain escaping between her teeth as the cloth made contact with the throbbing cut above her eyebrow. Charlie probed at it for a second and then grimaced. It was still bleeding freely, and although she was no doctor, she was fairly sure that a wound like that would need stitches to close. First things first though, she needed to get herself cleaned up.
Up went the bandages, down they came again and again covered in more and more blood until she had a pile of them in a tangled mass on the couch. That'd have to do. The first aid kit included wipes too, and she gritted her teeth, braced herself, and then swiped one across the wound.
It stung badly, but Charlie stuck through the pain. Treating it properly was more important than a little discomfort.
Another wipe. She looked down at Dyne. Her stomach roiled again.
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Blastinus*
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Mon Sep 17, 2018 4:51 am
(Cole Peters continued from Last Scott Standing)
"Oh my..." A lone figure stood on shaking legs in the doorway of the house. From a distance, Cole had seen a flash of movement in the house; fast, and sudden. Common sense told him to leave it alone, to not barge in to something he had no business interrupting. But if there had been a chance, a remote possibility that he could have intervened in time...
No. He was far, far too late.
The chunky, wet remains of Travis's face were hardly recognizable. Cole wouldn't have known him regardless. He could barely process what he was seeing; understand the nature of this being before him. He'd shied away from images like this, not even allowing himself to see his father skinning a rabbit. For all his father's insistence, he'd been sheltered from the horrors of reality. He wanted to scream, to run shrieking to the hills, but his legs wouldn't carry him. It was only by virtue of holding onto the door frame with one arm that he could stay erect at all.
His gaze wandered up from the body on the floor to the woman standing at the other end. What had she done? How had she turned a man into so much bruised meat? He had so many demands, so many pointed questions, but they all died choking in his throat. He thought he'd been prepared for death, that it would be quick and easy, but this...was THIS what he'd been sitting in a darkened room for? How had he been so naive?
Grasping the loop of his shield, he held it up in front of him. Not leaving his post in the door, he barely stammered out, "Wh...why?" If she had something, a gun or the like, this eighth to a quarter inch thick sheet of steel would hardly slow a bullet down. But it was all he had, the only thing protecting him from...whatever was about to happen.
"Oh my..." A lone figure stood on shaking legs in the doorway of the house. From a distance, Cole had seen a flash of movement in the house; fast, and sudden. Common sense told him to leave it alone, to not barge in to something he had no business interrupting. But if there had been a chance, a remote possibility that he could have intervened in time...
No. He was far, far too late.
The chunky, wet remains of Travis's face were hardly recognizable. Cole wouldn't have known him regardless. He could barely process what he was seeing; understand the nature of this being before him. He'd shied away from images like this, not even allowing himself to see his father skinning a rabbit. For all his father's insistence, he'd been sheltered from the horrors of reality. He wanted to scream, to run shrieking to the hills, but his legs wouldn't carry him. It was only by virtue of holding onto the door frame with one arm that he could stay erect at all.
His gaze wandered up from the body on the floor to the woman standing at the other end. What had she done? How had she turned a man into so much bruised meat? He had so many demands, so many pointed questions, but they all died choking in his throat. He thought he'd been prepared for death, that it would be quick and easy, but this...was THIS what he'd been sitting in a darkened room for? How had he been so naive?
Grasping the loop of his shield, he held it up in front of him. Not leaving his post in the door, he barely stammered out, "Wh...why?" If she had something, a gun or the like, this eighth to a quarter inch thick sheet of steel would hardly slow a bullet down. But it was all he had, the only thing protecting him from...whatever was about to happen.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Blastinus. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Charlie's head snapped up. She had company.
Did it truthfully matter exactly who it was? Did it even really matter that what she'd done had been witnessed? When it came down to it, what Charlie had done would be broadcasted for all the field, all America to hear. Everyone would know soon enough, not only whichever person had happened to come by.
Which was the easy way of thinking about it. The cheap way. Pretending that everyone else was a monolithic 'people' instead of individuals. Pretending that it didn't matter.
