All's Fair

[Grim Wolf]

(Naoko Raidon continued from Surely God Is In This Place)

It was instinct that led him back here.

Dawn was creeping in, and sleeplessness had taken its toll. Raidon wandered as though he was mindless, no expression on his face and, mercifully, no thoughts in his brain. He was, for the moment, free from all that had been weighing on him, if only by virtue of shock and tiredness.

He hadn't been far from town to start out with. The sun wasn't much higher when he finally found his way into the suburbs he'd already spent so much time in. Here and there he'd wandered, still without thought, simply putting one foot in front of the other as best as he could. The first door he swung open led onto a scene of blood, a body sprawled at the end.

It was a moment before he saw the face. A moment before he realized it was Scott McGregor.

He stumbled backwards, bile surging up from his throat. He left the door open behind him as he threw up against the wall. It spattered, splashed against his jeans, against his shirt, and then Raidon was staggering away, winding here and there in clumsy zigzags, until he remembered that he was a vomit-and-blood-spattered mess with no sleep and that Simon Grey was dead.

It was at that point that things--memory, sight, sound, smell, taste--got very dim.

When he came to, he was kneeling (though his knees were still sore from the Parish) in front of a painting of death, one of which was entirely new to him. It made sense that he'd seen the others, of course; he'd interrupted Mizore when she'd been finishing them. But this one--the back of a skinny boy, covered in words--was new to him.

He wished he had the presence of mind to read any of it.

He made his way upstairs, dropped his bag, dropped his stuff, and pulled his clothes off without thinking about them. He was vaguely aware of a dim throbbing in his left hand; without really paying attention to his injury he hurriedly shredded through his dressing. The wound was a little cleaner now, although there were still some thin splinters of bone along it. He tossed his clothes into the shower and then stepped in himself, twisting the knob and letting lukewarm water run over his bruised, exhausted body.

Tears were pooling in his eyes, he still felt like throwing up, and the first weak sob escaped him as he sunk into a ball at the base of the shower and buried his face in his knees.

[storyspoiler†]

(Mizore Soryu continued from Ghosts)

Mizore was lost.

She had tried to go to the Parish, she knew, tried to follow the map, but somehow she had gotten wound about and ended up going back to the Residential District. Closest thing to a city on the island. Mizore had always loved cities.

And that's when the announcements came on.

Radio noise. Blah blah. The person who'd gotten her collar off--Liz Polanski?--was apparently continuing to resist, giving the terrorists ants in their pants. Good for her.

"...then Raidon Naoko went ahead and shot Alison Walworth and Madison Stone in rapid succession. I must say, Mr. Raidon sure knows how to bring some of that drama back to shootings..."

Oh.

And Mizore, on a rock looking down at the city, had to sit and think.

Killer. That was the thought she forced. She had to see him as a killer now. For her own safety.

The next thought came laughing, unbidden. Radio Asuka, darling of the midnight police. Since when have you cared about safety?

Laughing, running through foggy nights, the flips and wheels of parkour. Dangerous colors. Living in a desperate, drugged-up commune. Since when?

So that was no argument.

And she was thinking of his skin now, what she had seen, and his voice, smokey, fogging her mind, but making everything clear.

You yelled at him. When he was holding a gun to your face. Are you gonna do that again? Do you think he'll hesitate to shoot you now?

The island had changed him. Just as it had changed her.

And you think of yourself as steady. Think of how it must have changed him. He's probably gone.

But he wasn't. He couldn't be. She could hold him in her mouth now, the taste of him, metallic, desperate, real.

Sensory idiot.

She got up off the rock. Her plans hadn't changed.

Down, down, down, down into the residential area. Stumbling, kicking off rocks, diagonal paths. She knew which house she was looking for.

Yes. Scott McGregor had died here. And the boy with the skinny back, who she had painted with quotes from "The Hollow Men", he was still here, undisturbed. Someone had come into this house recently though. Shoe marks scuffed the carpet.

Listen.

Someone was running the shower.

