I don't feel we did wrong

[NotAFlyingToy]

((Hansel Williams, Gesundheit))

Hansel was slipping.

He could feel the tentative grasp he'd had on his emotions loosening bit by bit with every encounter he had. His jaw was constantly tense, teeth grinding together with the stress, exhilaration, anger, exhaustion that all vied and fought for the driver's seat. He needed a spot to recharge, slow his breath, recuperate before attempting to take on the world again.

He didn't find it in the bottom floor.

Hansel stood over the bloody pile of blankets and pillows that was the death place of Mallory. Mallory McCormick. The Linen and Things, a small store tucked away in the bottom of the shopping center, seemed ghostly quiet - like the setting for a horror movie made real. The blood-stained white sheets and pillowcases reminded him of his start in the game - how he had convinced himself that Daniel was an accident, his trigger finger merely slipped, but Mallory was on purpose.

His finger hadn't slipped. He'd pulled the trigger. He'd killed her.

He'd killed a lot of people.

"D-day nine," he said aloud, to the silence of the store - with its tables filled with washcloths and its shelves filled with bed-in-a-bags. He needed to say it, to believe it. He had come so far from being shot and left on the forest floor by Theo.

Come so far, only to have circled back to where he started. Truly started.

His head hurt.

Hansel slid to the floor with his back against a display table of pillows, cradling the Winchester, running his fingers down the smooth wood and metal to curl around the lever action   rifle. He'd pilfered a few bullets from Cody's bag - not as much ammunition as the FAMAS had had, certainly - and felt a little safer, a little more grounded, by stroking the gun.

He'd come so far, and all he had to do was push to the finish line.

So thinking, he heard a sound - movement. Hansel tensed up, slid his worn and fraying bag off of his shoulder, and peered around the table's corner, keeping his movements slow.

Someone was here.

[BROseidon†]

((Virgil Jefferson-Davis, continued from oh hell I'll fix this all eventually))

Virgil ended up at the shopping center. He was just wandering, no plan. He didn't need one. He just needed to shoot the first living thing he saw. Everything was so simple now, laid out before him as if by some deity.

Perfect. Nobody who was inside would be able to run.

Virgil entered the shopping center and immediately chose to search Linens and Things. It didn't really matter which he searched first, but he was in a hurry.

There was a nagging voice in the back of his head, telling him to turn back. It was Michelle's voice. She was telling him to stop, to return to diplomacy.

Because diplomacy had worked so well before.

Eliza, Kammy, Mara, Travis, Tyler, Hansel. He'd run into all of them at this point, and each one validated Virgil. Michelle's idea wasn't bad, but they were all too base for it to become a reality. The only way to deny the terrorists a winner was to have someone win who was willing to trade his life for that end.

Virgil had no idea that Hansel was in the store as he entered. He had no idea what Fate had been telling him this whole time.

[NotAFlyingToy]

The Winchester felt good in his hands as Hansel raised it to his shoulder, kneel-stepping out to get a better vantage point as Virgil's head and left shoulder popped into view.

It felt good in his hands as his right index finger curled around the trigger.

Felt good as the gun kicked back, an explosion of feathers and fabric erupted just behind Virgil's head, the explosion leaving a ringing in Hansel's ears.

He hammered the lever-action down, the casing of his bullet clattering to the linoleum floor as he shifted again, ramming his good shoulder against another table - this one filled with bedsheets - as he waited for Virgil's response.

[BROseidon†]

Virgil smirked when he heard the bang of the nearby gun, and the immediate explosion of feathers behind him. In a fluid motion, simultaneously dropped his bag to the ground as he dropped to his stomach, hiding from his aggressor behind one of the many rows of shelves in the store. He knew roughly where his aggressor had fired from, but the other person knew exactly where he was. He had cover to work with this time, so he was going to use it.

Virgil quickly rose into a crouch and began running. He quickly moved towards the far end of the aisle, hoping to catch out whoever had fired at him. He raised his gun up and peered around the edge of the shelf to see if his aggressor had beaten him there.

[NotAFlyingToy]

He hadn't.

Hansel heard the sounds of running feet and adjusted his stance, the Winchester coming up once again as he slid into a single knee stance, aiming down the aisle.

At the nearest hint of movement, he fired again - this time, the bullet pinging off of the metal shelf and falling too far right of his intended target as Virgil came into full view.

Cursing inwardly, Hansel rolled forwards, keeping the table of bedsheets between him and the movement, Winchester making a tell-tale click-clack as he hammered the lever back home and chambered another round.

[BROseidon†]

Another close call, another miss.

Fate had to be on his side.

Virgil pulled the trigger.

[NotAFlyingToy]

Wood chips and fabric rained down on him as the top half of the table was reduced to rubble. Hansel flinched, covering his head with one of his hands, staggering forwards into a sliding sprint as he dove behind the counter, where the cash register was housed.

He straightened, firing, hammering the lever up, then down, and firing again, trying to keep Virgil in cover while he circled, looking for a line of sight.