It did.
That was Cole Peters standing in the doorway, horrorstruck. Cole Peters, who she knew was a scout and she'd encountered a couple times when they were both in the outdoors and also came from a military family.
It mattered because Charlie knew him.
Everyone mattered, because regardless if they were a friend, a casual acquaintance like Peters or someone she just recognised like Dyne—Dyne who dead dead—Charlie knew them.
The look on Peters' face was something she couldn't describe or put words to.
However, she could describe the feeling it evoked in her.
Dread. Frozen, ice cold sensations running through her veins and a gaping pit in her stomach that felt like it was fit to swallow her whole.
One word was enough to stop Charlie dead in her tracks. Why? Why. Why. Why.
"I—" was protecting myself? Panicked, because this was the Program and it had got violent and who knew what would happen?
"It—" wasn't an accident.
"I didn't—" mean to? When her teeth tore off half his face and her hands locked around his throat to choke the life from him?
"He—" hadn't provoked her. The tensions had risen, but so what? It had gone both ways. He hadn't made her pull a knife.
Charlie faltered, unable to find the words to match that awful look on Peters' face.
Did it truthfully matter exactly who it was? Did it even really matter that what she'd done had been witnessed? When it came down to it, what Charlie had done would be broadcasted for all the field, all America to hear. Everyone would know soon enough, not only whichever person had happened to come by.
Which was the easy way of thinking about it. The cheap way. Pretending that everyone else was a monolithic 'people' instead of individuals. Pretending that it didn't matter.
It did.
That was Cole Peters standing in the doorway, horrorstruck. Cole Peters, who she knew was a scout and she'd encountered a couple times when they were both in the outdoors and also came from a military family.
It mattered because Charlie knew him.
Everyone mattered, because regardless if they were a friend, a casual acquaintance like Peters or someone she just recognised like Dyne—Dyne who dead dead—Charlie knew them.
The look on Peters' face was something she couldn't describe or put words to.
However, she could describe the feeling it evoked in her.
Dread. Frozen, ice cold sensations running through her veins and a gaping pit in her stomach that felt like it was fit to swallow her whole.
One word was enough to stop Charlie dead in her tracks. Why? Why. Why. Why.
"I—" was protecting myself? Panicked, because this was the Program and it had got violent and who knew what would happen?
"It—" wasn't an accident.
"I didn't—" mean to? When her teeth tore off half his face and her hands locked around his throat to choke the life from him?
"He—" hadn't provoked her. The tensions had risen, but so what? It had gone both ways. He hadn't made her pull a knife.
Charlie faltered, unable to find the words to match that awful look on Peters' face.
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Blastinus*
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Mon Sep 17, 2018 4:51 am
He was terrified, she was scared. Neither of them could articulate their thoughts correctly. The blood was slowly pooling across the floor.
Now what?
As the seconds ticked by, the sane, logical side of Cole's brain slowly reasserted itself. He had to analyze the situation, separate it from the horrific and get it back to the objective. He could do it. He could. He just needed to think...How had this situation occurred?
Gulping down his terror, he slowly began taking deep breaths. In and out, shaky at first, but more regular as time went by. "Okay..." he breathed. "Okay, let's think about this..." He saw she had a knife, but Travis's...face flesh looked torn. There was nothing neat or precise about the mess in front of him, and he recoiled again, allowing himself only a sidelong glance. Had the knife been taken from her, or was it Travis's knife? He didn't know, and the only way TO know was to ask questions.
"Did..." he considered how to phrase this, and finally settled on, "Did he...attack you?"
Now that he'd slipped back into his intellectual side, things were becoming easier, just a bit. He lowered his shield, but didn't leave the doorway. If Cole walked into the room, she could just circle around him, and the shield wouldn't be much good then. He wanted to open up to her a little, try and make her more comfortable, but he wasn't going to make himself an easy target.
Now what?
As the seconds ticked by, the sane, logical side of Cole's brain slowly reasserted itself. He had to analyze the situation, separate it from the horrific and get it back to the objective. He could do it. He could. He just needed to think...How had this situation occurred?