Mizore's first instinct was not to meet him. To get out of this house and find another. But that was stupid. If someone was vulnerable enough to get into the shower, that person was probably not an incredible murderer. And asking someone where Raidon was--well, it likely wouldn't turn up any results. But it was something.

Also I really need someone to talk to to make sure I'm not going batshit. That thing.

So she padded up the stairs.

The shower was definitely running. Some clothes were tossed off outside the door. Mizore picked a shirt up cautiously. Scents, sizes, styles could tell gender and a recognizable garment or a name label might be nice right about now...

I know these clothes.

A shirt for a skinny boy. The gentle scent was unmistakable.

Naoko.

In a lifetime of impulsive actions, this might have been the most impulsive of all.

Bite your lip. Calm your head. Open the door.

[Grim Wolf]

Raidon's skin had gone a sickly greenish-white as he leaned against the dank concrete wall of the alley. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and his hands and lips trembled violently. He couldn't stop thinking about each scene--the knife to the back of the head, the pit of needles, the-

It was just a movie. It was just a movie.

A hand--meaty, a little clumsy--slapped into his shoulder. Raidon whirled, his eyes bugging out of his head, and Simon took a step backwards. "You okay?" he asked, his eyes reflecting nothing but good-natured concern.



Jesus.

The water played a steady beat on Raidon's bare back as he stared at the drain. He had his left hand out in front of him and was staring intently at his missing finger.

I don't want to remember that.

He grabbed one of the splinters, pulled it in one direction. Pain sheered through him, stripped at his skin, burned through his hand, and he focused on it, relished it; it obliterated memory as he sucked liquid breath through his teeth, struggling not to cry out.

Agony like fire, agony cauterizing thoughts of Simon Grey, agony blocking out the memory of his murders and the sure, certain knowledge of what he was...

Pulling on the splinter, he could pretend that the tears dripping down his face were the result of pain.

The creak of the door opening sent him rocketing to his feet. Whatever guilt and pain he might be feeling, they had not eliminated the all-too-solid part of him still desperate to make it out of this place, whatever the cost. Someone was coming in, he didn't have time to sit here crying, he didn't have time to think. He threw himself out of the shower, rolling to avoid any assault, snatched his gun from where he'd left it by the sink, and aimed it towards the door, screaming, "FREEZE!"

This, at least, was the intention.

What actually happened was that Naoko Raidon's complete lack of natural athleticism, combined with the slippery tile, resulted in him taking a dive towards the floor, which ended in him slamming his head into one of the faux-wood cabinet doors and left his naked half-conscious body sprawled upon the ground, as false constellations blossomed in front of his eyes and darkness impinged on the corners of his gaze.

The force of impact also dislodged the gun from its place on the counter, so that it landed with an insulting thunk atop the back of his skull.

[storyspoiler†]

A flurry of comic-book noises greeted her. Mizore tried to catch what was happening, but only got the last part--a gun, the gun, falling thunk onto Raidon's head, causing him to collapse sideways, naked as a jay, onto the bathroom floor.

Radio Asuka couldn't help but stifle a giggle. This was the stupidest situation--Raidon, naked, perfect and deadly, covered in a scaly blossoming yakuza tattoo, lying on the bathroom floor like a slapstick character, and herself, dead as a doornail, feeling her chest bubble over with some combination of relief and primal happiness until she wanted to laugh aloud.

But laughing out loud was a stupid plan. That would probably just make her more dead. As it was, all her vaunted mental discipline was being used to suppress an unfortunate grin.

Her thoughts were fizzing and popping like champagne. Don't be a little girl. He's hurt. He's likely not as giddy to see you as you are to see him. Her face could smooth without concious effort, unreadable. She could keep her thoughts in line, put breaks between them like slow poetry, control her efforts, her mind. Fade giddy joy from her lips.

I love you, Raidon Naoko.

But that was not a thought she would think through the implications of.

Instead she picked up the gun on the floor. Held--picked it up so she held the muzzle toward herself, awkwardly. My spraypaint's almost gone anyway. Raidon was in a ball, clumsy and compressed, reaching his hands awkwardly from the center.

After some thought, she placed the gun in front of him. No need to press it to his hands. The metal was cool and heavy, sculpture metal. Resiliant.

