The murderer couldn't seem to escape the smell of fish. It was everywhere, and while she was more or less used to it at this point, on occasion, it still made her gag. She had never cared much for seafood, so to have the smell permeate anything and everything, it was an annoyance that occasionally overwhelmed her senses. At the moment, there was no time to be overwhelmed. In fact, she needed every sense to be at its peak. Right now, her survival depended on it. Circumstances had changed over the last hour or so, and they would again once the Americans came over the announcements. At that point, her classmates would stop having any doubt.
Victoria Amaro was no longer just a killer, she was a murderer.
She wondered how many of them would even know who she was.
((Victoria Amaro continued from True Dark is Coming From the Inside))
There was a moment after she'd fled the cannery that she looked back with regret for shooting the boy who'd called out. He hadn't been intentionally trying to hurt her, likely only firing at her with the hose as a self-defense mechanism. Yet with her then-inability to act rather than react, she would have once again been dead had he been armed with anything more than highly pressurized water. If that boy died, it was on her, it was something to lament.
The second one, though...
That had been her own action, through and through. She didn't need to wonder if she'd killed him. The bullets had hit him near dead-centre, and the way he'd gone down had left very little to the imagination. It would be a miracle if he were ever able to stand again, let alone survive for longer than the day. It was the sad fact of her situation, one that Victoria didn't dwell on as she cautiously made her way through the remnants of the Wet Market. There was likely to be very little here of substance, though that fishy smell still seemed to attach itself to everything. She had hoped that she would have gotten used to it by now, but if it hadn't happened already, it likely wasn't going to at all.
As she stepped around a broken cart, eyes darting around for movement of any kind, Victoria flipped through her mental rolodex. There had been about thirty people taken by the Americans, give or take. After two days, how many of them still remained? The announcements had laid out the demises of almost a third of them, would today be any different? She had already dispatched three people. How many more would fall to her hand before it was all said and done? Was she prepared to kill again, so that she could live?
That was a very clear affirmative. She had stepped across the line, and there was no longer any going back. Her destiny involved gunfire, bloodshed, and death. She should have understood that the second she'd picked up that second bag, right at the beginning. Actions had consequences and those consequences could spread out over hours, days, weeks or even years. Strangely, she felt at peace with it. Victoria had feared that she would hesitate at the wrong moment, inaction would be her undoing. Now that she had proven to herself that she would not stop, that was the way she had to go.
Anyone who she came across would die. It was the only logical option. After the Americans informed everyone of her deeds, no one would risk trusting her. Which meant that they were the enemy. She would be as hazardous as an undetonated land mine, and everyone would be looking to steer clear.
It was what she would have done had roles been reversed. What she was certain her brothers would have wanted her to do. She still had her weapon and plenty of ammunition, she had her protection in the form of the vest, and she was measurably undamaged, save for the lump on the back of her head. She could see a path to the end. It was fraught with carnage and trauma, but it was there, waiting to be walked.
Victoria decided she would try. No matter the cost.
Crouching down behind a broken fruit-vendor stall, she took a moment to rest her legs. She had sprinted away from the cannery so that whomever else had been there could not follow her, and she was reasonably certain that no one had.
Yet still, the situation demanded her vigilance, and so she provided it.
She waited.
Something to Believe In
Open at your peril
((Virgil Raeburn continued from SOMEONE SAW ME COVERED IN BLOOD AND ASKED WHO I WAS AND I PANICKED AND SAID "LUIGI"))
Virgil drifted through the marketplace. The rot was omnipresent, overpowering. Virgil had been able to catch a waft of it no matter where he was in the village, but has he wandered on his path from the graveyard it became stronger and stronger, to the point where he fell ill and had to stop to vomit up the water he'd drank. (How long had it been since he'd eaten? He must have eaten at some point, earlier. He wasn't hungry). Over time, his problems ceased. The smell became so overpowering, filling his nostrils and lungs, and he became accustomed to it.
It was appropriate, he'd thought. The cemetery had been a place where the dead had been peacefully laid to rest. This was a place where the dead were disemboweled and sold on the streets. It was a rotten place.
Virgil stopped and took a deep breath in. His eyes went over the broken and empty stalls, the hooks on the walls. For the first time in a good while, Virgil felt that old urge to sit down and draw. He usually didn't like to draw inanimate objects, but sometimes he could just look at an empty place and feel the ghosts of the life that once inhabited it. Merchants standing at the stalls, calling to passerby. Mothers pulling their children through the crowded street. And of course, the fish. Big, small, so many different colors. All being prepared for their final purpose.