Gulping down his terror, he slowly began taking deep breaths. In and out, shaky at first, but more regular as time went by. "Okay..." he breathed. "Okay, let's think about this..." He saw she had a knife, but Travis's...face flesh looked torn. There was nothing neat or precise about the mess in front of him, and he recoiled again, allowing himself only a sidelong glance. Had the knife been taken from her, or was it Travis's knife? He didn't know, and the only way TO know was to ask questions.
"Did..." he considered how to phrase this, and finally settled on, "Did he...attack you?"
Now that he'd slipped back into his intellectual side, things were becoming easier, just a bit. He lowered his shield, but didn't leave the doorway. If Cole walked into the room, she could just circle around him, and the shield wouldn't be much good then. He wanted to open up to her a little, try and make her more comfortable, but he wasn't going to make himself an easy target.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Blastinus. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
A lifeline. An out. Peters was offering her a way to absolve herself of responsibility for what had happened. All Charlie had to do was say 'yes' and that was it; this entire situation became a case of self-defence and she was justified. More than justified, given that this was Program and the burden of killing one another had already been laid upon them.
All she had to do was say yes.
"No," said Charlie.
"No, we—he—" She faltered again. Peters was breathing hard, almost terrified. She couldn't blame him. Had she stumbled on this situation, would her reaction have been any different?
Blood was starting to trickle down from the cut on her brow again.
"We fought," that sounded barely adequate, but what words were adequate to explain what had happened? How could she possibly vocalise the desperation, the fear, the feeling of seizing someone's face between her teeth and ripping and tearing?
She looked down at Dyne's body, and then back up to Peters.
"I had the knife and he knocked it away. Then..." A droplet of blood trailed down the side of her nose. "We fought."
All she had to do was say yes.
"No," said Charlie.
"No, we—he—" She faltered again. Peters was breathing hard, almost terrified. She couldn't blame him. Had she stumbled on this situation, would her reaction have been any different?
Blood was starting to trickle down from the cut on her brow again.
"We fought," that sounded barely adequate, but what words were adequate to explain what had happened? How could she possibly vocalise the desperation, the fear, the feeling of seizing someone's face between her teeth and ripping and tearing?
She looked down at Dyne's body, and then back up to Peters.
"I had the knife and he knocked it away. Then..." A droplet of blood trailed down the side of her nose. "We fought."
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Blastinus*
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Mon Sep 17, 2018 4:51 am
"I see..." So much for an easy out. She could have easily said that this guy had ambushed her and she'd had to fight to survive, but she didn't. She could have said that he'd threatened her, that he'd acted like he was going to kill her, and she'd just attacked him in desperation, but she didn't.
That she had flat-out admitted it, that she had nothing to hide, that she knew there'd be no penalty for it, that life was just a battle for survival where you could and SHOULD kill anyone who you considered a threat...Something was wrong here. Something was rotten at the very core! He could feel it in the air, the stench hanging around them...
His hands were shaking, clenched in indescribable grief and fury. Almost reflexively, he punched the wall beside him. "You two fought..." He punched the wall again. "You two fought...Just like that, huh..." His voice was wobbling, barely choking out the words. Any traces of logic and reason were slipping away.
"Messed up...this is so messed up..." he growled, a lead ball having settled into his stomach. "Our leaders, the people who should be PROTECTING US, put a gun to our heads and told us to kill each other, and our neighbors and friends are just...WATCHING THIS!"
Did she think he'd lost it? Did he care? He'd been told growing up that life was just survival, that the ultimate goal was to make it from day to day, no matter what. Was this truly all that being a patriot was? Being willing to sacrifice anything and everything to live a shattered, broken life?
"This wasn't your fault. I know you. You would never do this on your own. It's them. They're making us do it. We don't have any choice." Survive or die, as his father would say. Survive or freaking die.
