The whole time they walked, Fisher went over it all in his mind. What could he have done differently? Was there anything that he could have feasibly done to prevent it from getting to this? The options in his mind were fantasies, of course. Images of a different Fisher, a more heroic Fisher. One who had saved Lena, stopped Pippa from killing Freya, from talking Tiny out of strangling poor Molly. Those were nice thoughts, and in his mind's eye, it felt good to be the hero of the story. Of course, the reality was much different.
The hero of the story didn't turn his back on anyone, no matter what they had done.
The hero of the story didn't freeze up when he could have done something to protect a friend.
The hero of the story didn't usually walk about with a gun pointed at his back.
((Fisher Darden continued from Reason It Out))
Okay, well that last one wasn't exactly true. That happened all the time in books and movies; the hero stalks off towards what seems like certain doom, only to enact some insane plan at the very end of the chapter that saved him and made sure that the villain never hurt anyone ever again. It was a great thought, and were this a story-book, Fisher knew that he'd probably do some sort of wild back-flip to disarm Oliver and make him sorry for all of the wrongs that he'd ever done. Then he'd manage to find a way to escape, saving whomever was left in the process, and convince the Americans that they were wrong in their warmongering. The world would go back to normal, and he would be hailed as the hero of the natural world. Forevermore, the world would know that Fisher Darden had done something great.
He'd never have to pay for a meal ever again.
Of course, fantasies were nice, and as Fisher marched silently off towards his own demise, he couldn't help but wonder what kind of horrible fate Oliver had in store for him. He seemed reticent to kill him outright, and there was a large piece of his mind that wondered just why the boy had decided to keep him alive. They had slowly walked through the houses close to the northern edge of town, houses that reminded him of his own back home. His existence had been solidly middle-class; about as much as one could have in a war-torn world. He'd been comfortable, and while the threat of American attack had always seemed more like a spectre than anything, the surroundings made him feel comfortable.
Perhaps comfortable wasn't the right word. He did still have a sub-machine gun pointed at his back. The second he went off-path, Oliver could mow him down with ease. But if not comfortable, then — resigned, perhaps? Whatever emotion was making its way through his head, it probably explained why he abruptly stopped in place, in the centre of town. The action surprised him the second he'd taken it, but his shoulders slumped as he put the pieces together.
Enough was enough.
Oliver was going to shoot him, or he wasn't. Being a hostage had gotten old days ago, and he'd had it. His voice was tinged with annoyance, of all things.
"What are we doing?" Fisher slowly turned to face Oliver, swallowing as he once more came face-to-face with the business end of the weapon. "What's your endgame here, mate? I'm done being led around like a lamb to slaughter."
I Should Have Known
Private
Having done the math, Oliver knew that there was a good chance this entire thing would be over tonight, and he would have to finish this the way he'd always planned to. To be honest, he was pretty scared.
But he wasn't looking for sympathy, which is why Fisher didn't know any of this.
((Oliver Davies continued from Reason It Out))
As they walked through the houses, Oliver wondered what Fisher thought of him. He didn't care, at least he didn't right now, but Oliver was curious as to what Fisher thought was going to happen to him. He supposed in the other boy's mind, Oliver should have gunned him down right after Tiny, but here he was, being led through the streets like a war criminal on his way to trial, ready to have stones thrown at him by the public; like he was suddenly home, and Fisher had been the one who co-operated with the Americans.
Oliver had a plan. The short-term plan involved finding a place to stay tonight, preferably the house he'd stayed in when he went through the psychological gauntlet last night, but the long-term plan involved keeping Fisher around, at least until he became a hinderance. The fact that Fisher was given the very real opportunity of shooting Oliver when he and Tiny had their conversation, brawl, and murder, but didn't? It helped Oliver immensly. The other boy was somehow incapable of lifting a finger, which meant he was no threat, which meant Oliver's chances of finally getting to the end just entered Loadsamoney territory.
Of course, the moment Fisher didn't do what he was told, things weren't going to go well for him. They hadn't yet, but they could always get worse.
Say, for example, he didn't know his place, and wanted to know what was going on. Oliver was fairly certain the house was around here somewhere, and this was a conversation that could easily have taken place inside, but hey, it's not like they had anything to lose, right? Oliver wasn't going to have some sort of last-minute change-of-heart speaking to Fisher Darden, Of All People.
"Well, I have a house around I've been fond of, so we're looking for that. But, if you mean actual endgame, then, well, my plan's to bring you to it, let you get killed, grab that gun in your hands when you die, increase my odds a bit, and then I win. Or if we're the last two, let you give me the easy win."
Oliver felt a faint hum in his fingers as they gripped the stock tightly.
"I was originally just going to do this alone and hope for the best, but then you didn't lift a finger when I killed Tiny. Either you really hated Tiny, or you're just really not cut out for this; I'm thinking the latter, and having you around it all the easier for me to put my plan into motion once I win."