"Raidon." She said. "Raidon."

He looked up. Her voice tapped out a beat.

"The offer of shooting me still stands. If you don't want to do that, we should get you an ice pack."

[Grim Wolf]

As soon as the gun had smacked into his skull, Raidon had been struggling to his feet, ready to fight back against the intruder. As soon as he lifted himself into the air, however, pain hammered deep into his skull and a wave of nausea sent him pitching to the ground again.

Wow, that is a lot of pain.

He heard a distant sound--a stifled giggle. Through his fog of pain and confusion, Raidon groaned--his erstwhile assailant was laughing at him? Of course, Raidon supposed he must cut a fairly ridiculous figure, sprawled naked on the tile...

The person, whoever they were, stopped down. The dry click of metal against tile alerted Raidon that they had picked up the gun upon the ground, and Raidon tensed. His only chance was to rise and strike suddenly, to try and overwhelm his opponent before they took aim, but he wasn't sure he could--his vision was too hazy, and his head in too much pain.

Besides, perhaps he should be shot. Simon was dead, after all; there was no one left to stop Raidon, no judgment. The good were dying just the same as the evil, maybe Raidon should just...

With an equally dry click, the gun was set back in front of him. "Raidon," called a soft voice, infinitely, intimately familiar to him. "Raidon."

His head still felt too painful to lift, but that voice demanded nothing less than his best, and he forced himself to look up. "The offer of shooting me still stands," said Mizore Soryu, intense, lively, and lovely as ever. "If you don't want to do that, we should get you an ice pack."

His thoughts were vague, distorted. For more than twenty seconds, he could only gape in astonishment at her.

"Soryu," he said in disbelief. "I...Soryu?" The oceanic pulses of pain washing over him became too much for him to bear, and he sank his forehead back to the ground. "Christ," he whispered. "I didn't even hope to see..."

There were tears pooling in the corners of his eyes again. He was glad she couldn't see.

[storyspoiler†]

Mizore couldn't speak.

This had happened already, more on the island than it had ever had before. But here, on the wet tiles, it felt suddenly as though if she opened her mouth, water would come out, the water from the girl's bathroom, the puddle in the cave, the chipped fountain she had arrived by, even the water, hardly potable, she had brushed her teeth with the first night. Lakes of water. Seaweed, urchins, tiny silver fish, salt and stones all in her mouth. She was like a selkie, with a sea inside her, waiting to burst.

She could not open her mouth. The room would fill with water, and then something would die.

Instead she pulled Raidon's face to her chest, clumsily, the years of caring for damaged commune kids kicking in. She pulled his head toward her chest and brushed back his hair, too gentle, silent, because if she spoke something in this room might break. She could feel the veins near where the gun had hit, a steady, stinging pulse. He hissed and pulled back when she got too close to the break in the skin.

And she ran her fingers through his hair, and he was silent, and she was silent.

Time passed.

An hour, maybe.

A minute.

The tightness in the air faded, until it was only air again, and Mizore could breathe (had she not been breathing?), and words stumbled awkwardly, through her mouth, into her chest, how long have I been silent?. Her voice felt creaky when she spoke.

"We should get you an ice pack. Bandages, maybe. You're bleeding."

Don't leave it at that her mind commanded.

Her words were clumsy, slow and soft. "I missed you."

[Grim Wolf]

Aching head on the tile floor, naked to the world and tears dripping to the floor, Raidon felt as though he could sink no lower.

His finger was burning, and Simon was dead.

Hands closed around his head and pulled him forwards. He stiffened at the unexpected touch, but then relaxed as he came to rest against something soft. He tensed again when her fingers ran along his wound, wincing and pulling away. Her touch immediately became softer, and almost against his will he leaned back against her.

His finger was burning, and Simon was dead.

Fingers through his hair, pulling gently at the roots, and he found her touch as comforting as he had found it the first time. He stayed silent, welcoming the momentary respite from his thoughts, welcoming a chance for even a fleeting moment without terror and doubt and self-hate.

Silence. Sweet, empty silence.