That she had flat-out admitted it, that she had nothing to hide, that she knew there'd be no penalty for it, that life was just a battle for survival where you could and SHOULD kill anyone who you considered a threat...Something was wrong here. Something was rotten at the very core! He could feel it in the air, the stench hanging around them...
His hands were shaking, clenched in indescribable grief and fury. Almost reflexively, he punched the wall beside him. "You two fought..." He punched the wall again. "You two fought...Just like that, huh..." His voice was wobbling, barely choking out the words. Any traces of logic and reason were slipping away.
"Messed up...this is so messed up..." he growled, a lead ball having settled into his stomach. "Our leaders, the people who should be PROTECTING US, put a gun to our heads and told us to kill each other, and our neighbors and friends are just...WATCHING THIS!"
Did she think he'd lost it? Did he care? He'd been told growing up that life was just survival, that the ultimate goal was to make it from day to day, no matter what. Was this truly all that being a patriot was? Being willing to sacrifice anything and everything to live a shattered, broken life?
"This wasn't your fault. I know you. You would never do this on your own. It's them. They're making us do it. We don't have any choice." Survive or die, as his father would say. Survive or freaking die.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Blastinus. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
He didn't take that well. How could she expect him to? What Peters had said, the ready made route; ready made excuse out of the situation, was as much what he was hoping for as it was a legitimate suggestion as to what had happened.
He wanted it to be self defence, so everything could stay as it was. That the person who was alive hadn't started it, or been the 'bad guy', had held reasons that, if not good, were at least acceptable.
Charlie wouldn't, couldn't tell him that. Maybe it was truthfulness and maybe it was just something like respect for Dyne, to not claim that his death was anything other than what it was.
Peters had a moment, and Charlie had no response for it. He was trembling, and then he was shouting and all Charlie could think was that wasn't sure how she hadn't flipped her lid yet either.
Well no, not all she could think. The remainder was that he kind of had a point, and it made her sick to her core that he did.
Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep within. It was funny just how much he wanted to take the blame from her. Funny in a terrible kind of way that only wrapped into being funny by punching through the far side of awful.
"There's a choice, Peters, and I made it," Charlie could feel her own blood starting to drip from her chin. Just a short while ago it had been Dyne's. "I don't think it matters what the situation is."
She ached to agree and decline the responsibility, but it went against everything. Own your actions.
***
"That's a pretty cool knife, Charlie."
How long together so far? An hour or so. Neither of them had offered or accepted the opportunity to travel together, but they'd fallen in with one another nonetheless. Dyne was just familiar enough to be a slender comfort, and as they walked together, making small talk, Charlie's memory started to fill in some of the blanks, things she'd known about Dyne and then forgotten she knew.
For instance, once in American History he'd become incredibly passionate about President Walsh, claiming that 'all the evidence' stacked up to suggest that it was an assassination. Given the stance of most was 'unproven but probable', it was unusual to see someone who was so invested in the idea of a political murder as the absolute truth.
Certainly, Dyne wasn't the kind of person to turn any heads with an unpatriotic remark.
"It's not supposed to be cool, it's supposed to be dangerous."
Dyne laughed. "Well that's fair. Better than what I got, anyway," he spoke, and then his expression changed, flickering with something Charlie couldn't quite read before settling back to neutral.
"What did you get?" She asked.
"It was like, the lid off a cook pot. Useless."
His eyes had flickered to the side. Charlie kept a frown from her face carefully. "May I see?"
Dyne looked at her for a second. "I threw it away," he said eventually. "Besides, it was a pot lid, nothing that would have been useful."
"Right."
"Right."
They maintained uncomfortable eye contact for a moment, and then Dyne cleared his throat.
"So uh, anyway. Where to?"
He wanted it to be self defence, so everything could stay as it was. That the person who was alive hadn't started it, or been the 'bad guy', had held reasons that, if not good, were at least acceptable.
Charlie wouldn't, couldn't tell him that. Maybe it was truthfulness and maybe it was just something like respect for Dyne, to not claim that his death was anything other than what it was.
