The girl’s body rocked side to side, shuffling closer to whatever was left of Ajay. It wasn’t much.
Even though movement, breath, and something resembling a voice persisted in him, they were merely the aftershocks of his existence. He was like Jen now.
All that remained after all the senseless killing, the failed attempts at anything else, were two moving corpses, illuminated by the last rays of light from their final sunset. Except only one of those corpses was still standing. Only one of them held a rifle to the other’s head.
Then a sound reached her ears, and she couldn’t tell whether it came from just ahead or if, instead it crackled in her own mind. Regardless, she looked up.
And her gaze dimly recognized another form, hovering at the edge of the trees. For an intstant, the ultimate collapse of the universe reversed.
Then they made eye contact.
click.
The weight of Jen's rifle carried her forward until she connected with the earth. Some low, guttural croak crawled its way out of her throat, and she did not move again.
United by the Moment
SOTF: International - Endgame
Moderator: SOTF International Staff
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Catche Jagger
- Posts: 743
- Joined: Tue May 28, 2019 7:40 pm
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
Ajay knew this was it.
He should’ve been mad that this was it, that Philia wasted her chances on him. But the truth was, he could only be mad at himself.
Jen learned the lessons that he’d failed to. Even if she wasn’t meant to win, neither was he. She learned, he didn’t, and now Seychelle was going home.
She’d earned it.
In the end Ajay couldn’t chalk this up to dumb luck. They’d all gained their scars to get here. Whoever won earned it.
Didn’t matter who in the end, no chance was wasted. Every mistake was paid for in blood, and that’s why it wasn’t him standing over Jen again.
What kept Ajay alive for so long was his cowardice. The one moment he ignored it, pushed it to the back to fight because; just because, it cost him everything.
That’s why when Jen was standing where he was a second ago, he didn’t beg or plead. The roles reversed because of his actions.
No point in going back to a coward now.
He glanced back at Seychelle, who watched, then back to Jen.
He laughed.
And then that was it.
He should’ve been mad that this was it, that Philia wasted her chances on him. But the truth was, he could only be mad at himself.
Jen learned the lessons that he’d failed to. Even if she wasn’t meant to win, neither was he. She learned, he didn’t, and now Seychelle was going home.
She’d earned it.
In the end Ajay couldn’t chalk this up to dumb luck. They’d all gained their scars to get here. Whoever won earned it.
Didn’t matter who in the end, no chance was wasted. Every mistake was paid for in blood, and that’s why it wasn’t him standing over Jen again.
What kept Ajay alive for so long was his cowardice. The one moment he ignored it, pushed it to the back to fight because; just because, it cost him everything.
That’s why when Jen was standing where he was a second ago, he didn’t beg or plead. The roles reversed because of his actions.
No point in going back to a coward now.
He glanced back at Seychelle, who watched, then back to Jen.
He laughed.
And then that was it.
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
O13: AJAY BACHMEYER — DECEASED
2 STUDENTS REMAIN
2 STUDENTS REMAIN
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
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Catche Jagger
- Posts: 743
- Joined: Tue May 28, 2019 7:40 pm
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
O11: JEN MARA TUIQAMEA — DECEASED
1 STUDENT REMAINS
1 STUDENT REMAINS
O14: SEYCHELLE CHARITY TRESS — ALIVE
0 STUDENTS REMAIN
0 STUDENTS REMAIN
After about ten minutes, Seychelle Charity Tress realized that she was the last one alive.
She lay there for about what felt like an hour, waiting for someone to come pick her up.
Whether that would be the corporeal being in the form of the people who had abducted her or an incorporeal being in the form of Death would be up for debate, and she internally considered which one would be better. She wanted to live more than she wanted to die, but the newly concave nature of her skull made her tiptoe into the possibility that death might be better than surviving this.
Her blurry vision was only made worse by the light disappearing and being replaced ever so slowly by a smiling moon with its too many starry eyes. She slowly scanned the sky for any sign of anything or anybody. She didn’t want to raise her head from the fear of her brain rolling out of her skull growing increasingly stronger as she felt her body grow colder by the second.