"We should get you an ice pack," she said, after several seconds had passed. "Bandages, maybe. You're bleeding."

Bleeding? From where? His head? It had been a hard fall, no doubt of that, but it didn't feel that bad, and the pain was already somewhat less. Maybe there was still blood from his-

His finger was gone, and Simon was-

"I missed you."

Sweet, soft words. They didn't shock Raidon, didn't make him stiffen or pull away, didn't change him. They were subtle; they slipped through the layers of self-inflicted torment and made him pause.

He lifted his head off her chest and stood up clumsily, still a little dizzy. "I doubt we'll find ice," he mumbled. "And I'm...I'm feeling better already." She looked doubtful, and Raidon shook his head. A little pain, a little dizziness--nothing he couldn't handle.

"I've..." he started, standing there uneasily. "I..." Missed you? Had he? He'd been the one who left, how could he miss her?

"I've been thinking," he said simply. "Of you."

[storyspoiler†]

"I've been thinking of you." he said.

And she swallowed.

Because now there were things she wanted to say.

No, scratch that. There were things she wanted but didn't know how to say them. Mizore's desires had always been simple; paint cities, have good conversations, live warm and sheltered and fed. And now, this Hellmurder Island situation--which she thought would, if anything, simplify her desires. paint them stark in black and white against the walls of her mind--was complicating things.

She was in love with a killer. This was likely unwise.

She thought that most of the things he did related to the island--including killing, obviously, but also his belief in the inevitability of his own moral screwups--were stupid. She hadn't known him at all before the island. She would probably yell at him again, if he were to start on that kind of crap--which at this juncture might get her shot, because she really had no idea how much savage trauma he might have gone through.

So anything she said, she was probably juggling death by saying it. And my spraypaint isn't even empty.

This required some thought.

Or maybe it didn't.

She was on Hellmurder island. She'd seen the echos of death all around her, the conversation with Janet, Zach's friend's breakdown, Kari's inability to let go of her gun. Raidon had been shadowed by it, from the moment he pointed a gun at her, every kill on the announcements confirming something that didn't need speaking. She was going to die, and she was going to die soon. She was a pacifist, the sort who'd been trained to carelessly risk her life for abstract causes. Death was...new, perhaps. But not unexpected.

Mizore had lived a beautiful life, a life full of risks.

But you've never fallen in love. And your spraypaint's almost done.

And it was Radio Asuka who grinned.

"Regardless of whether there are ice packs, we should get you dressed." She said. "It'll get cold like this."

Words, gentle, practical, strange. Raidon was staring at his hand--she started to follow his gaze--and then he was looking directly at her, and she could have gasped of it. A kalidescope, cutting ruthlessness, sorrow, thoughtfulness and passion, fear and grim determination, and something that made Mizore feel taut inside, overfull of words and wit and tongues.

And it was so easy now. She could say it. Whatever fear she thought she had was gone.

I wonder if I was even afraid in the first place.

Raidon dressed slowly, shivering as he did so, pained. She kept her fingers fluttering over him on the excuse of helping him with clothes, touching tiny bits of skin. He was vivid, still, and cold as ice.

And his clothes were on, he was sheathed in faint power now, and Mizore, to her small surprise, still felt as comfortable with him as she had before. And he sat on the bath mat, and she knelt on the floor, the cold white tile floor of this poor domestic bathroom, and she said "I want to stay with you."

That was about as blunt as she could possibly be.

And now she was not looking at him anymore, looking at her fingers, spread bloodlessly on the tiles. "I'm a pacifist. We discussed this before. You've killed people--and I've no illusions that you did it all in straight self-defense. You want to live. You'd kill me to live, I think. I think I'm comfortable with this."

Staring, grindingly, at her fingers still. Explaining herself. Her needs. "I'm going to die. There's no way I'll survive this island. I traded my weapon for spray paint, and I'm glad of it. And now I've painted quite a lot of murals. My paint is almost gone, and I don't think I'll find more. But--" pause, breathe, breathe. "--I like you a lot. In the romantic-type way. I've never had that before. I want to stay with you. I haven't the slightest expectation that you'll protect me. But to be quite blunt, I'd rather take a bullet for you than die any other way." She looked up at him, forced a grin. "And I'm an activist-provacatour. I've trained for this bullet-taking shit."