But he wasn't looking for sympathy, which is why Fisher didn't know any of this.
((Oliver Davies continued from Reason It Out))
As they walked through the houses, Oliver wondered what Fisher thought of him. He didn't care, at least he didn't right now, but Oliver was curious as to what Fisher thought was going to happen to him. He supposed in the other boy's mind, Oliver should have gunned him down right after Tiny, but here he was, being led through the streets like a war criminal on his way to trial, ready to have stones thrown at him by the public; like he was suddenly home, and Fisher had been the one who co-operated with the Americans.
Oliver had a plan. The short-term plan involved finding a place to stay tonight, preferably the house he'd stayed in when he went through the psychological gauntlet last night, but the long-term plan involved keeping Fisher around, at least until he became a hinderance. The fact that Fisher was given the very real opportunity of shooting Oliver when he and Tiny had their conversation, brawl, and murder, but didn't? It helped Oliver immensly. The other boy was somehow incapable of lifting a finger, which meant he was no threat, which meant Oliver's chances of finally getting to the end just entered Loadsamoney territory.
Of course, the moment Fisher didn't do what he was told, things weren't going to go well for him. They hadn't yet, but they could always get worse.
Say, for example, he didn't know his place, and wanted to know what was going on. Oliver was fairly certain the house was around here somewhere, and this was a conversation that could easily have taken place inside, but hey, it's not like they had anything to lose, right? Oliver wasn't going to have some sort of last-minute change-of-heart speaking to Fisher Darden, Of All People.
"Well, I have a house around I've been fond of, so we're looking for that. But, if you mean actual endgame, then, well, my plan's to bring you to it, let you get killed, grab that gun in your hands when you die, increase my odds a bit, and then I win. Or if we're the last two, let you give me the easy win."
Oliver felt a faint hum in his fingers as they gripped the stock tightly.
"I was originally just going to do this alone and hope for the best, but then you didn't lift a finger when I killed Tiny. Either you really hated Tiny, or you're just really not cut out for this; I'm thinking the latter, and having you around it all the easier for me to put my plan into motion once I win."
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Cactus
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Fisher's face took on a sour bent as he listened to Oliver's master plan. More offensive than his big plan for getting to the end was how utterly dismissive he was about Fisher's life. It seemed that after years of being a British citizen and learning how to act and conduct oneself, it had taken mere days to rob Oliver of all decorum and proper manner with regard to his fellow man. Basic human decency seemed to have left him, and the way he was speaking — he was almost excited.
Always one whose feelings were betrayed by the look on his face, Fisher couldn't help but shoot Oliver with a look of incredulous disdain. This was someone who was entirely far gone, and looked at him as a thing, rather than a person. His initial assumption had been correct; Oliver was going to kill him, he was just going to prolong it as long as it served him.
Well fuck that.
"You must be shitting me," he tried to mask his disdain; failed, "that's your big idea?"
After all of it, all of the fear, the self-doubt, all of the murder and the mayhem and the angst; all it took was a dismissive air of condescension to finally drill right through to Fisher's core and make him mad.
"Am I—," he shook his head, "Am I cut out for this shit? Absolutely not! Who is? Who here is truly cut out to step out of their real life and suddenly feel capable of killing their friends; the people they've spent years with?"
Fisher shook his head. "If you think you're cut out for all of this, then I've got news for you — you've got bigger problems than trying to outlast an American death game."
This was probably it, then. His annoyance straightened him up, knowing full well that Oliver was going to take this resistance as a hostile act. In the end, though — that was fine. Fisher knew that he would rather go down making a smart-assed remark or refusing to follow a murderer's sinister demands than he would just letting himself be picked off like a pawn in someone's chess game. That was all it was to Oliver; some big game. If he were being honest, that was probably all it was to the Americans, too.
"So enough of that rubbish. Your big plan? You can count me out. Whatever ridiculous nonsense you think you're going to do when you outlast the rest of us, I want no part of it. Besides—"
Fisher cut himself off. He could see his words having a negative impact on Oliver, his sarcastic, occasionally mocking tone probably not helping matters any. Through all of it, he never once raised the pistol that he still held in his hand. Trying to find an opening and shooting at him, he just — he didn't think he had it in him. For all of his life, he'd been a self-professed smart-ass. If this was the way that he was going to die? Well, so be it.
At least he was being true to himself.
Always one whose feelings were betrayed by the look on his face, Fisher couldn't help but shoot Oliver with a look of incredulous disdain. This was someone who was entirely far gone, and looked at him as a thing, rather than a person. His initial assumption had been correct; Oliver was going to kill him, he was just going to prolong it as long as it served him.
Well fuck that.
"You must be shitting me," he tried to mask his disdain; failed, "that's your big idea?"