All of a sudden, Virgil felt something else. At the edge of his senses, at the edge of his mind. Another presence. Stronger, more vibrant than the ghosts. His head swiveled to a nearby fruit stall. There was something. Breathing? Shifting? He thought he'd heard it. Only thought. Perhaps his instincts were deceiving him. He stared. He waited.
He couldn't see anything.
Virgil turned back to the path and continued his walk.
Virgil drifted through the marketplace. The rot was omnipresent, overpowering. Virgil had been able to catch a waft of it no matter where he was in the village, but has he wandered on his path from the graveyard it became stronger and stronger, to the point where he fell ill and had to stop to vomit up the water he'd drank. (How long had it been since he'd eaten? He must have eaten at some point, earlier. He wasn't hungry). Over time, his problems ceased. The smell became so overpowering, filling his nostrils and lungs, and he became accustomed to it.
It was appropriate, he'd thought. The cemetery had been a place where the dead had been peacefully laid to rest. This was a place where the dead were disemboweled and sold on the streets. It was a rotten place.
Virgil stopped and took a deep breath in. His eyes went over the broken and empty stalls, the hooks on the walls. For the first time in a good while, Virgil felt that old urge to sit down and draw. He usually didn't like to draw inanimate objects, but sometimes he could just look at an empty place and feel the ghosts of the life that once inhabited it. Merchants standing at the stalls, calling to passerby. Mothers pulling their children through the crowded street. And of course, the fish. Big, small, so many different colors. All being prepared for their final purpose.
All of a sudden, Virgil felt something else. At the edge of his senses, at the edge of his mind. Another presence. Stronger, more vibrant than the ghosts. His head swiveled to a nearby fruit stall. There was something. Breathing? Shifting? He thought he'd heard it. Only thought. Perhaps his instincts were deceiving him. He stared. He waited.
He couldn't see anything.
Virgil turned back to the path and continued his walk.
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Cactus
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Her wait proved fruitful.
She heard the crunching of shoes on the ground; one person, obviously, and listened as they made their way through the fish market. Her mind raced as she considered the possibilities. This had been the intent the whole way through, of course. It was the only logical solution that was left to her. Victoria had shot three people. If whomever was walking through the fish market didn't know now, they'd know by morning. At that point, she would become persona non grata.
She had been justifying her decision to herself over and over.
It was the right one, given the options. She knew that.
Now was the time to act on that decision.
The footsteps stopped. Had they heard her? She held her breath, and listened.
No one called out. No one said anything.
They resumed. Victoria waited a moment, and slowly rose from her hiding spot, weapon at the ready. It was a boy; she didn't recognize him from behind or know his name off the top of her head. As always, not a surprise. Perhaps given the time to think, it might come to her. But as little as names or faces had mattered to her while she was in class, they mattered even less now. All they were to her now were obstacles to be cleared. Problems to be solved.
Standing, Victoria readied the submachine gun, frowning as she brushed against the broken stand and a piece of wood fell off and clattered loudly to the ground.
That was careless. She'd have to be more careful next time.
Looking back up at the boy, Victoria coldly let her finger find the trigger; the fish market filling with the loud calamity of her new style of problem solving.
She heard the crunching of shoes on the ground; one person, obviously, and listened as they made their way through the fish market. Her mind raced as she considered the possibilities. This had been the intent the whole way through, of course. It was the only logical solution that was left to her. Victoria had shot three people. If whomever was walking through the fish market didn't know now, they'd know by morning. At that point, she would become persona non grata.
She had been justifying her decision to herself over and over.
It was the right one, given the options. She knew that.
Now was the time to act on that decision.
The footsteps stopped. Had they heard her? She held her breath, and listened.
No one called out. No one said anything.
They resumed. Victoria waited a moment, and slowly rose from her hiding spot, weapon at the ready. It was a boy; she didn't recognize him from behind or know his name off the top of her head. As always, not a surprise. Perhaps given the time to think, it might come to her. But as little as names or faces had mattered to her while she was in class, they mattered even less now. All they were to her now were obstacles to be cleared. Problems to be solved.