He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the gun, unreadable.

She picked up his hand, and kissed it.

[Grim Wolf]

She didn't say anything for a little while. Raidon was reluctant to take his eyes off of her; there was something entrancing in her eyes, a mixture of fear and excitement that attracted him in spite of the fact that he didn't understand it. She was entrancing, independent of her emotion; there was something so gloriously alive about her.

You looking for life? You, murderer?

A short, small intake of breath, too small for her to notice.

"Regardless of whether there are ice packs or not, we should get you dressed," she said at length, her eyes glittering on her face. They flickered down a little, then back up. "It'll get cold."

Ah, yes. I'm naked, aren't I.

His face flushed and he made a half-hearted effort to turn and cover himself. The moment he tried to move too quickly, however, his head swam dangerously, and darkness flooded along the corners of his vision. "Please tell me you didn't look," he mumbled, dazed, and leaned his head against the wall. "My...my bag," he said simply. "Over there." He looked at the bloody, dirty clothes on the ground and grimaced. "I need a change."

She rustled in his bag, brought him his fresh set. It was hard-going--when he moved too quickly his head ached, and no matter how cautious and careful he was he felt his aches--the pain in his throat, arms and back from his struggle with Maddy, the pain in his legs from his wandering across the island, the pain in his missing finger.

My fucking finger.

When it bit a little deeply--when he felt like he needed to break off, rest his head against something--her fingers would be there, pulling things into place, lingering for just a second and fluttering away like errant butterflies. The tingle each touch imparted was enough to get him moving again.

A little bit of machismo. Huh. Who'd have though that'd come out here.

"Hold on," he grunted. "Who knows...when I'll get the chance to..." He trailed off and turned back to the shower, setting the water running before tossing his old clothes beneath them. Not perfect by any means, but he'd take what he could get. He sat on the mat in front of the shower--she, on the tile.

"I want to stay with you," she said.

Raidon stayed where he was, held himself completely still. He didn't look at her, and could see from the corners of his gaze. Didn't really listen, either; he was thinking about it. Simon was gone, his head was a mess, he was in pain. He had already discovered how much he liked her, how much his thoughts dwelled on her, and her name hadn't been on the announcements. Best he could tell, she'd kept her promise; he could trust her, couldn't-

"You'd kill me to live."

Those words surged out of the babble and speared their way into his mind. He stiffened. The rest of her words--her declaration of her romantic feelings for him, her willingness to take a bullet for him--passed by without him paying any attention to them. He was staring at the gun near his feet.

You'd kill me to live.

She lifted his hand--the injured one, the one missing a finger--and laid her lips upon it.

Missing finger. Simon's dead. I've killed.

I'd kill her to live?

He jerked his hand away from her suddenly, rose to his feet swiftly and ignored the pain that came with it. He stepped quickly away from her, over the gun, out into the hall. The stairs were close at hand, the door easily visible at their bottom. He froze where he was, staring at the door. He'd left before--left her with his favorite jacket, alone in that room. She was the last one he'd left alive of his own volition, come to think of it, and certainly the last one he'd left unharmed.

"Don't you get it, Mizore," he said weakly. "I've already killed to live."

Scott McGregor. Alison Walworth. Madison Stone.

[storyspoiler†]

Mizore wanted to scream.

It was stupid, really. Something out of a song. She'd poured out her heart to a boy--it wasn't like she had anything to lose, really--and now he was flipping out and running away. And she looked down, and she flushed, and more than anything she felt embarrassed, that Radio Asuka had made that confession, that Naoko Raidon had seen her so needy, when she was supposed to be the cool kid on the island, and now everything was aborted, done, and she was heartsick (like a damn teenager) before even having a boyfriend.

He had skittered out into the hall. She'd said something wrong. She'd repulsed him. And he was white and breathing hard, sweating, hyperventilating, and he said "Don't you get it, Mizore? I've already killed to live."