Peters had a moment, and Charlie had no response for it. He was trembling, and then he was shouting and all Charlie could think was that wasn't sure how she hadn't flipped her lid yet either.
Well no, not all she could think. The remainder was that he kind of had a point, and it made her sick to her core that he did.
Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep within. It was funny just how much he wanted to take the blame from her. Funny in a terrible kind of way that only wrapped into being funny by punching through the far side of awful.
"There's a choice, Peters, and I made it," Charlie could feel her own blood starting to drip from her chin. Just a short while ago it had been Dyne's. "I don't think it matters what the situation is."
She ached to agree and decline the responsibility, but it went against everything. Own your actions.
***
"That's a pretty cool knife, Charlie."
How long together so far? An hour or so. Neither of them had offered or accepted the opportunity to travel together, but they'd fallen in with one another nonetheless. Dyne was just familiar enough to be a slender comfort, and as they walked together, making small talk, Charlie's memory started to fill in some of the blanks, things she'd known about Dyne and then forgotten she knew.
For instance, once in American History he'd become incredibly passionate about President Walsh, claiming that 'all the evidence' stacked up to suggest that it was an assassination. Given the stance of most was 'unproven but probable', it was unusual to see someone who was so invested in the idea of a political murder as the absolute truth.
Certainly, Dyne wasn't the kind of person to turn any heads with an unpatriotic remark.
"It's not supposed to be cool, it's supposed to be dangerous."
Dyne laughed. "Well that's fair. Better than what I got, anyway," he spoke, and then his expression changed, flickering with something Charlie couldn't quite read before settling back to neutral.
"What did you get?" She asked.
"It was like, the lid off a cook pot. Useless."
His eyes had flickered to the side. Charlie kept a frown from her face carefully. "May I see?"
Dyne looked at her for a second. "I threw it away," he said eventually. "Besides, it was a pot lid, nothing that would have been useful."
"Right."
"Right."
They maintained uncomfortable eye contact for a moment, and then Dyne cleared his throat.
"So uh, anyway. Where to?"
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Blastinus*
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Mon Sep 17, 2018 4:51 am
His hands still clenched, his throat raw and aching, Cole listened to Charlie in silence; hoping, praying, that she wouldn't do this to him, that she wouldn't force him to call it what it was. But no, everything that he said, any attempts that he made to soften the blow, she just forced away. Why was she doing this? Did she want to be a murderer?
But wasn't that what she was? By her own admission, she'd been a willing participant in what had transpired. Nobody had forced her to argue with Dyne, nobody had ordered her to do...whatever had happened to his face.
But, he protested inwardly, what else could she have done? This was life or death. If she hadn't killed him, then what could she have...
She could have run, he reasoned, or tried to defuse the situation, or threatened him to get him to back down, or incapacitated him...
As the debate raged back and forth, all Charlie would have seen was Cole with his head lowered, brow furrowed in contemplation. Finally, after several seconds, he nodded gravely and said, "You're right. Dangit, I wish you weren't." He'd always tried to agree with people, to please them by saying what they wanted to hear. He'd never had any practice with telling people to their face that he thought they'd done something wrong.
So yes, she was to blame. She'd willfully, knowingly, unquestionably killed a man. The situation was contrived to make that easier, and in fact every aspect of this scenario seemed designed to railroad people down the path of murder, but it was still everyone's individual choice whether or not to do it.
"So I guess the question is...what are you going to do now?" he mused aloud. "Once the announcement hits, everyone's gonna want your head. You have any alliances? Anyone you can work with?"
But wasn't that what she was? By her own admission, she'd been a willing participant in what had transpired. Nobody had forced her to argue with Dyne, nobody had ordered her to do...whatever had happened to his face.
But, he protested inwardly, what else could she have done? This was life or death. If she hadn't killed him, then what could she have...
She could have run, he reasoned, or tried to defuse the situation, or threatened him to get him to back down, or incapacitated him...