Standing, Victoria readied the submachine gun, frowning as she brushed against the broken stand and a piece of wood fell off and clattered loudly to the ground.
That was careless. She'd have to be more careful next time.
Looking back up at the boy, Victoria coldly let her finger find the trigger; the fish market filling with the loud calamity of her new style of problem solving.
((Oliver Davies continued from No Backward Glances))
Oliver hadn't said a word since the plea for help, and he didn't intend to.
He also hadn't intended to come back to the market. The smell of fish returned, still as strong as ever, which wasn't helping his headache. He'd downed one of his own bottles of water still yet it still pounded away, making every second an aching misery. But still, he had something to do now.
For a while, Oliver had been fine playing on the defense. He wasn't going to make it clear that he intended to ruin things for everyone, which seemed like the smart thing to do. But then the three on the beach tossed him away despite the circumstances - it wasn't even that, it was the fact that they didn't even know the circumstances yet they weren't acting smart at all. Every passing moment just confirmed what Oliver already knew, that he was the only one thinking here and nobody else had even caught up to his level.
Which is why he was done with that. He was done trying to think of ways to sell his idea to the people who were already out killing like they would be let home again. If Samuel had taught him anything, except where to properly aim a legshot, it was that their way was even worse than nothing at all.
Which is also why he'd been following Virgil for a while now. He didn't know it, of course, otherwise Virgil would probably be dead. Probably. But either way, he needed to get the right shot in, and to do that he needed to get close. He'd never been sneaking before in real life, so the entire time he stayed distant. He didn't look like someone who would be open to a random travelling companion, even if he didn't know who Oliver was by face or announcement. But he would get closer eventually.
Of course, he'd stopped to take looks around. But Oliver was practically invisible.
The methods going through Oliver's mind on how to keep this up, how to go through with the entire process, were taken apart by the gunshot that echoed through the marketplace. Very quickly, an option came to mind. If someone was shooting, they were probably shooting at Virgil, which meant that either his job would be done for him or Virgil was very quickly about to die. He didn't feel the crack of metal hitting his head or body so it obviously wasn't aimed by someone experienced at himself, so the odds were whoever was shooting didn't know Oliver was there. Which meant, as he took his gun out, leaned over the stall he was hiding behind, aimed with both hands near but not at Virgil, and pulled the trigger with an almighty roar as follow-up, whoever it was would probably have the absolute piss scared out of them by a boogeyman.
And just like that, Oliver disappeared behind the stall again.
Oliver hadn't said a word since the plea for help, and he didn't intend to.
He also hadn't intended to come back to the market. The smell of fish returned, still as strong as ever, which wasn't helping his headache. He'd downed one of his own bottles of water still yet it still pounded away, making every second an aching misery. But still, he had something to do now.
For a while, Oliver had been fine playing on the defense. He wasn't going to make it clear that he intended to ruin things for everyone, which seemed like the smart thing to do. But then the three on the beach tossed him away despite the circumstances - it wasn't even that, it was the fact that they didn't even know the circumstances yet they weren't acting smart at all. Every passing moment just confirmed what Oliver already knew, that he was the only one thinking here and nobody else had even caught up to his level.
Which is why he was done with that. He was done trying to think of ways to sell his idea to the people who were already out killing like they would be let home again. If Samuel had taught him anything, except where to properly aim a legshot, it was that their way was even worse than nothing at all.
Which is also why he'd been following Virgil for a while now. He didn't know it, of course, otherwise Virgil would probably be dead. Probably. But either way, he needed to get the right shot in, and to do that he needed to get close. He'd never been sneaking before in real life, so the entire time he stayed distant. He didn't look like someone who would be open to a random travelling companion, even if he didn't know who Oliver was by face or announcement. But he would get closer eventually.
Of course, he'd stopped to take looks around. But Oliver was practically invisible.
The methods going through Oliver's mind on how to keep this up, how to go through with the entire process, were taken apart by the gunshot that echoed through the marketplace. Very quickly, an option came to mind. If someone was shooting, they were probably shooting at Virgil, which meant that either his job would be done for him or Virgil was very quickly about to die. He didn't feel the crack of metal hitting his head or body so it obviously wasn't aimed by someone experienced at himself, so the odds were whoever was shooting didn't know Oliver was there. Which meant, as he took his gun out, leaned over the stall he was hiding behind, aimed with both hands near but not at Virgil, and pulled the trigger with an almighty roar as follow-up, whoever it was would probably have the absolute piss scared out of them by a boogeyman.