And all she could do was fume.

Get it? No, Raidon. I'll probably be much more scared of death when it comes for me then I even think I will. Having trained for protests is likely no substitute. But I like you. Can't I have that? Can you not understand that I'm going to die anyway, and I'd like to kiss you just once, goddamnit, without thinking of my own mortality?

Then her eyes caught where his finger should have been.

There are some things that can kick Mizore Soryu right out of her self-absorbed teenage stress. Seeing that someone is missing a finger is one of them.

"Raidon," she asked. "What the hell happened to your finger?"

Sometimes, Radio Asuka can be a grown-up. She can pull a bag toward her, find bandages and disinfectant, begin unwrapping the cloth like a homemade professional. She can think coldly and incuriously, and she can click her tongue. "What happened?"

[Yvaine†]

((Victoria Logan, continued from Stay Frosty))

Oh God, oh God, what did she do? How could she have been so stupid, so completely and totally stupid? There was one way one way and one way only she would be able to stay alive on this island, and she blew it. No, not just blew it, took that one chance out behind a shed and shot it. She as good as took the gun to herself. All because she was too much of a fucking coward to stand by the one person she could count on.

She felt sick, gut punched. All she wanted to do was find someplace quiet to just curl up and disappear. She'd screwed up so absolutely, there was hardly anything else to do. God, she'd abandoned Alice. Alice, of all people! When Alice had needed her, she'd ran, ran away crying. Call it self-preservation, call it cowardice, call it whatever you wanted, but she'd still abandoned the woman she loved. Even if it would have meant her death, shouldn't she have stayed behind? Wouldn't it have been better to die with Alice then all alone? No need to answer, she already knew she was right.

Of course, that didn't make her go back. Even as each step away from the town square was leaden with guilt and regret, she kept going. Alice would want her to survive, right? Yeah, Alice wouldn't want her dying in bloody Mexican stand-off. Right? Her flight was...understandable. Excused, even. Right? Oh God, please let it be right. Don't let this all be for nothing.

She'd made it maybe a mile away before her body decided that it was done for now. Right in the middle of the street, Vic sank to her knees. Her chest was heaving, the tears flowing freely, the only thing on her mind was Alice and how she had betrayed her. It didn't matter that Alice wouldn't see it that way, that was was Vic had done. Alice trusted her, relied on her, believed in her, and Vic had in turn left her to die. That was lower then low, it was the worst thing she could have done. It didn't matter much if Alice wanted her to live, Vic deserved to die for that alone.

After a while, she lost any track of time she might have had. Not long after that, any recognition of her surroundings fell away too. A part of her hoped someone would happen along and put her out of her misery, but she couldn't be that lucky. It was impossible to tell how long she was crouching there, crying and cursing her cowardice. Chances were good that she would have remained there until someone did come along, at least until she caught the faint whisper of voices nearby.

Good. Bring 'em on. Let walk right over and put a bullet in the back of my fuckin' head. What the fuck else should I expect? Even considering that, Vic managed to climb to her feet on stiff and unsteady limbs. She left the bags lying in the street, because either way she wouldn't need them. Either whoever was inside would kill her or they wouldn't. Maybe they were good people? Maybe Alice had come back from the dead to give her a second chance?

Vic pushed the door open to the building she had thought the voices were coming from. Her hand found the revolver, Alices' revolver, holding it loosely at her side. Her eyes looked on the two figures at the top of the stairs, and everything fell into place. Well, recent events anyway. She saw the boy from before, Raidon, the one who fucked everything up, the asshole who fucked up the rendezvous plans,. the motherfucker who shot Alice. Whatever part of a person it was that decided to shoot some in cold blood, Vic tapped into it. Maybe he wasn't the one who killed Alice, but he damn well tried. That was enough.

Vic raised the gun, settling squarely on Raidon. She held it one-handed, like Clint Eastwood, like Dirty Harry, like every fucking gunslinger to grace the silver screen. He hadn't noticed her, so she might as well have had all the time in the world. She eased back the hammer, her finger settling on the trigger. At the last second, she decided that she couldn't watch, didn't want to watch. The bastard had shot Alice and she was going to shoot him in turn, but she still didn't want to see him die. Maybe she should have. She turned away, her finger jerked back on the trigger with all the finality and force she could muster. The gun barked, the barrel jumped, and the bullet missed.

