Rather than answer Vincent just reached up with his left arm and patted the Orange bandana on his right bicep before letting the limb drop. He opened his mouth to speak only to cough dryly instead, grimacing slightly as his chest heaved and then exploded in fresh pain from his bruises.
“Teammates”, Vincent reached over to his side and dragged his bag a little closer to him, working to open up the zip one handed before reaching inside. “I was there… when she died”
Vincent pulled a slightly worn and bent looking notebook and flipped it open to the page he was looking for, one of the few with writing on it. “She wrote this”, looking up at Sterling again he lightly tossed the object over to the other boy. “Your name is in it”
He didn’t know why he was bothering to do this, sharing Tiffany’s last words with a guy he didn’t know, a guy he should probably be pointing his gun at right now while he was distracted and pulling the trigger, bringing himself one step closer to getting home. He didn’t even know why he still carried that book at all; sure he felt a little guilty about not being able to stop Karen from killing her, though he still planned on paying her back for that next chance he got, but carrying around her diary like this was just too sentimental. And now he was even planning on letting this guy go just because his name was written in those pages.
He could try and justify it of course; he was tired and injured from killing the last two guys in quick succession, Sterling had a gun as well and could probably draw faster than he could like this, but really he knew the real reason was because of Tiffany Dexter. Tiffany, who had been the one ally he had ever had on this island, the one person who seemed to have even a little common sense about their situation and – he would grudgingly admit – had rather earned his respect somewhat during their time together, if only because her plan to get out of here was to turn Orange team into a army and steamroll the whole fucking island.
This Sterling guy was obviously someone she cared about, judging by what she wrote about him, and that was at least worth a one time reprieve; so long as he didn’t try anything of course. Should they see each other after this though, he wouldn’t be so lucky.
Metanoia
Reshaping the world... Open: Day 3.
When Vincent patted the bandanna Sterling got the point. He found himself jealous, and then angry. If Sterling had been with Tiffany she'd still be alive, he was sure of it. Then Vincent opened the bag and his heart skipped a beat.
When the book came out the young star relaxed a little. After Vincent tossed it Sterling bent down slowly to pick it up, God I hope there's bullets left in this. He was skeptical about Tiffany keeping a diary of any kind, let alone mentioning him in it.
When the co-star did nothing Sterling opened the book prepared to flip through the pages when he saw his name (among others) gazing back at him. He skipped to what Tiffany's hand writing said about him.
...
No fucking way.
Two or three rereads proved that it was true. Tiffany Dexter had had a crush on him. Reading the rest of the page caused a regret and longing to concoct in him. A short time ago he would have playfully mocked Tiffany for some of these confessions, but now there was nothing.
No more studying together, hanging out with James and her at the cafe, or anything. Life felt like that it was only this show, and it had only been two days. The idea of going home seemed like an unrealistic fantasy you dreamed when there was nothing you could have.
He tossed the book back to Vincent, but when it left his hand it felt like he threw away a piece of something that could have been more. Looking at it for a few more seconds Sterling said,
"Thanks, man. I've..." He had started the sentence before thinking about what he was going to say. "I'm heading out." Without another word Sterling had backed out the fire exit and fled the blood pool the hotel had become.
He needed fresh air and thoughts.
((Sterling Odair continued in Wrong Direction.))
When the book came out the young star relaxed a little. After Vincent tossed it Sterling bent down slowly to pick it up, God I hope there's bullets left in this. He was skeptical about Tiffany keeping a diary of any kind, let alone mentioning him in it.
When the co-star did nothing Sterling opened the book prepared to flip through the pages when he saw his name (among others) gazing back at him. He skipped to what Tiffany's hand writing said about him.
...
No fucking way.
Two or three rereads proved that it was true. Tiffany Dexter had had a crush on him. Reading the rest of the page caused a regret and longing to concoct in him. A short time ago he would have playfully mocked Tiffany for some of these confessions, but now there was nothing.
No more studying together, hanging out with James and her at the cafe, or anything. Life felt like that it was only this show, and it had only been two days. The idea of going home seemed like an unrealistic fantasy you dreamed when there was nothing you could have.
He tossed the book back to Vincent, but when it left his hand it felt like he threw away a piece of something that could have been more. Looking at it for a few more seconds Sterling said,
"Thanks, man. I've..." He had started the sentence before thinking about what he was going to say. "I'm heading out." Without another word Sterling had backed out the fire exit and fled the blood pool the hotel had become.
He needed fresh air and thoughts.
((Sterling Odair continued in Wrong Direction.))
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Vincent just sat in silence for a few minutes after Sterling left, not even acknowledging when the other boy said he was heading out and left through a nearby exit. As the minutes passed he could feel it become easier to breathe as the pain in his chest dulled; the fire was still there but the weight was finally letting up, so long as he didn’t move around too much.
After who knows how long he finally felt good enough to try moving again, putting the notebook back in his bag before pulling his legs up under him and pushing up off the ground. With the doorframe behind him for support he was able to stand upright, shotgun in hand, before stepping away and testing to see if he could stand and walk unsupported. His leg, the one that had been shot not to mention everything else that had happened to it, throbbed in protest but as long as he didn’t put too much weight on it he could walk just fine; something he proved as he limped slowly over to where he had let his sword drop to the ground before bending down and taking the handle in his hand again.