After all of it, all of the fear, the self-doubt, all of the murder and the mayhem and the angst; all it took was a dismissive air of condescension to finally drill right through to Fisher's core and make him mad.
"Am I—," he shook his head, "Am I cut out for this shit? Absolutely not! Who is? Who here is truly cut out to step out of their real life and suddenly feel capable of killing their friends; the people they've spent years with?"
Fisher shook his head. "If you think you're cut out for all of this, then I've got news for you — you've got bigger problems than trying to outlast an American death game."
This was probably it, then. His annoyance straightened him up, knowing full well that Oliver was going to take this resistance as a hostile act. In the end, though — that was fine. Fisher knew that he would rather go down making a smart-assed remark or refusing to follow a murderer's sinister demands than he would just letting himself be picked off like a pawn in someone's chess game. That was all it was to Oliver; some big game. If he were being honest, that was probably all it was to the Americans, too.
"So enough of that rubbish. Your big plan? You can count me out. Whatever ridiculous nonsense you think you're going to do when you outlast the rest of us, I want no part of it. Besides—"
Fisher cut himself off. He could see his words having a negative impact on Oliver, his sarcastic, occasionally mocking tone probably not helping matters any. Through all of it, he never once raised the pistol that he still held in his hand. Trying to find an opening and shooting at him, he just — he didn't think he had it in him. For all of his life, he'd been a self-professed smart-ass. If this was the way that he was going to die? Well, so be it.
At least he was being true to himself.
It must be strange to realize you suddenly, under all the bluster, had principles all along.
Oliver had gone through this in his own head days ago. For a good portion of his life, he'd branded himself as a pro-American internet troll and nothing more; it was only until recently he'd realized how important his decisions were in shaping the future of the world, making sure that nobody could distract the homeland from their retaliation efforts. But it was getting exhausting.
Not his own efforts, no. They were fine. He was going through that easier than he expected to, especially when he didn't go against what he knew about his own capabilities. What was exhausting was everyone suddenly deciding they knew what they were and were suddenly important grandstanding wankers with an unshakable moral code, because it happened every time Oliver spoke to someone who happened to know his deal. Samuel, Anvi, Virgil, Tiny, Fisher, such fine outstanding students who were going to save them all; not like Oliver, just some dirty loon. Oliver had to be the crazy one, didn't he? He makes me feel uncomfortable, so he must be dismissed.
And he hadn't even gotten into the good part yet.
Oliver himself dismissed everything Fisher just spouted with a long sigh and an extended eyeroll.
"You know, I liked you better when you were just the jokey jokester, Fisher, because now you're just an annoying bore."
That was a lie. Oliver had never liked Fisher.
"You're acting just like Samuel and Anvi did when I told them my actual plan, and I haven't even gotten to the good part yet. When you die, and I win, I'm not giving them a winner. I'm not giving home a survivor. I'm gonna pull out my gun and blow my head off, and make sure our country, the last line of defense from total military facism, has the focus they need to launch the biggest counter-attack in history. It'll make the end of the second Great War look like a playground tiff. And it'll all be because I made the right decision."
Having to explain this over and over was becoming dull.
"And you don't really have a say in this by the way. You either get to die helping me, or die right here, having gotten on my nerves, just like Tiny did."
His finger was not on the trigger, but he felt his hand tighten on the grip.
Oliver had gone through this in his own head days ago. For a good portion of his life, he'd branded himself as a pro-American internet troll and nothing more; it was only until recently he'd realized how important his decisions were in shaping the future of the world, making sure that nobody could distract the homeland from their retaliation efforts. But it was getting exhausting.
Not his own efforts, no. They were fine. He was going through that easier than he expected to, especially when he didn't go against what he knew about his own capabilities. What was exhausting was everyone suddenly deciding they knew what they were and were suddenly important grandstanding wankers with an unshakable moral code, because it happened every time Oliver spoke to someone who happened to know his deal. Samuel, Anvi, Virgil, Tiny, Fisher, such fine outstanding students who were going to save them all; not like Oliver, just some dirty loon. Oliver had to be the crazy one, didn't he? He makes me feel uncomfortable, so he must be dismissed.
And he hadn't even gotten into the good part yet.
Oliver himself dismissed everything Fisher just spouted with a long sigh and an extended eyeroll.
"You know, I liked you better when you were just the jokey jokester, Fisher, because now you're just an annoying bore."
That was a lie. Oliver had never liked Fisher.
"You're acting just like Samuel and Anvi did when I told them my actual plan, and I haven't even gotten to the good part yet. When you die, and I win, I'm not giving them a winner. I'm not giving home a survivor. I'm gonna pull out my gun and blow my head off, and make sure our country, the last line of defense from total military facism, has the focus they need to launch the biggest counter-attack in history. It'll make the end of the second Great War look like a playground tiff. And it'll all be because I made the right decision."