[Grim Wolf]

"Noticed that now, did you?" Raidon asked, laughing a little. "Noticed that after you finished kissing it?" He lifted up the injured hand to show the missing finger, uncovered and somewhat raw. "Guess I know where your focus was."

Why was he being so spiteful? Why so much hate? Was he even angry? Was he even offended? Was he just scared?

"I tried to do it without hurting anyone," he said simply. "One gun's not gonna give me the edge on this island, not like when there are killers like-"

Like Maxwell Lombardi.

He broke off, swallowing, his vision going hazy with rage. Lombardi. Maxwell Lombardi. The man who'd shot Simon down, well, Raidon would see how long that-

"I tried to get their gun," he said simply. "And...and once I'd tried, I couldn't..." If he'd walked away, he would have been shot. He was sure of it, absolutely sure of it, you couldn't trust other people, except if he was absolutely sure of it than why was he working so desperately to justify it to himself.

"Shot one of them," he said slowly. "She's not...she hasn't..."

She hasn't been on the Announcements yet.

"I don't think she's dead," he continued. "But things...things got very hazy." He rubbed at his head. "And this part of me, this...I couldn't have..."

Couldn't have trusted them, but did he really have any proof that-

The concussive blast of the bullet shattered all consciousness, all doubt and fear. The bullet bit into the wall next to him, sending hard flecks scattering across his cheek. He reacted without thinking, hurling himself to Mizore and wrapping her arms around her. His eyes flickered to his right; there were slots in the railing, whoever their assailant was only had to move to fire, they could only have come from the door, they didn't have much time-!

He grabbed Soryu, hauled her to the bathroom, ignored his arms groaning in protest and the scream of fire that worked its way out from his pinkie the moment his grip tightened around her.

[storyspoiler†]

"Noticed that now, did you?" Raidon asked, laughing a little. "Noticed that after you finished kissing it?" He lifted up the injured hand to show the missing finger, uncovered and somewhat raw. "Guess I know where your focus was."

Why was he being so spiteful? Why so much hate? Was he even angry? Was he even offended? Was he just scared?

"I tried to do it without hurting anyone," he said simply. "One gun's not gonna give me the edge on this island, not like when there are killers like-"

He was stopping and starting, stuttering, trying to justify himself. And Mizore, Mizore smiled grimly, because she'd seen this shit before.

"...I couldn't have..."

Liar.

Maybe she was in love with him, maybe she'd just been rejected by him like the most uncool kid on earth, but that didn't mean she couldn't tell when he was talking absolute bullshit.

And what kind of edge is two guns going to give you anyway? Put a pistol in each hand and shoot like John Wayne? Unless I'm way mistaken, you don't even know how to do that.

"Bullshit." She said.

But he didn't hear her, because a bullet was going into the wall behind him.

And he grabbed her, squeezing her (ow), and practically threw them both into the bathroom, and at this point Mizore thanked herself for anger, because she could stay the fuck calm in all of this. Which, in her case, meant pushing Raidon off her as soon as they got into the bathroom (she may have pushed him pretty hard, she might feel bad about that later) and running back out the bathroom door, like any dumb pacifist, right into where bullets might come whizzing at her.

Well, if she was going to be shot, she was going to be shot where people knew what they were shooting.

A thing that many people don't know about Mizore Soryu: she's a free runner, and a fairly competent one. Endurance isn't her strength, but technicals are. Which means that she can run, put her arms onto the banister, straight as girders, jump, swing her legs between her arms, and end up sitting on the top of the banister, arms holding her there, looking down at the hallway, where Victoria Logan was standing, pointing a gun to the top of the stairs with a tormented look on her face.

"Hey," Said Mizore. "Are you okay? You look pretty fucked-up. And can you please not shoot me? I did some of the pretty paintings downstairs, so I'm obviously worthwhile to society, or something, and if you want to shoot me later, I'll let you, I guess. I don't have any weapons on me."