As the debate raged back and forth, all Charlie would have seen was Cole with his head lowered, brow furrowed in contemplation. Finally, after several seconds, he nodded gravely and said, "You're right. Dangit, I wish you weren't." He'd always tried to agree with people, to please them by saying what they wanted to hear. He'd never had any practice with telling people to their face that he thought they'd done something wrong.
So yes, she was to blame. She'd willfully, knowingly, unquestionably killed a man. The situation was contrived to make that easier, and in fact every aspect of this scenario seemed designed to railroad people down the path of murder, but it was still everyone's individual choice whether or not to do it.
"So I guess the question is...what are you going to do now?" he mused aloud. "Once the announcement hits, everyone's gonna want your head. You have any alliances? Anyone you can work with?"
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Blastinus. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
It was still funny in the way which wasn't at all funny, and Charlie was having to try damn hard not to laugh, because if she started laughing she was going to descend into a hysteric pit that she didn't know whether she would ever be able to climb out of.
She needed to stay calm. Losing her cool had already resulted in... this. She couldn't afford a repeat.
Which was the kicker, wasn't it? What Charlie had done to Dyne was supposed to be the entire point of the Program. Kill one another. Even if Charlie didn't like it, even if everything she'd thought about had fallen apart at first contact, that was still the ultimate goal. Supposed to be. Should it matter that she didn't see the patriotism?
She already knew it didn't.
"I don't know, Peters. I don't know," Charlie picked at the pile of bandages. She needed to suture this cut somehow, or else it was just going to keep bleeding. The idea of stitching up her own head wasn't appealing, though asking Peters even less so.
Charlie wanted to trust and knew that she shouldn't either trust or want to.
"That was—isn't it just part of all this?" She made a sound which was a poor masquerade of a laugh and still came close to bursting the dam which couldn't be unburst. "Everyone wanting each other's heads."
***
"Think we should stay here?"
Charlie shook her head. "It's a bad idea to stay in one place for too long. Catch our breath, drink some water, then move on."
"Practical. I can dig that," Dyne's lips twitched upward slightly. "I guess that's the... is it scouts? Whichever, that coming through." That unreadable look came back onto his face, now with just a little more intensity.
"Maybe," Charlie had spent more time with the cadets than scouts, but was reluctant to correct him. Same deal either way really, the outlooks were similar. "This is a hostile environment and we have limited equipment and supplies."
Dyne smiled again, tight lipped. "You got that right."
She needed to stay calm. Losing her cool had already resulted in... this. She couldn't afford a repeat.
Which was the kicker, wasn't it? What Charlie had done to Dyne was supposed to be the entire point of the Program. Kill one another. Even if Charlie didn't like it, even if everything she'd thought about had fallen apart at first contact, that was still the ultimate goal. Supposed to be. Should it matter that she didn't see the patriotism?
She already knew it didn't.
"I don't know, Peters. I don't know," Charlie picked at the pile of bandages. She needed to suture this cut somehow, or else it was just going to keep bleeding. The idea of stitching up her own head wasn't appealing, though asking Peters even less so.
Charlie wanted to trust and knew that she shouldn't either trust or want to.
"That was—isn't it just part of all this?" She made a sound which was a poor masquerade of a laugh and still came close to bursting the dam which couldn't be unburst. "Everyone wanting each other's heads."
***
"Think we should stay here?"
Charlie shook her head. "It's a bad idea to stay in one place for too long. Catch our breath, drink some water, then move on."
"Practical. I can dig that," Dyne's lips twitched upward slightly. "I guess that's the... is it scouts? Whichever, that coming through." That unreadable look came back onto his face, now with just a little more intensity.
"Maybe," Charlie had spent more time with the cadets than scouts, but was reluctant to correct him. Same deal either way really, the outlooks were similar. "This is a hostile environment and we have limited equipment and supplies."
Dyne smiled again, tight lipped. "You got that right."
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Blastinus*
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Mon Sep 17, 2018 4:51 am
"I guess it is..." Cole sighed. He didn't like to admit it personally, but yes, the objective of this exercise was the taking of heads. At least, that's what he'd always been taught. He'd heard of some folks trying to fight against the system, but he didn't know how that turned out. Probably not well.
