SOTF Archive/SOTF Classic

I fucked up.

They were coming. He hadn’t killed them—of course he hadn’t: he hadn’t even been aiming at them! He had closed his eyes! He hadn’t been aiming at all!

I’m going to die.

Blaise was moving—no, fuck.

Blaise was aiming.

“Oh shi--!”

Fear and doubt, answered with—you guessed it.

The answer whizzed above him, a foot away from hitting him square in the snapback.

He was no longer still. His hands were trembling, yes—but his legs were shaking as well. And his eyes were welling up with tears. He felt his instincts kick in: fight or flight. His were normally firmly set on flight. This time was more of the same. It was only kind of different.

Yeah, he still ran.

But not away—towards.

The duffel bag slammed against his side as he ran. The BR-18 was held with both hands like a football…

And when he met with an opposition he could run over? He was going to do exactly just that.

Blaise did not understand the mechanics of firearms. They could not tell you how the weapon functioned in detail. Though they followed the instructions given in firing it they could not explain to you what any of them meant. In this state when they dealt only with minimum necessary information, their knowledge could be best summed up in a simple hypothesis: when Blaise pointed their gun at problems they disappeared in one fashion or another. There were no exceptions to this rule so far. There were the obvious proofs, Dolly, the invalid, the thief, but consider that the likes of Marco, Demetri, and Johnny also had not returned to trouble them. Abstract from any scientific or mechanical knowledge, it could be understood that when Blaise leveled their sights the universe conspired against whatever was within them, and it was removed from their concerns from that moment onward. Yes. That was the comfort. Their aim had jerked. They could not see clearly through, through what was best left unsaid. The shape had been caught in their sights, though. If it did not die it would run, and if it ran they would find it eventually. These things, they had a way of working out. They lost nothing. They wanted for nothing. They needed nothing. This was the truth they affirmed to themself. There was no room for debate.

It took them moments longer than it should have to understand that the shape firmly and impolitely disagreed.

It did not vanish. Given the options to crumple or disappear into the distance it chose to come directly for them, straightforward where it could be gunned down at any time. An error on their part begging to be corrected. They need only level the sights. Reality would set itself right on the second shot which would become the first in their adjusted account. It worked out. It always worked out.

They were frozen until the side of the bag collided with their stomach.

What came next was a blur of indecision. Staggering in this direction and that. Breathless insults mangled in no comprehensible language. Shots wild in whatever direction they happened to be facing. Supplies strewn between bags, wiping, burning, hissing, wrapping, bandages around their ear and the stump that was once their left pinky, those details they could allow themselves to recall plainly. The axe, they had taken it along with the rest of their things, this was also admissible. Other details, on the other hand? A spent cigarette on the ground. Pooling blood. A hole familiarly empty. Their hand wet and reaching for something, holding something, cradling something.

Unimportant. They would not acknowledge them. Unobserved. No one of relevance could argue they occurred at all. When they left camp they would have forgotten they were supposed to forget. Yes. If they presented that at face, who could assert otherwise?

There was no one left who cared if they were lying.

((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued In deconstruction))

He didn’t feel proud—trucking a 5’2”, buck-o-two, gender-fluid murderous French chick like he was Earl Campbell and they were Jack Tatum.

He didn’t feel proud that he then spent an indeterminate amount of time hiding in a tree either. Hiding up amongst the branches certain his demise was imminent. Certain that same 5’2”, buck-o-two, gender-fluid murderous French chick would appear. Ready to gun him down and make him pay for the audacity of trying to take 'em down.

He was a coward, that much was obvious and he now had several character witnesses to attest to it’s fact.

Eventually his curiosity beat out his cowardice and he was able to parade it as something resembling courage. Up amongst the branches he reloaded his weapon and slowly made his way down. He was bad with directions…but he could still smell the smoke and the meat on the fire.

He followed his nose—he wished the result was Froot Loops.

He had been prepared and ready for Blaise to be there—but they were not. Instead the scene was merely that of quiet—of death and despair. Ace’s handiwork lied prone and face down in a pool of its own making. Small and blonde—the look of smug defiance on his face from the gym instead replaced with a permanent scrawling of terror.

He expected to feel something and he did—he felt anger and shame…but they were accompanied with the sting of failure. He didn’t feel bad for the murder—he felt bad that he hadn’t murdered Blaise. He stared down at the blonde body for a few moments and he was quiet. Not unlike when he saw Desiree’s body in the infirmary. Not unlike when he buried Meilin. He begged and pleaded with his body to produce tears and a reaction—instead the only thing it gave him was a hollow resignation.

“I’m sorry…”

You did this…

“I didn’t mean to get you…”

Now live with it.

“I didn’t mean to get just you.”


Walking away from the body, he was able to take in more of the camp and gather the supplies that Blaise had left in their haste and the blonde boy had left in his demise. Ace had been a thief since day one: stealing Ivy’s attention and emotional strength then Meilin’s loyalty then Angie’s gun. As he looted the area he found himself both a shotgun and a bag filled with about a day’s worth of food and drink. Considering it was the only bag there and Blaise was gone--it had to belong to his victim. Ace felt bad in taking it.

To the victor goes the spoils though, right?

Out here--that was the only law there was.

He had attacked the two of them—Blaise and the blonde boy. He had killed one of them and had escaped attack from the other. He had raided their camp and took their weapons and their food.

He took a bite of charred goat—smoky, crispy and dry.

He stared at the body…

He choked the meat down.

“I’m sorry…I didn't want it to go down like that...I didn't mean for it to down like that...”

It was all he could say.

"Guess it don't matter to you, does it? What I meant to happen."

The BR-18 in his pack, the shotgun in his hand, he walked forward through the wilds—a thief. A murderer.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Prolly just a boy doing his best.
[ Ace Beats Continued In: you're nobody till somebody kills you ]

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fuckin' sorry..."