Having to explain this over and over was becoming dull.
"And you don't really have a say in this by the way. You either get to die helping me, or die right here, having gotten on my nerves, just like Tiny did."
His finger was not on the trigger, but he felt his hand tighten on the grip.
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Cactus
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After he was finished explaining it all to him, Fisher tried to give Oliver's plan the gravity that it deserved. Considering that it was obviously something he had spent a lot of time figuring out, he assumed that Oliver thought it to be a master stroke, a genius maneuver. Yet still, as Oliver laid the pieces out for him, a small smile crept onto Fisher's face. The smile got bigger as he went on, and finally, as he flung one last threat out as a pièce de résistance, Fisher couldn't help himself.
It was a mortal error, but he couldn't help it.
Fisher Darden laughed in Oliver's face. The laughter came in waves, his face turning red and his body shaking. At one point, he raised a finger in his classmate's direction. "Y—you, you're, you," and he couldn't even get a word out. It was just so fucking hysterical to him. This was Oliver's master stroke, his grand finale towards the Americans; he had everything figured out down to a tee.
Except for the most obvious detail, which for some insane reason, Fisher couldn't help but find utterly hilarious. Standing here, facing imminent death at the hands of someone who was outwardly threatening him, Fisher couldn't control his laughter. He howled, his palm going over his face to try and stifle just how funny he found the omission. Fisher knew he was fucked; he was completely buggered ten ways from Sunday, so if he was going to die, a smile on his face was probably the way to go. Very likely, the lack of sleep and nutrition coupled with the stress was also making him a little wacky.
There was also that.
Trying to compose himself so he could at least explain what he found so hilarious, Fisher held his gun-less hand up, as if to ask Oliver for at least a few seconds of reprieve before he undoubtedly decided to shoot him down. The last thing he was going to do in his life was burst Oliver's bubble, and through all of the horror, the murder and angst and fear, the look on Oliver's face when he told him was probably the last satisfaction he'd ever get out of this world. After all, half the fun of making people laugh was seeing the reaction to a gag or a joke. Taking a moment to stifle the laughter, Fisher looked up at Oliver, and shook his head at his murderer.
"Sorry; you," he stopped and forced an exhale, composing himself, "you really are a fucking idiot, aren't you Oliver?"
Holding his hand up once more, he continued.
"I'm sorry mate, but are you daft? You actually think that they're going to send you home?"
It was a mortal error, but he couldn't help it.
Fisher Darden laughed in Oliver's face. The laughter came in waves, his face turning red and his body shaking. At one point, he raised a finger in his classmate's direction. "Y—you, you're, you," and he couldn't even get a word out. It was just so fucking hysterical to him. This was Oliver's master stroke, his grand finale towards the Americans; he had everything figured out down to a tee.
Except for the most obvious detail, which for some insane reason, Fisher couldn't help but find utterly hilarious. Standing here, facing imminent death at the hands of someone who was outwardly threatening him, Fisher couldn't control his laughter. He howled, his palm going over his face to try and stifle just how funny he found the omission. Fisher knew he was fucked; he was completely buggered ten ways from Sunday, so if he was going to die, a smile on his face was probably the way to go. Very likely, the lack of sleep and nutrition coupled with the stress was also making him a little wacky.
There was also that.
Trying to compose himself so he could at least explain what he found so hilarious, Fisher held his gun-less hand up, as if to ask Oliver for at least a few seconds of reprieve before he undoubtedly decided to shoot him down. The last thing he was going to do in his life was burst Oliver's bubble, and through all of the horror, the murder and angst and fear, the look on Oliver's face when he told him was probably the last satisfaction he'd ever get out of this world. After all, half the fun of making people laugh was seeing the reaction to a gag or a joke. Taking a moment to stifle the laughter, Fisher looked up at Oliver, and shook his head at his murderer.
"Sorry; you," he stopped and forced an exhale, composing himself, "you really are a fucking idiot, aren't you Oliver?"
Holding his hand up once more, he continued.
"I'm sorry mate, but are you daft? You actually think that they're going to send you home?"
...
...
...
...
Oliver lowered the gun.
"...what?"
...
...
...
Oliver lowered the gun.
"...what?"
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Cactus
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Good God; he did, which made it that much more hilarious.
"You can put your master plan together all you want, but you'd have to be an idiot to think that the Americans are going to pack you up and say 'good job, son — time to go back to the UK, now'. Best case scenario, you're a prisoner of war. Worst case?"
Fisher shook his head at Oliver, not even bothering to look at the submachine gun the boy carried. None of that mattered anymore. He may as well have died on the beach with Tiny. He took a small step towards his classmate now, his care for the weapon having disappeared. Fisher knew what was to come. He didn't need to spell it out; nor did Oliver need to repeat himself.
"Nice thought, but I think you missed a few steps. We were all dead the day we got snatched up. It just took us a little while to figure it out."