After some deliberation he slipped the sword back into the makeshift holster he had made of the strap on his bag and swung the whole thing back onto his back; with the shotgun now in his possession it made much more sense to carry that around instead of the sword and just keep the claymore as a backup, easily reachable by simply reaching behind his head. Speaking of the shotgun, he walked back over to Glen’s body and reached down to pull the bag off of his body; if he was going to make any use of this weapon he would need whatever bullets Glen still had.
He was starting to feel a little winded again so Vincent dragged everything into the room he had fell into before and dropped Glen’s bag down onto the bed before dropping his own down next to it and sat next to them. Opening up both bags Vincent began to take stock of his supplies; the only thing Glen had in his bag was more food, his first aid kit having been trashed by Vincent the day before, and Vincent was already well stocked on food and could ill afford more weight anyway.
The only thing he had of worth was the box of shotgun shells which Vincent took before removing a few to reload the weapon, sliding the red tubes into the open slot underneath the shotguns barrel like he had seen done in so many movies before. After that he simply decided to empty the box out and fill his pockets with a few of the shells that remained before putting the rest in his bag.
Lastly, he pulled the now shredded orange t-shirt up over his head and threw it into a corner of the room. Now that the bullet proof vest was uncovered he could see what the shotgun really did to him; little dents pockmarked the whole vest from his navel to just under his collar with a particular section right in the middle of his chest bearing one tight cluster of dents. That must have been the anvil he felt. There were even a few holes that looked like they went right through the vest and probably did if the red he could see underneath was any indication. A few of the pellets must have made it through and embedded themselves in his chest. That gave a pretty good explanation for the fire he felt every time he move; he had fucking shrapnel inside of him.
Vincent grabbed the same grass-stained, blood covered white t-shirt he had started the game in out of his bag and pulled it back on. It wasn’t pretty, but he didn’t have anything else he could wear and he certainly wasn’t going to go stealing clothes from any of the bodies around here. For one they wouldn’t fit him, except possibly Glen’s, and two he was going to go around wearing someone else’s team colours; that was just asking for trouble.
With everything settled he swung his bag back onto his shoulders, picked up his new shotgun before placing the strap over his head and walked back out into the hallway. The hotel had turned into a bloodbath in the very short time he was here and he still had no idea if there was anybody else still waiting deeper in; he was just going to get out of here and hopefully never come back. Places like this tended to attract people like flies and what had just happened was usually the end result of large gatherings in this show; it had ended up being quite profitable for him but he had almost ended up dead as a result as well, it just wasn’t worth the risk.
(ORA1 Vincent Sullivan continued in Set My World On Fire)
After who knows how long he finally felt good enough to try moving again, putting the notebook back in his bag before pulling his legs up under him and pushing up off the ground. With the doorframe behind him for support he was able to stand upright, shotgun in hand, before stepping away and testing to see if he could stand and walk unsupported. His leg, the one that had been shot not to mention everything else that had happened to it, throbbed in protest but as long as he didn’t put too much weight on it he could walk just fine; something he proved as he limped slowly over to where he had let his sword drop to the ground before bending down and taking the handle in his hand again.
After some deliberation he slipped the sword back into the makeshift holster he had made of the strap on his bag and swung the whole thing back onto his back; with the shotgun now in his possession it made much more sense to carry that around instead of the sword and just keep the claymore as a backup, easily reachable by simply reaching behind his head. Speaking of the shotgun, he walked back over to Glen’s body and reached down to pull the bag off of his body; if he was going to make any use of this weapon he would need whatever bullets Glen still had.
He was starting to feel a little winded again so Vincent dragged everything into the room he had fell into before and dropped Glen’s bag down onto the bed before dropping his own down next to it and sat next to them. Opening up both bags Vincent began to take stock of his supplies; the only thing Glen had in his bag was more food, his first aid kit having been trashed by Vincent the day before, and Vincent was already well stocked on food and could ill afford more weight anyway.
The only thing he had of worth was the box of shotgun shells which Vincent took before removing a few to reload the weapon, sliding the red tubes into the open slot underneath the shotguns barrel like he had seen done in so many movies before. After that he simply decided to empty the box out and fill his pockets with a few of the shells that remained before putting the rest in his bag.
Lastly, he pulled the now shredded orange t-shirt up over his head and threw it into a corner of the room. Now that the bullet proof vest was uncovered he could see what the shotgun really did to him; little dents pockmarked the whole vest from his navel to just under his collar with a particular section right in the middle of his chest bearing one tight cluster of dents. That must have been the anvil he felt. There were even a few holes that looked like they went right through the vest and probably did if the red he could see underneath was any indication. A few of the pellets must have made it through and embedded themselves in his chest. That gave a pretty good explanation for the fire he felt every time he move; he had fucking shrapnel inside of him.
Vincent grabbed the same grass-stained, blood covered white t-shirt he had started the game in out of his bag and pulled it back on. It wasn’t pretty, but he didn’t have anything else he could wear and he certainly wasn’t going to go stealing clothes from any of the bodies around here. For one they wouldn’t fit him, except possibly Glen’s, and two he was going to go around wearing someone else’s team colours; that was just asking for trouble.
With everything settled he swung his bag back onto his shoulders, picked up his new shotgun before placing the strap over his head and walked back out into the hallway. The hotel had turned into a bloodbath in the very short time he was here and he still had no idea if there was anybody else still waiting deeper in; he was just going to get out of here and hopefully never come back. Places like this tended to attract people like flies and what had just happened was usually the end result of large gatherings in this show; it had ended up being quite profitable for him but he had almost ended up dead as a result as well, it just wasn’t worth the risk.
(ORA1 Vincent Sullivan continued in Set My World On Fire)