[BROseidon†]

Virgil followed Hansel's path with a few more shots, each one shattering the table further or embedding itself somewhere behind his target. The other boy got to his new piece of cover unscathed.

Hansel was too quick in popping up and raining down a barrage of bullets, which forced Virgil to hide behind his cover. He couldn't stay put. He had to move. The barrage of bullets continued as Virgil rotated back down the aisle, waiting to pop up and gain the upper hand. He swapped out his clip in anticipation.

[NotAFlyingToy]

The lull in gunfire saw Hansel crouching, reaching into his bag to grab the box of magazines he'd pilfered from Cody, sliding two into his back pocket. Grimacing, he realized that he didn't know how many rounds he had left in the chamber.

No time for that, now. He cocked the gun again, popped up to fire.

Ducked down again as Virgil filled his vision, way too close for comfort.

[BROseidon†]

Virgil had popped up as soon as he'd heard the fire stop. He knew roughly where Hansel was; the other boy hadn't moved too much as he'd fired. Even after 9 days, Virgil moved quickly. He may have been a forward, but he was a loosey; running had never been a burden. He quickly circled around his aisle and advanced towards the counter.

When he saw Hansel pop up, he let out a shot. The other boy had maintained enough presence of mind to duck down, the round missing Hansel's head by maybe a tenth of a second.

[NotAFlyingToy]

Hansel heard the flechettes imbed themselves in the wall as he crouched low, thinking fuck, fuck, oh fuck to himself. He was cornered against an adversary who was in much better shape than he, with a more powerful gun, in close range.

He looked around, desperately searching for something to help him out. He found a stack of magazines - Linen and Things' catalogue, it looked like - that he seized with his left hand, holding the rifle with his right.

He lunged forwards, throwing the stack of magazines towards Virgil as he brought the gun back around, hoping to squeeze off one more shot, hoping that the distraction was enough.

[BROseidon†]

Virgil held his gun steady at the counter. He had Hansel pinned. He just had to flank around, fire a few rounds, and this would be over.

Or so Virgil thought.

As he was about to make his move around the side of the counter, Hansel popped up again, throwing a stack of magazines at him. Virgil reflexively turned and pulled the trigger.

[NotAFlyingToy]

The shotgun blast tore through the countertop, the cash register, erupting in sparks and wood, granite and dust. Hansel felt something wet, something warm, splatter against his arm as he cocked the rifle, fired again.

And again.

And again.

[BROseidon†]

The first bullet embedded itself in Virgil's shoulder. The next into his lung. The third into his liver.

Virgil let out a roar as he felt each bullet embed itself into his body. It felt like he'd been punched in each place he'd been hit, with the bonus of the penetration ripping his flesh and organs apart. He'd taken his fair share of blows – rugby was a violent game, after all – but this was unlike anything he'd ever felt.

But that didn't hurt as much as knowing that it was over. And what had he accomplished over the past nine days? He'd let the two he was supposed to protect die. He'd let several killers go on their marry way. He'd shot someone who presumably hadn't done anything wrong because he was too incompetent to shoot the murderer right in front of him. And now he'd gotten himself killed, too angry to have thought through how to reach his ultimate goal. His parents, his friends, his future, all those things had long since escaped his mind. All he could think of was his failure.

...Ast illi solvuntur frigore membra
vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras*

Fate guaranteed that this battle would have a winner.

Virgil Jefferson-Davis – Deceased
29 students remaining

*"...But his cold limbs turn
And with a groan his indignant life flees to the shadows."
Aeneid XII.951-2

[NotAFlyingToy]

All at once, the world slowed back down. Once again, Hansel found himself cradling a gun in a room that stank of sulphur, sweat, and dried blood. He let the rifle fall to his left hand, sighing in relief.

The sigh turned to a gasp of shooting pain as he dropped the rifle, clutching at his left wrist.

It didn't register, at first. It just looked like something different happened to it, his brain registering a cut here, a bruise there, all filmed over with grime. There was blood on it, but he'd just been in a gunfight, and his arm and neck were still bleeding. No real damage, so why did it hurt?

Then he noticed something. Something very, very wrong.

With shaking hands, he turned in a tight circle, his teeth clenching as he scanned the floor for something. He found it, frowned, shook his head.

With his right hand, Hansel reached underneath the counter, pulling out a beige washcloth. Stooping, he collected his ring and pinky finger from the puddle of dark red they were sitting in, like flesh-coloured biscuits in blood scented ice cream. He wrapped them up, slowly, carefully, using two more washcloths to swaddle them in a tight little ball.

The vomit came unexpectedly, and wracked through his system - splashing over the counter, his bag, mixing with his own blood and joining the gunpowder, sweat, and blood in the air in a heady, dizzying cocktail.

When he left Linen and Things, it was on shaky legs.

He cradled his left hand to his chest, carried the Winchester over his right shoulder, the puke-soaked bag over his left. The tight little wad of gorey fingers was nestled safely in his bag, along with Virgil's supplies and ammunition.

In his right hand, he carried the Saiga-12.

He didn't look back.

((Hansel Williams, I won't be wronged. I won't be insulted. I won't be laid a hand-on.))