He'd said similar words to Tiny back in the pub. He'd been angry, frustrated with having watched Freya bleed to death in his arms. Since then, he'd watched more death occur, basically been an accessory to another murder. He'd eased off his stance, tried to find more hope where he could. But Oliver's plan was so short-sighted, and almost infuriating that he'd assumed they would send him home afterwards. Historically, the American winners vanished without a trace. Oliver obviously was ignorant of that fact. He knew that when England had liberated the students in the most recent program, they had all still been kept in England; not prisoners but refugees.
Oliver had to know that at least? It had been all over the news. Why would the Americans do any differently with a British citizen than they would with an American?
"Sorry to say mate, but your plan's a bust. Shoot me if you want, but you killing yourself after isn't going to be worth a sorry damn to the Yanks."
"You can put your master plan together all you want, but you'd have to be an idiot to think that the Americans are going to pack you up and say 'good job, son — time to go back to the UK, now'. Best case scenario, you're a prisoner of war. Worst case?"
Fisher shook his head at Oliver, not even bothering to look at the submachine gun the boy carried. None of that mattered anymore. He may as well have died on the beach with Tiny. He took a small step towards his classmate now, his care for the weapon having disappeared. Fisher knew what was to come. He didn't need to spell it out; nor did Oliver need to repeat himself.
"Nice thought, but I think you missed a few steps. We were all dead the day we got snatched up. It just took us a little while to figure it out."
He'd said similar words to Tiny back in the pub. He'd been angry, frustrated with having watched Freya bleed to death in his arms. Since then, he'd watched more death occur, basically been an accessory to another murder. He'd eased off his stance, tried to find more hope where he could. But Oliver's plan was so short-sighted, and almost infuriating that he'd assumed they would send him home afterwards. Historically, the American winners vanished without a trace. Oliver obviously was ignorant of that fact. He knew that when England had liberated the students in the most recent program, they had all still been kept in England; not prisoners but refugees.
Oliver had to know that at least? It had been all over the news. Why would the Americans do any differently with a British citizen than they would with an American?
"Sorry to say mate, but your plan's a bust. Shoot me if you want, but you killing yourself after isn't going to be worth a sorry damn to the Yanks."
He wanted to shoot Fisher.
By the time he'd raised his gun he was ready to. Nobody fucking laughed at Oliver like that, especially not here when he was the only smart person left alive.
But then he just had to say what he said.
...
...
...
...
It never occured to Oliver until that moment how much his life depended on rules.
His entire online persona was cultivated by towing the line of the rules and getting other people banned as a result. His own father used rules to line his own pockets and provide his family with the life they deserved. Within the confines of his own house, he and his sister tormented each other by the rules their parents laid out for them. It was all just rules, guidelines, and Oliver sped between the gaps of them every time he saw them lining the walls like neon.
And it hadn't occured to him that his time here had been the exact same thing until Fisher pointed out that the Americans could have been lying.
Because if the Americans were lying, that meant that nobody was going home anyway.
And if nobody was going home anyway, then that meant there was never going to be a distraction for the homeland.
And if there was never going to be a distraction for the homeland, then Oliver's stomach turned to iron and crashed into a building because that would mean he killed three people for no reason.
The only reason his gun was did not clatter to the ground was because his fingers caught the stock like flesh hooks. He stared blankly ahead as he tried to process it.
He turned to the nearest house and began walking towards the wall.
He didn't know whether Fisher was telling the truth. But it wasn't about whether he was telling the truth, was it? It was about how Oliver didn't even consider the possibility that the Americans were lying to them. In the hours spent thinking whilst travelling with Samuel, the hours spent reconsidering everything while playing roulette with the gun barrel and destroying the house in frustration or fear or shock or whatever the hell he was feeling when he was trying to sort everything out, he didn't even once consider how easy it would have been for the people who stole them across an ocean to lie to them about a prize and then not give it to them.
And he should have thought of it because he was smart.
But he didn't.
And there was a more than 0% chance that Anvi, Victoria and Tiny had died not because he was being smart but because he was actually an idiot all along.
...
Oliver had been stationary at the wall for several moments.
He pulled the gun back to his hands, pointed it to the wall, and held down the trigger until the explosions stopped.
By the time he'd raised his gun he was ready to. Nobody fucking laughed at Oliver like that, especially not here when he was the only smart person left alive.
But then he just had to say what he said.
...
...
...
...
It never occured to Oliver until that moment how much his life depended on rules.
His entire online persona was cultivated by towing the line of the rules and getting other people banned as a result. His own father used rules to line his own pockets and provide his family with the life they deserved. Within the confines of his own house, he and his sister tormented each other by the rules their parents laid out for them. It was all just rules, guidelines, and Oliver sped between the gaps of them every time he saw them lining the walls like neon.