Fact of the matter was that he didn't know what he was doing. He'd had some vague notion of using his remaining time on Earth to build a monument, something that future visitors would remember them by. It was foolish, perhaps even futile, but anything was better than just slowly dying of thirst.
While he was contemplating that, he noticed that Charlie was eyeing some bandages. His eyes drifted up towards Charlie's head wound, and he put two and two together. Why was she hesitating to treat it, he wondered. Was she concerned that she'd be letting her guard down, or was she just unable?
"Well...maybe it is that kind of game for everyone else, but not for me." he said out loud, pondering how to approach this. He was going to be taking a colossal risk here. Slowly, hesitantly, he placed his shield against the wall, and winced as it tumbled over and hit the ground with a loud thump. He shook his head. "Yeah, that's it in a nutshell. I'd be hopeless in a fight. But maybe I don't have to be a fighter, you know?"
Fishing through his bag, he pulled out his own, untouched first aid kit. "Basic and advanced first aid, knot-tying, cooking, rock climbing, wilderness survival...that stuff I know. I can't win this game, but..." He withdrew the butterfly strips so generously provided, "If I can keep others healthy, maybe that'll be enough." Obviously, he'd need to wash and treat the area before closing it up, but this was more for illustration.
Fact of the matter was that he didn't know what he was doing. He'd had some vague notion of using his remaining time on Earth to build a monument, something that future visitors would remember them by. It was foolish, perhaps even futile, but anything was better than just slowly dying of thirst.
While he was contemplating that, he noticed that Charlie was eyeing some bandages. His eyes drifted up towards Charlie's head wound, and he put two and two together. Why was she hesitating to treat it, he wondered. Was she concerned that she'd be letting her guard down, or was she just unable?
"Well...maybe it is that kind of game for everyone else, but not for me." he said out loud, pondering how to approach this. He was going to be taking a colossal risk here. Slowly, hesitantly, he placed his shield against the wall, and winced as it tumbled over and hit the ground with a loud thump. He shook his head. "Yeah, that's it in a nutshell. I'd be hopeless in a fight. But maybe I don't have to be a fighter, you know?"
Fishing through his bag, he pulled out his own, untouched first aid kit. "Basic and advanced first aid, knot-tying, cooking, rock climbing, wilderness survival...that stuff I know. I can't win this game, but..." He withdrew the butterfly strips so generously provided, "If I can keep others healthy, maybe that'll be enough." Obviously, he'd need to wash and treat the area before closing it up, but this was more for illustration.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Blastinus. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Peters put down his weapon. Didn't matter that it was a defensive tool, he was still intentionally disarming himself right in front of her.
Her hammering heart, finally, finally beginning to settle, started to pick up its pace once again. Why would he do that? He knew she'd killed Dyne, there was evidence enough even if her own admission wasn't sufficient. It was more than dangerous, it was out and out suicidal.
Unless, of course, that wasn't actually what he was doing.
Charlie's eyes roved up and down Peters, looking for any signs of a struggle, markings or tears on his clothes, any signs of exertion or a fight on his face. Put down your 'weapon', use it to gain trust and close the distance, and then strike. That jacket was fairly bulky, enough so to conceal a gun beneath it if need be, and it was warm enough to render the extra layer unnecessary.
Her heartbeat accelerated.
Peters' actions spoke reason and understanding and a desire to help. Everything about the situation and the context screamed to Charlie that something wasn't right about his approach. He had no reason to help her but every reason to pretend. He didn't think he would be a survivor, so best to try and aid the survival of others?
Charlie's hand dropped to her knife, gripped it tightly.
"I just killed him and now you want to help me? With your own supplies?" The throbbing in her head and the fresh rivulets had her ache to trust him. "What's your game here, Peters?"
Go on. Admit it. Just admit it. Then she could-- then--
Then she could...