And just like that, Oliver disappeared behind the stall again.
There was a thwack. It wasn't right. There was a part of Virgil that was still animal, still acted on basic instinct rather than deliberate thought. When Virgil turned and saw Victoria about to shoot him, the animal part of him took over completely. In a moment, he was no longer a man on a divine quest, he was just a scared lump of flesh trying to avoid the end for a few minutes longer. He dived to the ground and covered his head. The sound of bullets was thunderous, and seemed to be coming at him from all directions.
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Cactus
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It was an echo. At least, that's what her first thought was immediately upon hearing the second set of gunfire. Quickly, her mind adjusted to the fact that she was in an open-air food market, and her instincts did the rest. Immediately huddling down for cover by the stall beside her, Victoria looked around to try and suss out where the second shots had come from. Nothing had impacted around her, so was someone else shooting at the boy in front of her?
She had missed, as well. That was an important distinction to make. Victoria had been sloppy.
It was a mistake she wouldn't make again.
Victoria waited. While she'd been so focused on ensuring that she acted first, she had forgotten the most important rule of any confrontation: ensure that you are the one to act last.
The air was thick with tension.
She had missed, as well. That was an important distinction to make. Victoria had been sloppy.
It was a mistake she wouldn't make again.
Victoria waited. While she'd been so focused on ensuring that she acted first, she had forgotten the most important rule of any confrontation: ensure that you are the one to act last.
The air was thick with tension.
This wouldn't do.
When Oliver did what he did, he meant to scare. The bloke being fired at initially was now on the ground, possibly trying to avoid whatever guns were booming over him, but he expected something better from the other person. He expected visible panic, maybe a scream asking who was there. Instead, the echo of the gunshots hung in the air still, and nothing followed. Oliver could only hear his own breath.
Well that didn't work, did it? It was a good plan, of course, but it didn't work. Not entirely Oliver's fault, but now he had to come up with a new one. Possibilities marched through his head, from simply taking his shot at the boy on the floor and counting that as his victory, to retreating or surrendering like he was from Ireland or France or somewhere else. Neither of those would work out well for him, considering what he needed to do to make his mark, so it was time to think of something better.
A few moments later, the light globe flickered on above his head.
Oliver cleared his throat, and threw it to the sky.
"Whoever you are on the ground, I suggest you get up and start running if you want to live."
The moment he finished his proclamation, he quietly dashed to new cover in a closer stall.
When Oliver did what he did, he meant to scare. The bloke being fired at initially was now on the ground, possibly trying to avoid whatever guns were booming over him, but he expected something better from the other person. He expected visible panic, maybe a scream asking who was there. Instead, the echo of the gunshots hung in the air still, and nothing followed. Oliver could only hear his own breath.
Well that didn't work, did it? It was a good plan, of course, but it didn't work. Not entirely Oliver's fault, but now he had to come up with a new one. Possibilities marched through his head, from simply taking his shot at the boy on the floor and counting that as his victory, to retreating or surrendering like he was from Ireland or France or somewhere else. Neither of those would work out well for him, considering what he needed to do to make his mark, so it was time to think of something better.
A few moments later, the light globe flickered on above his head.
Oliver cleared his throat, and threw it to the sky.
"Whoever you are on the ground, I suggest you get up and start running if you want to live."
The moment he finished his proclamation, he quietly dashed to new cover in a closer stall.
The thunder clapped all over his head, all around him. Then, it was gone. Virgil opened his eyes as he pulled his mind crawled back into place. He looked around, sat up. Checked his body for wounds. He wasn't hit, not even in injured. He'd come out of the hail of bullets unscathed.
Of course. He had a purpose. He couldn't be killed before he'd fulfilled it. The Fates wouldn't allow it. He'd been in situations before, with Kat and Cassandra and Victoria, where they could have killed him at any moment. But they didn't. When Virgil died, it would only be after he'd found his hero. Until then, it made no difference what they tried to do to him.
Virgil stood up and walked out into the open. Scanning the area, he found the two figures holding guns, crouching behind stalls. Victoria was still there. It was amazing how he'd run into her again. The other person, the one who'd shouted at him to leave, was nowhere to be seen. The voice was familiar, but not distinct enough for Virgil to place a name to it.