And it hadn't occured to him that his time here had been the exact same thing until Fisher pointed out that the Americans could have been lying.
Because if the Americans were lying, that meant that nobody was going home anyway.
And if nobody was going home anyway, then that meant there was never going to be a distraction for the homeland.
And if there was never going to be a distraction for the homeland, then Oliver's stomach turned to iron and crashed into a building because that would mean he killed three people for no reason.
The only reason his gun was did not clatter to the ground was because his fingers caught the stock like flesh hooks. He stared blankly ahead as he tried to process it.
He turned to the nearest house and began walking towards the wall.
He didn't know whether Fisher was telling the truth. But it wasn't about whether he was telling the truth, was it? It was about how Oliver didn't even consider the possibility that the Americans were lying to them. In the hours spent thinking whilst travelling with Samuel, the hours spent reconsidering everything while playing roulette with the gun barrel and destroying the house in frustration or fear or shock or whatever the hell he was feeling when he was trying to sort everything out, he didn't even once consider how easy it would have been for the people who stole them across an ocean to lie to them about a prize and then not give it to them.
And he should have thought of it because he was smart.
But he didn't.
And there was a more than 0% chance that Anvi, Victoria and Tiny had died not because he was being smart but because he was actually an idiot all along.
...
Oliver had been stationary at the wall for several moments.
He pulled the gun back to his hands, pointed it to the wall, and held down the trigger until the explosions stopped.
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Cactus
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The gunshots he expected to feel piercing through his flesh at any moment — they never came. Instead, all that pierced him was a strange guilty feeling as Oliver had a strange expression play upon his face. It was though he had been slapped; he truly had never fathomed that the Americans wouldn't return the victor home. His big plan was a bust, and while at the very end of his life, he found that hilarious, his humanity still ached for Oliver. Here was someone who had figured it all out, had moved through this ordeal with a purpose — however insane that purpose was, it was something at least — and had never deviated from that purpose. Yet after it all, when that person was pushed off of their pedestal, Fisher couldn't help but feel a little bit of guilt, a little bit of pity.
Of course, there were limits to how far one's pity went.
With a faraway look in his eyes, Oliver lowered his weapon and turned away from him and holy hell, he's walking away was the chorus that sounded over and over again in Fisher's mind. There was an opening, there was time to finally do something, or run away, or —
The gunshots made him jump, but they weren't aimed at him. Instead, Oliver was discharging his firearm towards one of the nearby houses in town. Aside from the two of them and the newfound song of lead, there had been no sound, no hint of people hiding in and amongst the buildings. So what was he doing?
For the first time in a little while, Fisher looked down at the pistol that he clutched in his hand. The stock was warm; it hadn't left his hand since Tiny had given it to him at the beach. Barely had a moment entered his mind where he'd even considered using it. Yet now, Oliver had gifted him a golden opportunity. The other boy's back was turned, and he was focusing purely on annihilating the wall before him. It was a temper tantrum, pure and simple, and depending upon the kind of person Fisher was, it was the kind of temper tantrum that got him killed.
He hefted the pistol in his right hand, gauging its weight.
In his mind's eye, he visualized it. Raising the weapon, pointing it at Oliver's back, squeezing the trigger. Several pops, the boy would turn, spin, and fall. It would be simple, and then his life expectancy would jump from several minutes up to at least a few hours.
Fisher's face twisted into a grimace. Was this what they were all reduced to? Could you kill your best friend any more than you could kill an acquaintance from class? Oliver had made that decision early, as had Pippa. Tiny, rest his soul, had crossed that line as well. If your own life was in danger, was it not justifiable?
Eyes up, Fisher looked at Oliver's back, then back down to his gun.
"It would be so easy," he murmured, barely audible; a whisper to himself.
Just like that; there it was. It would have been simple to justify it to himself. He was in danger, Oliver had confessed to intending to murder him the second it was convenient. Squeezing the trigger should have been easy, too. Raise, point, squeeze. Brace for impact, hope for the best. It was the right move under the circumstances.
His shoulders slumped to his side.
Fisher Darden was a lot of things; a smart-ass, a joker, probably tits on a bull in a survival situation such as this one, but one thing that he wasn't — one thing he would never be — was a cold-blooded murderer. He could no more shoot someone in the back than he could strangle a person in their sleep. That sort of action wasn't in his DNA; it wasn't something he knew he could live with. The guilt of such a thing would consume him.
Throughout the hellish ordeal of the Program, Fisher had managed to hold on to his humanity, and in the end, that humanity would be the barrier that prevented him from saving his own life. He couldn't do it. So instead of shooting Oliver in the back, he waited; frustrated and angry with his own stubbornness, for Oliver to finish having a row.
It was time to get on with it.
"Shit," he breathed as the gunshots stopped.
Of course, there were limits to how far one's pity went.