Her hammering heart, finally, finally beginning to settle, started to pick up its pace once again. Why would he do that? He knew she'd killed Dyne, there was evidence enough even if her own admission wasn't sufficient. It was more than dangerous, it was out and out suicidal.
Unless, of course, that wasn't actually what he was doing.
Charlie's eyes roved up and down Peters, looking for any signs of a struggle, markings or tears on his clothes, any signs of exertion or a fight on his face. Put down your 'weapon', use it to gain trust and close the distance, and then strike. That jacket was fairly bulky, enough so to conceal a gun beneath it if need be, and it was warm enough to render the extra layer unnecessary.
Her heartbeat accelerated.
Peters' actions spoke reason and understanding and a desire to help. Everything about the situation and the context screamed to Charlie that something wasn't right about his approach. He had no reason to help her but every reason to pretend. He didn't think he would be a survivor, so best to try and aid the survival of others?
Charlie's hand dropped to her knife, gripped it tightly.
"I just killed him and now you want to help me? With your own supplies?" The throbbing in her head and the fresh rivulets had her ache to trust him. "What's your game here, Peters?"
Go on. Admit it. Just admit it. Then she could-- then--
Then she could...
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Blastinus*
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Mon Sep 17, 2018 4:51 am
Cole froze on the spot as the knife came out. She thought he was trying to bring her guard down, to attack her at her most vulnerable. He had anticipated she'd be suspicious, but if she wouldn't even believe him when his hands were empty...How would he even approach this?
Box of butterfly strips still in hand, he took a deep breath and said, "I don't have one. If you want to...to kill me, then go ahead. I'm not going to fight you."
He stopped, trying to put words to this knot in his stomach. "Just please...let me help you first."
As a child, Cole had been called useless more times than he could imagine. And indeed, if you boiled down life's worth to whether you could shoot a gun, he was good for absolutely nothing. But perhaps that was why he dove headlong into doing favors for others; to hear people thank him, to hear them show their appreciation for something he'd done.
To believe that his life had meaning.
Was that selfish? Was that desperate and pathetic? Perhaps so. But it was all he had, all he could do.
Box of butterfly strips still in hand, he took a deep breath and said, "I don't have one. If you want to...to kill me, then go ahead. I'm not going to fight you."
He stopped, trying to put words to this knot in his stomach. "Just please...let me help you first."
As a child, Cole had been called useless more times than he could imagine. And indeed, if you boiled down life's worth to whether you could shoot a gun, he was good for absolutely nothing. But perhaps that was why he dove headlong into doing favors for others; to hear people thank him, to hear them show their appreciation for something he'd done.
To believe that his life had meaning.
Was that selfish? Was that desperate and pathetic? Perhaps so. But it was all he had, all he could do.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Blastinus. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
Her hand stayed on the knife. Not drawing it, she didn't want to—well Charlie didn't know what she did or didn't want to do but—she had it there. The suspicion was easier to focus on than that. Strategic thinking, put yourself in the shoes of someone playing to win and consider what they would do. Eliminate threats sat top of the list.
Peters' words derailed that train of thought in a hurry. Kill me if you want, but let me help you.
For several seconds, Charlie just blinked at him. What kind of logic was that? No, not logic, just a kind of defeated resignation. Nothing to do with lies or deceit.
The fight drained out of her. She couldn't stay guarded in the face of that. There was a level of sincerity in his hopelessness that he couldn't hope to have faked.
"Fine," she let go of the knife. "I—" Charlie trailed off. Words flitted past her, none of them seeming right or appropriate. "Fine."
Peters' words derailed that train of thought in a hurry. Kill me if you want, but let me help you.
For several seconds, Charlie just blinked at him. What kind of logic was that? No, not logic, just a kind of defeated resignation. Nothing to do with lies or deceit.
The fight drained out of her. She couldn't stay guarded in the face of that. There was a level of sincerity in his hopelessness that he couldn't hope to have faked.
"Fine," she let go of the knife. "I—" Charlie trailed off. Words flitted past her, none of them seeming right or appropriate. "Fine."