"There's no reason to shoot at me." Virgil called, arms raised. "I don't wish to harm any of you, and I don't wish to take the spot of the winner. I only want to talk. Can we come into the open and speak rationally?"
He hoped they were pliable. If they tried to kill him again, this time he would leave.
Of course. He had a purpose. He couldn't be killed before he'd fulfilled it. The Fates wouldn't allow it. He'd been in situations before, with Kat and Cassandra and Victoria, where they could have killed him at any moment. But they didn't. When Virgil died, it would only be after he'd found his hero. Until then, it made no difference what they tried to do to him.
Virgil stood up and walked out into the open. Scanning the area, he found the two figures holding guns, crouching behind stalls. Victoria was still there. It was amazing how he'd run into her again. The other person, the one who'd shouted at him to leave, was nowhere to be seen. The voice was familiar, but not distinct enough for Virgil to place a name to it.
"There's no reason to shoot at me." Virgil called, arms raised. "I don't wish to harm any of you, and I don't wish to take the spot of the winner. I only want to talk. Can we come into the open and speak rationally?"
He hoped they were pliable. If they tried to kill him again, this time he would leave.
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Cactus
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The second shooter was the first one to break the silence. He seemed to want to talk. Victoria had no intention of talking, but then the victim had decided to also want to talk. There was so much talking to be done, very little of it that she intended to do on her own. What was there to say?
Victoria stayed silent, didn't move. Waited for one of them to say something worth listening to.
Victoria stayed silent, didn't move. Waited for one of them to say something worth listening to.
Everybody always thought they were the only rational person in the room - Samuel went on about how rational he was, even if he didn't say the words, and now Virgil, if it was actually Virgil, was trying the same spiel. Rational this, rational that, I am approaching this with facts and logics. It was just so stupid how idiots always expected the world to revolve around them and their own twisted worldview. He hoped this changed once the world got its senses together after the American retaliation.
But of course, he was stuck now. There was an unknown gunman, gunlady, gunperson, hiding somewhere, and they weren't trying to gun down Virgil anymore. But he didn't know who they were. The moment Oliver got up, they could just as easily gun him down. In fact, this entire thing could have been a ruse, and Virgil and the other person with the gun could have been working together, trying to get him into a trap. He didn't know how that could have worked, but it was possible. Oliver was slowly becoming aware of the fact that he wasn't the only intelligent person here.
He wasn't going to stand up. He wasn't a fete game clown, he was a survivor. He couldn't do what he needed to do if he was being hunted and followed like a victim. But he couldn't just stand up and shoot Virgil, now could he? He was stuck, and his mother didn't raise a twit, so he wasn't surrendering or fleeing.
Virgil could say what he wanted to say. But the moment he had his shot at the other person, he was taking it.
But of course, he was stuck now. There was an unknown gunman, gunlady, gunperson, hiding somewhere, and they weren't trying to gun down Virgil anymore. But he didn't know who they were. The moment Oliver got up, they could just as easily gun him down. In fact, this entire thing could have been a ruse, and Virgil and the other person with the gun could have been working together, trying to get him into a trap. He didn't know how that could have worked, but it was possible. Oliver was slowly becoming aware of the fact that he wasn't the only intelligent person here.
He wasn't going to stand up. He wasn't a fete game clown, he was a survivor. He couldn't do what he needed to do if he was being hunted and followed like a victim. But he couldn't just stand up and shoot Virgil, now could he? He was stuck, and his mother didn't raise a twit, so he wasn't surrendering or fleeing.
Virgil could say what he wanted to say. But the moment he had his shot at the other person, he was taking it.
One. Two. Three.
Silence.
They were being stubborn. They didn't want to talk, or they were too afraid of each other. Perhaps they'd completely lost themselves in their base animalistic instincts, and they were beyond reason. Maybe he had to gently coax them out, like one would a kitten or a fawn.
"I'm not leaving." he said "You may join me when you like."
Virgil sat cross-legged on the street, and opened his pack. As his nausea from the smell dissipated, he began to feel quite hungry. It had been a while since he had eaten. Virgil removed one of the meal packages, and then removed the small portable stove the Americans had chosen to gift him instead of a gun or knife. Glancing at his surroundings, Virgil spotted a few large pots hanging by hooks around him. Not ideal, but usable. Virgil stood up and took one of the pots, then returned to sit by his stove. He turned on the burner, which thankfully seemed to be fueled and in working order. Virgil untwisted the cap of one of his spare water bottles and poured some into the pot; he then tore open a packet of instant soup and emptied it into the water. Looking around, Virgil found an improvised stirring utensil: a piece of wood broken off from one of the stalls. He stirred, making sure the soup mix blended well into the water.