With a faraway look in his eyes, Oliver lowered his weapon and turned away from him and holy hell, he's walking away was the chorus that sounded over and over again in Fisher's mind. There was an opening, there was time to finally do something, or run away, or —
The gunshots made him jump, but they weren't aimed at him. Instead, Oliver was discharging his firearm towards one of the nearby houses in town. Aside from the two of them and the newfound song of lead, there had been no sound, no hint of people hiding in and amongst the buildings. So what was he doing?
For the first time in a little while, Fisher looked down at the pistol that he clutched in his hand. The stock was warm; it hadn't left his hand since Tiny had given it to him at the beach. Barely had a moment entered his mind where he'd even considered using it. Yet now, Oliver had gifted him a golden opportunity. The other boy's back was turned, and he was focusing purely on annihilating the wall before him. It was a temper tantrum, pure and simple, and depending upon the kind of person Fisher was, it was the kind of temper tantrum that got him killed.
He hefted the pistol in his right hand, gauging its weight.
In his mind's eye, he visualized it. Raising the weapon, pointing it at Oliver's back, squeezing the trigger. Several pops, the boy would turn, spin, and fall. It would be simple, and then his life expectancy would jump from several minutes up to at least a few hours.
Fisher's face twisted into a grimace. Was this what they were all reduced to? Could you kill your best friend any more than you could kill an acquaintance from class? Oliver had made that decision early, as had Pippa. Tiny, rest his soul, had crossed that line as well. If your own life was in danger, was it not justifiable?
Eyes up, Fisher looked at Oliver's back, then back down to his gun.
"It would be so easy," he murmured, barely audible; a whisper to himself.
Just like that; there it was. It would have been simple to justify it to himself. He was in danger, Oliver had confessed to intending to murder him the second it was convenient. Squeezing the trigger should have been easy, too. Raise, point, squeeze. Brace for impact, hope for the best. It was the right move under the circumstances.
His shoulders slumped to his side.
Fisher Darden was a lot of things; a smart-ass, a joker, probably tits on a bull in a survival situation such as this one, but one thing that he wasn't — one thing he would never be — was a cold-blooded murderer. He could no more shoot someone in the back than he could strangle a person in their sleep. That sort of action wasn't in his DNA; it wasn't something he knew he could live with. The guilt of such a thing would consume him.
Throughout the hellish ordeal of the Program, Fisher had managed to hold on to his humanity, and in the end, that humanity would be the barrier that prevented him from saving his own life. He couldn't do it. So instead of shooting Oliver in the back, he waited; frustrated and angry with his own stubbornness, for Oliver to finish having a row.
It was time to get on with it.
"Shit," he breathed as the gunshots stopped.
Oliver's front was showered with pieces of wall and wood. He felt his hands pinpricked by rapidly moving splinters, joining the ones that had inserted themselves during the gunfight with Victoria. By the time his gun empied itself, he thought he could feel better.
He didn't. He was still an idiot who had possibly killed three of his classmates for no good reason.
The 'possibly' was the important word there, because he didn't know. Fisher could have been wrong. Whoever won this thing, they could still get sent to the homeland and they'd still be a distraction for the powers that were. But Oliver had operated completely under the assumption that he was 100% sure that the Americans were telling 100% of the truth, and if there was even a 10%, or 1%, or 0.1%, or 0.01% chance that Fisher was right and the Americans lied to them about what would happen, then he had no real justification for anything that he'd done.
All he had was that he was a bad person who just wanted to kill his classmates.
And he couldn't be that. Not when he'd tried so hard to be the smart one, only for it to mean nothing in the end because he wasn't smart after all. He'd been given a point by Fisher he hadn't considered, how was he supposed to be smart?
He couldn't be anything. After what he'd done, he didn't deserve to be anything.
...
Oliver dropped the rifle to the ground, followed by his bag.
In one swift motion, he pulled the vest from his torso and tossed it aside.
With that, he turned on his heels, and began walking back towards Fisher. In another swift motion, he pulled the one thing he had left from his back pocket, the gun that blew holes into Samuel's leg and Anvi's torso, and held it at his side.
"Let's go, Fisher."
He got closer. He repeated.
"LET'S GO, FISHER."
The pressure in his jaw would have shattered weaker teeth. Oliver kept striding forward.
He didn't. He was still an idiot who had possibly killed three of his classmates for no good reason.
The 'possibly' was the important word there, because he didn't know. Fisher could have been wrong. Whoever won this thing, they could still get sent to the homeland and they'd still be a distraction for the powers that were. But Oliver had operated completely under the assumption that he was 100% sure that the Americans were telling 100% of the truth, and if there was even a 10%, or 1%, or 0.1%, or 0.01% chance that Fisher was right and the Americans lied to them about what would happen, then he had no real justification for anything that he'd done.
All he had was that he was a bad person who just wanted to kill his classmates.