Victoria looked at her wildly. Oh great. Mizore had no desire to try dodging bullets; it didn't seem like a plan that worked, especially with sparkly jeans, sparkly hair, and a very loud t-shirt. Well. More goddamn talking.

She looped her legs around the banister, used that for balance while she put her hands up. "I'm going to jump down there. I'll keep my hands up. Is that okay?"

[Yvaine†]

Vic looked back at the sound of running feet. There was no dead body, no blood splatter on the wall, so it was pretty clear she missed. That was...good? She wanted Raidon dead, and she didn't want him dead. Hell, maybe she just didn't want to be the one to do it? Well, if that was the case, wish granted! He was still alive, and so was the chick he was with. Good shootin', Tex!

They were both still alive, so where did that leave her? Aside from standing at the foot of the stairs and staring at the gun with wild eyes, that was. Maybe she should run? She fucked up, take that as a sign? Besides, she didn't really want to kill anyone, did she? No, no, this was just an ill-planned accident, one that she'd like to forget about as quickly as possible. Raidon hadn't killed Alice, and going after him wouldn't do anything to assuage her guilt.

She should...she should leave. She should get the hell out of there. Raidon had a gun too, and he'd no doubt be looking to get her back. Despite everything, she didn't really want to die yet. Not that there was anything else she could do, but she didn't want to die. Self-preservation started to kick back in and she took a quick step back, holding the gun toward the stairs just in case.

God, she was so stupid! What the hell was she doing here anyway? Raidon hadn't killed Alice, that asshole back in the square did. It should be him that she went after. Not to say Raidon was innocent, but he was from the person she wanted. She took her shot and she failed. Might as well move on, instead of trying again. So long as he didn't recover quickly enough to shoot her, that is.

Fortunately for her, or maybe unfortunately if ended up delaying her until the guy with the gun came back around, the girl called after her first. Vic wheeled around, the gun settling in the girls direction. She would say on the girl, but after her first try...Still, the girl didn't look armed. At least in her experience, people with weapons were fond of showing them off. They guy on the beach, Raidon, the prick in the town square. All the same, Vic kept backing up.

"Just, stay away from me, alright? I wasn't, I wasn't trying to hit you." Wasn't the gun supposed to make her feel brave? Wasn't it, like, power in one small container? If that was true, why was she still so scared? The girl didn't mean her any harm, that much was obvious. That didn't stop Vic's hand from shaking, or her heart from racing. "Look, I just want to leave, okay? I, fuck, I really don't want to try shooting anyone again."

[Grim Wolf]

The surprise Raidon might have had at his heroic gesture was somewhat mitigated by the push which followed it. Raidon was not very heavy, so Mizore's push not only got him off of her but also slammed him against the wall, hitting the place on his head where he'd fallen with special force.

A burst of stars, multi-colored sparks flaring in front of his eyes as darkness encroached on the edges of his vision. Mizore was stepping out, over and past him. He stayed where he was for two or three seconds, hearing only the pulse of his rushing blood and the hammering of his heart in his chest. He didn't want to get up, he didn't want to think; the idea of sleeping (and he'd had so little sleep) was so tempting, he almost lusted after it...

Not yet.

His eyes, which had been slowly closing, sprung open.

You've come too far to die now.

Ignoring the new wash of pain he got to his feet, scooping the gun up from where it was on the ground. He took a moment to breathe and listen; he hadn't heard a gunshot when she'd left the bathroom, and as the fog of darkness and agony left him he realized that they were talking to each other, just outside.

You don't lack for boldness, do you, Soryu?

He stepped out.

The bathroom was just off the stairs, and within two seconds he could see to their bottom. Soryu was at the top, sitting on the banister. She really did look pretty, he noticed distantly--precariously balanced on the verge of a nine foot drop, bright and alive even through the dirt on her face and clothes.

At the bottom of the stairs, light streaming in from the open door behind her, was Victoria Logan, gun in hand.

You were right from the beginning. You couldn't trust them.

He lifted his gun and fired--two rounds in quick succession.