She had dealt with the cold on the island, but this type of coldness reminded her of a term she had heard on TV: Rigor Mortis.
To reassure herself she was alive, she tried to move a limb, only to find it paralyzed, frozen. She stuttered a breath, now cursed by Undyne to manually blink and breathe and pump her own heart. She heard her heartbeat in her eardrum, which she mistook for footsteps, and as she struggled to look toward the ocean hidden by the statue, she made the realization that nobody was coming for her.
She lay there for about what felt like an hour, waiting for someone to come pick her up.
Whether that would be the corporeal being in the form of the people who had abducted her or an incorporeal being in the form of Death would be up for debate, and she internally considered which one would be better. She wanted to live more than she wanted to die, but the newly concave nature of her skull made her tiptoe into the possibility that death might be better than surviving this.
Her blurry vision was only made worse by the light disappearing and being replaced ever so slowly by a smiling moon with its too many starry eyes. She slowly scanned the sky for any sign of anything or anybody. She didn’t want to raise her head from the fear of her brain rolling out of her skull growing increasingly stronger as she felt her body grow colder by the second.
She had dealt with the cold on the island, but this type of coldness reminded her of a term she had heard on TV: Rigor Mortis.
To reassure herself she was alive, she tried to move a limb, only to find it paralyzed, frozen. She stuttered a breath, now cursed by Undyne to manually blink and breathe and pump her own heart. She heard her heartbeat in her eardrum, which she mistook for footsteps, and as she struggled to look toward the ocean hidden by the statue, she made the realization that nobody was coming for her.
After thirty minutes, she reflected.
Seychelle had always been of the opinion that if she didn’t want to die then she wouldn’t die. She felt invincible on the island. Yes, she knew she was hurt, and yes, she knew her wounds were mounting. But she also felt like they would never kill her even if she tried because she didn’t want to die. Seychelle chose to keep thinking that, and instead, considered the world around her.
The arena, for the first time in a long time, was an island. Seychelle wasn’t scared of being shot or stabbed or poisoned; she was scared of bugs biting her, and she was scared of getting an infection, and she was scared that her dried throat would make her sleep forever. She was also, obviously, scared that her brain would spill out like Jello that hadn’t yet set in a Tupperware.
Her arms which had felt like limbs had now started to feel like a lifeless extension of her body. They felt like her clothes. She felt like they could be torn and she wouldn’t even notice it. She also felt quiet, like everything had been muted. The colours, the sounds, the sensation: everything had its volume lowered by the blood loss.
If nobody was coming, what did she have in her deck? She was unable to move. She was unable to drink or eat. She was unable to keep her eyes open anymore. She felt flies on her body.
She reminded herself that she didn’t want to die.
Seychelle had always been of the opinion that if she didn’t want to die then she wouldn’t die. She felt invincible on the island. Yes, she knew she was hurt, and yes, she knew her wounds were mounting. But she also felt like they would never kill her even if she tried because she didn’t want to die. Seychelle chose to keep thinking that, and instead, considered the world around her.
The arena, for the first time in a long time, was an island. Seychelle wasn’t scared of being shot or stabbed or poisoned; she was scared of bugs biting her, and she was scared of getting an infection, and she was scared that her dried throat would make her sleep forever. She was also, obviously, scared that her brain would spill out like Jello that hadn’t yet set in a Tupperware.
Her arms which had felt like limbs had now started to feel like a lifeless extension of her body. They felt like her clothes. She felt like they could be torn and she wouldn’t even notice it. She also felt quiet, like everything had been muted. The colours, the sounds, the sensation: everything had its volume lowered by the blood loss.
If nobody was coming, what did she have in her deck? She was unable to move. She was unable to drink or eat. She was unable to keep her eyes open anymore. She felt flies on her body.
She reminded herself that she didn’t want to die.