And he couldn't be that. Not when he'd tried so hard to be the smart one, only for it to mean nothing in the end because he wasn't smart after all. He'd been given a point by Fisher he hadn't considered, how was he supposed to be smart?
He couldn't be anything. After what he'd done, he didn't deserve to be anything.
...
Oliver dropped the rifle to the ground, followed by his bag.
In one swift motion, he pulled the vest from his torso and tossed it aside.
With that, he turned on his heels, and began walking back towards Fisher. In another swift motion, he pulled the one thing he had left from his back pocket, the gun that blew holes into Samuel's leg and Anvi's torso, and held it at his side.
"Let's go, Fisher."
He got closer. He repeated.
"LET'S GO, FISHER."
The pressure in his jaw would have shattered weaker teeth. Oliver kept striding forward.
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Cactus
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The gunshots ceased, and Fisher took a breath to brace himself for — Oliver to start to take his clothes off? What the hell? The boy started towards him with a furious expression on his face. Oh shit, oh shit, this was it. He had burst Oliver's bubble, and now Oliver was going to burst his bubble.
Except by bubble, he really meant head.
"Wh—what are you doing?"
Stupid question, Fisher. He knew even as he asked, but panic was starting to set in.
"Hey, stop, don't— don't come any closer!"
Fisher backed up a few steps, stumbling as he did so.
Except by bubble, he really meant head.
"Wh—what are you doing?"
Stupid question, Fisher. He knew even as he asked, but panic was starting to set in.
"Hey, stop, don't— don't come any closer!"
Fisher backed up a few steps, stumbling as he did so.
Oliver did not stop, because Fisher had said enough, and Oliver was not about to listen to another word.
The gun stayed by his side.
"I said, 'let's go', Fisher."
His feet pulled him forward, even when there was a small part of his brain that told him to stop, that he shouldn't be doing what he was doing, that he could risk it in the end.
But Oliver didn't listen to that voice. His eyes flickered between the other boy, and the gun in the other boy's hands, and how even as Fisher attempted to back up, Oliver's steps were still closing the distance.
The gun stayed by his side.
"I said, 'let's go', Fisher."
His feet pulled him forward, even when there was a small part of his brain that told him to stop, that he shouldn't be doing what he was doing, that he could risk it in the end.
But Oliver didn't listen to that voice. His eyes flickered between the other boy, and the gun in the other boy's hands, and how even as Fisher attempted to back up, Oliver's steps were still closing the distance.
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Cactus
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Fisher kept backing up, but he wasn't going to give in. Fuck that. He'd had enough of being Oliver's hostage, but the look in his eyes as he stalked towards him showed him that Oliver wasn't thinking of having him as a hostage anymore.
"I'm not going anywhere with you!" It was as good a retort as any, and he punctuated it in the most impactful and effective way he could muster.
Taking a step backwards, Fisher stumbled again, and this time fell back, landing hard on his bottom, his hands back to brace himself. As he hit hard, fear pulsed through his brain. Instinctively, his hands went up — the gun again became apparent, and for lack of any other option, he pointed it at Oliver.
"I—I said, I mean— go fuck off, then!"
"I'm not going anywhere with you!" It was as good a retort as any, and he punctuated it in the most impactful and effective way he could muster.
Taking a step backwards, Fisher stumbled again, and this time fell back, landing hard on his bottom, his hands back to brace himself. As he hit hard, fear pulsed through his brain. Instinctively, his hands went up — the gun again became apparent, and for lack of any other option, he pointed it at Oliver.
"I—I said, I mean— go fuck off, then!"
The voice flared up on instict when Fisher leveled his gun, in the same way the same voice appeared whenever he got near a stove after burning his finger on it when he was seven years old. It meant danger.
Oliver didn't care. When he saw the gun, he walked faster. In fact, some could even call it a sprint.
Oliver didn't care. When he saw the gun, he walked faster. In fact, some could even call it a sprint.
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Cactus
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He'd been backing up, using his feet and his hand to try to continue to put distance between him and his incoming angry former classmate. But as his hand banged up against a solid wall, Fisher knew that what he had feared for days had finally come to pass: he had run out of room.
More simply, Fisher Darden was out of time.
Oliver wasn't stopping, he kept towards him; he was sprinting now. Fisher braced himself and gritted his teeth. The muscles in his entire body tensed up and tightened, including his arms, his hands, and his fingers. His fingers; one of which was instinctively wrapped around the trigger.
Fisher squeezed his eyes shut, and as he did, the gun went off.
More simply, Fisher Darden was out of time.
Oliver wasn't stopping, he kept towards him; he was sprinting now. Fisher braced himself and gritted his teeth. The muscles in his entire body tensed up and tightened, including his arms, his hands, and his fingers. His fingers; one of which was instinctively wrapped around the trigger.
Fisher squeezed his eyes shut, and as he did, the gun went off.