Silence.
They were being stubborn. They didn't want to talk, or they were too afraid of each other. Perhaps they'd completely lost themselves in their base animalistic instincts, and they were beyond reason. Maybe he had to gently coax them out, like one would a kitten or a fawn.
"I'm not leaving." he said "You may join me when you like."
Virgil sat cross-legged on the street, and opened his pack. As his nausea from the smell dissipated, he began to feel quite hungry. It had been a while since he had eaten. Virgil removed one of the meal packages, and then removed the small portable stove the Americans had chosen to gift him instead of a gun or knife. Glancing at his surroundings, Virgil spotted a few large pots hanging by hooks around him. Not ideal, but usable. Virgil stood up and took one of the pots, then returned to sit by his stove. He turned on the burner, which thankfully seemed to be fueled and in working order. Virgil untwisted the cap of one of his spare water bottles and poured some into the pot; he then tore open a packet of instant soup and emptied it into the water. Looking around, Virgil found an improvised stirring utensil: a piece of wood broken off from one of the stalls. He stirred, making sure the soup mix blended well into the water.
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Cactus
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The air was thick with the smell from the gunfire. The one boy was saying a lot, proclaiming that he wasn't going to leave, wasn't going to take their assaults on his presence. That was commendable, yet it was an attitude that would undoubtedly get him killed. Victoria didn't think that he was the true issue. It seemed as though he'd decided to cook himself a meal in the midst of the standoff. So he wasn't a threat; easy pickings for whomever was left. The real issue was the intruder.
She waited.
No one moved, no one except the louder boy. Whomever had taken the second shot was not going to show themselves.
Act first.
It was the natural order of things, the smart way to go. The only way to make sure that she saved herself.
Crouching up slowly, Victoria raised her submachine gun in the direction she gathered that the shot may have come from — well away from the cook — and fired a quick burst.
She waited.
No one moved, no one except the louder boy. Whomever had taken the second shot was not going to show themselves.
Act first.
It was the natural order of things, the smart way to go. The only way to make sure that she saved herself.
Crouching up slowly, Victoria raised her submachine gun in the direction she gathered that the shot may have come from — well away from the cook — and fired a quick burst.
A small pyre of anger inflamed within Oliver as he realized what the boy he shot at was doing.
He was sitting down and making food.
Making fucking food.
Oliver could literally stand up, aim through the sights, and end his entire life right here, and the smug little shit was acting invincible just because he avoided a few gunshots.
His breath quickened, and he was just about to lean over the top of the stall and put his dark thoughts to practice, when the wooden beam beside him exploded as the air rattled with gunfire. Oliver moved to cover his face as he was showered with large splinters, some of which bounced off the back of his hand while others stay in place like they were his own hairs standing on end. All the while, he realized the echo of the gunfire was already over. Which, of course, probably meant that the place the gunshots came from was probably where this shooter was.
Oliver whipped his head around, did some quick calculations in his head, quickly snapped above the top of the stall, aimed where he thought the rattling had come from, and pulled the trigger to another almighty eruption.
He was sitting down and making food.
Making fucking food.
Oliver could literally stand up, aim through the sights, and end his entire life right here, and the smug little shit was acting invincible just because he avoided a few gunshots.
His breath quickened, and he was just about to lean over the top of the stall and put his dark thoughts to practice, when the wooden beam beside him exploded as the air rattled with gunfire. Oliver moved to cover his face as he was showered with large splinters, some of which bounced off the back of his hand while others stay in place like they were his own hairs standing on end. All the while, he realized the echo of the gunfire was already over. Which, of course, probably meant that the place the gunshots came from was probably where this shooter was.
Oliver whipped his head around, did some quick calculations in his head, quickly snapped above the top of the stall, aimed where he thought the rattling had come from, and pulled the trigger to another almighty eruption.
Virgil's head snapped up. The roar of gunfire. It was starting up again.