And after 45 minutes, Seychelle wasn't conscious anymore.
If she could tell what had happened after falling into a coma, it would probably tell the tale of the Armada de Chile coming to the island to 'rescue' her. It was more an imprisonment. She would also talk about how she felt the chk-chkchk-chkchk-chk of their SH-32 Super Puma against her visible bones, and how that noise still haunted her dreams. The men who had dragged her to the helicopter with another man inside had tied her down. Straps against her legs arms and head. Immobilized, she would have stared at large bags of blood dandling from above, turning from translucent to red as they flooded her system.
She'd also recall that there were also people who didn't speak Spanish on the island, which she understood. Men and women from Interpol spoke amongst themselves in quiet English with a noticeable British accent. They wondered if she'd make it. She would say she remembered her asking questions like who was she and if she knew what day it was, but that she could only reply in grunts and barks. Something that she found funny when she recalled it because, in that moment of frailty, she had forgotten that her voice had been taken away.
But again, she wasn't sure that any of this had happened, and she wasn't sure if any of this had just been a memory fabricated as she tried to recall what had happened during these three days when she had killed seven people. Alone in what she called a cell, conscious but not strong enough to fight, she had something else to kill.
Time.
She didn't speak Spanish, but her mother tongue had helped with some of the things that were written in her room. She couldn't understand as they spoke, but she recognized names numbers and indications. She counted every single crack in the roof and every single bug she came across. She counted the eyelashes of the person who fed her, who didn't trust her with something in her hands except for a plastic spoon after she had a metal plate inserted in her skull, and then counted how many footsteps they would take until they left the room and disappeared from her range. Time had been killed, and finally, something progressed.
Then, when a Marlowe came in, it became clear that people were not happy. She came in twice, and she was with Interpol, and it was obvious she wasn't going to go back home after her recovery in this room-turned-hospital. A Marley then had told her they were coming with them.
She couldn't exactly refuse.
Seychelle understood that Michelle wouldn't look at her the same when she saw the newspaper on the plane to Argentina.
If she could tell what had happened after falling into a coma, it would probably tell the tale of the Armada de Chile coming to the island to 'rescue' her. It was more an imprisonment. She would also talk about how she felt the chk-chkchk-chkchk-chk of their SH-32 Super Puma against her visible bones, and how that noise still haunted her dreams. The men who had dragged her to the helicopter with another man inside had tied her down. Straps against her legs arms and head. Immobilized, she would have stared at large bags of blood dandling from above, turning from translucent to red as they flooded her system.
She'd also recall that there were also people who didn't speak Spanish on the island, which she understood. Men and women from Interpol spoke amongst themselves in quiet English with a noticeable British accent. They wondered if she'd make it. She would say she remembered her asking questions like who was she and if she knew what day it was, but that she could only reply in grunts and barks. Something that she found funny when she recalled it because, in that moment of frailty, she had forgotten that her voice had been taken away.
But again, she wasn't sure that any of this had happened, and she wasn't sure if any of this had just been a memory fabricated as she tried to recall what had happened during these three days when she had killed seven people. Alone in what she called a cell, conscious but not strong enough to fight, she had something else to kill.
Time.
She didn't speak Spanish, but her mother tongue had helped with some of the things that were written in her room. She couldn't understand as they spoke, but she recognized names numbers and indications. She counted every single crack in the roof and every single bug she came across. She counted the eyelashes of the person who fed her, who didn't trust her with something in her hands except for a plastic spoon after she had a metal plate inserted in her skull, and then counted how many footsteps they would take until they left the room and disappeared from her range. Time had been killed, and finally, something progressed.
Then, when a Marlowe came in, it became clear that people were not happy. She came in twice, and she was with Interpol, and it was obvious she wasn't going to go back home after her recovery in this room-turned-hospital. A Marley then had told her they were coming with them.
She couldn't exactly refuse.
Seychelle understood that Michelle wouldn't look at her the same when she saw the newspaper on the plane to Argentina.