They were intent to kill each other, it seemed. He wasn't sure why, but they had both decided that his refusal to participate or leave was irrelevant to their current battle to the death. Virgil had to admit it was frustrating: while he was confident that he would avoid his own death here, he still couldn't do anything to affect the events surrounding him. He was merely an observer of conflict, at least for the moment. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it would be futile to fight against it.
Virgil went back to watching his soup heat up. He figured it was almost to a boil. Victoria and her mysterious opponent could have their contest, but Virgil would make sure to talk to the winner afterwards.
They were intent to kill each other, it seemed. He wasn't sure why, but they had both decided that his refusal to participate or leave was irrelevant to their current battle to the death. Virgil had to admit it was frustrating: while he was confident that he would avoid his own death here, he still couldn't do anything to affect the events surrounding him. He was merely an observer of conflict, at least for the moment. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it would be futile to fight against it.
Virgil went back to watching his soup heat up. He figured it was almost to a boil. Victoria and her mysterious opponent could have their contest, but Virgil would make sure to talk to the winner afterwards.
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Cactus
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Action before reaction. It was the simplest way to see things. Victoria had a clarity within her that she had rarely found before. The world around her had always been fascinating, but matters of life and death seemed to elevate that interest to another level. As the gunfire thundered around her, from her, she knew that she had to stay one step ahead of her adversaries. Back at the bar, she had allowed her classmates to move first, to take the initiative.
No longer.
Not ever.
Waiting for a split-second, she rose up to take another shot.
She heard the gunfire far too late, and suddenly she was cartwheeling backwards, her submachine gun sent clattering off somewhere beside the cart. It was fine. She had the bulletproof vest, and that would be —
"Hnghr," she gurgled.
Blood spurted in front of her eyes, which quickly widened in alarm. Then, pain.
So much pain.
One of the bullets had gotten lucky.
"Hggggurhhhh," she tried again. The blood spurted once more and brought with it an ugly sucking sound, courtesy of the newfound hole in her throat. Trying to sit up, Victoria found that her energy was starting to fade, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. It felt as though her lungs were filling with fluid.
Blood, no doubt.
So this was it, then. Victoria tried to stave off the pain, blinking the tears from her eyes and removing her glasses. She had tried her best, but in the end, it had been her incessant need for action that would be her undoing. Undoubtedly, her brothers would have something snarky to say to her, that she would never have been able to respond back to. She would have just shaken her head and rolled her eyes. Though when pertaining to the death of their sister, maybe they'd have thought otherwise. She'd never find out. They were always goofing around. It was a game to them.
This had all been a game.
She had lost, and she didn't even know the names of those who had beaten her.
"Grrhhgghh," were her last words, such as they were.
Dying was a fascinating experience, she thought to herself as her consciousness faded away, leaving all that was left of Victoria Amaro lifeless and bloody in the shattered remnants of what had once been a marketplace.
F14 - AMARO, VICTORIA -- DECEASED
No longer.
Not ever.
Waiting for a split-second, she rose up to take another shot.
She heard the gunfire far too late, and suddenly she was cartwheeling backwards, her submachine gun sent clattering off somewhere beside the cart. It was fine. She had the bulletproof vest, and that would be —
"Hnghr," she gurgled.
Blood spurted in front of her eyes, which quickly widened in alarm. Then, pain.
So much pain.
One of the bullets had gotten lucky.
"Hggggurhhhh," she tried again. The blood spurted once more and brought with it an ugly sucking sound, courtesy of the newfound hole in her throat. Trying to sit up, Victoria found that her energy was starting to fade, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. It felt as though her lungs were filling with fluid.
Blood, no doubt.
So this was it, then. Victoria tried to stave off the pain, blinking the tears from her eyes and removing her glasses. She had tried her best, but in the end, it had been her incessant need for action that would be her undoing. Undoubtedly, her brothers would have something snarky to say to her, that she would never have been able to respond back to. She would have just shaken her head and rolled her eyes. Though when pertaining to the death of their sister, maybe they'd have thought otherwise. She'd never find out. They were always goofing around. It was a game to them.
This had all been a game.
She had lost, and she didn't even know the names of those who had beaten her.
"Grrhhgghh," were her last words, such as they were.
Dying was a fascinating experience, she thought to herself as her consciousness faded away, leaving all that was left of Victoria Amaro lifeless and bloody in the shattered remnants of what had once been a marketplace.
F14 - AMARO, VICTORIA -- DECEASED