So, Joanne's choices were wrong, then?
True, she could've not walked in here. She could've found some other building, some other people, recruited them in whatever plan it was that she had in mind. And, for the record, she had only wanted to take the weapon, keep her from killing, but it's not like that would've mattered, maybe she should've gone for the kill instead, run in, grabbed the gun, pulled the trigger, this could've been avoided, she could have lived longer—her fingers curled into her, she gritted her teeth, her lips curled downwards—but that was a possibility, that didn't matter.
What mattered was the insinuation that she should've done any different. That she should've left Blaise alone, once she discovered them, seemingly vulnerable, gun in reach, something in reach. It would've been the smart choice, maybe, it could've been the choice that kept her alive, perhaps, but it would also have left the blood of each and every person Blaise killed on her hands—her own dripped, seeped, gushed between her fingers—and then what would be the point of striving for something if she skipped the first step, failed the first step? All those promises, all that hype, just to let more lives go down the drain because of her fear? Cowardice?
That simply wasn't On Brand™.
Joanne was not! a! quitter! she told herself, back in the woods. She was not scared of some five-letter word, starting with D, and no, Pat Sajak, she would not like to ask for any vowels, she knew fully well what she was facing here, D-E-A-T-H, The End, fin, roll the credits, walk out the theater and ask for a refund. She was going to die, she had told herself that the moment she woke up, she had steeled herself for it, and she couldn't let all her bravado fall to nothing.
Let's list the facts. Would she meet her friends? No. But that didn't matter anymore. Adele and Tanisha could move on without her, find a way, they had to. Would she stop anyone from killing? No, she would just be another number, but that didn't matter anymore. Did she inspire anyone to lay down arms, inspire anyone to live on in her memory? God, she hoped she would be an inspiration to her brothers, but she didn't know for sure, and that didn't matter anymore, it couldn't. The fact was that she was here, facing her would-be killer, and that was all there was to it.
She couldn't bring them down physically. She had no weapon on her, any lunge forward would be met instantaneously with a bullet. All she had were words, anger, and Lord knew Joanne had a lot of both. Joanne was a Fighter, a Warrior, a Bo$$ Bitch™, she had every intention of going down fighting. And so, she took a deep breath. Enough to say all the words she had left. And she began.
"So, your- your choi- your choice to kill three people was correct, then?" she snarled.
She glared daggers at Blaise.
"I... don't regret trying to stop you from taking another life, F-Y-I. I don't- I don't regret trying to do something of worth. I just- When, not if, but when you die, I just hope you die with regret, I hope you feel even just a fraction of the pain, fear, frustration, defeat that everyone before me has, and I don't intend on dying with any of that, you do not scare me, but I h—"
Sleep Is The Cousin Of Death
Day 3 into Day 4, Post-Announcements, Open
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Some time had past since Joanne's speech cut off. A cigarette sat between their lips now. They'd set the gun down beside them in favor of toying with their lighter, flame going in and out with practiced rhythm. Externalizing reflection through repetition assisted focus, especially when the catalyst was dull. Make no mistake: reflecting on Joanne's venom was dull. Perhaps if it had been so selfless as she proclaimed it would be more interesting, but come now. It was plain, no? Every statement centered around the I. A cheap allusion to three deaths when, if you will forgive the pun, with a gun to her head she likely could not have named even one of them. Most damning, of course, was the prelude to her condemnation. A transparently self-centered, humiliating series of pleas that sacrificed any moral superiority she could so much as perceive to hold over them, because whatever values drove her to impassioned final stand were demonstrably worth less than her life.
Blaise had known many Joannes. Not in a literal sense, the name was not so common as a Lucas, but in shared spirit. Artistic types littered the school and the vast majority of them would amount to nothing because they lacked instinct. So many held back in fear of rejection or consequence so that they might simply survive, secretly praying for the day they are backed into a corner. Then, with the chips down and only one shot left, their full creative abilities will rise to the surface in one brilliant flourish. The proper motivation, that is all they need, no?
No.
History remembered those who turned overwhelming circumstances into aesthetic power because those crushed under the folly of their own ambition were too numerous to keep count. Much worse, they were too similar. A brief spark that too weak to flame, then obscurity. Taken in that light she should be gracious; her words failing her now was a far kinder fate than the ever shifting balance of rejection letters, cheap wine bottles, and stray cats she was intent to doom herself with had she survived. Still, they had been impatient. Their retort was out of turn. Crude. Satisfactory, of course, but it would not settle their disagreement. They pinched the cigarette between their fingers and exhaled the smoke in her direction. "I am sorry. It was rude to cut you off. Remind me, we were comparing choices?"
They waited for Joanne's reply. Her face lit up with the spark of the lighter now held inches away, but she did not stir. She remained as she had since Blaise's interruption, slack-jawed and crumpled to her side, a pool of blood forming in unequal measure from her gut and forehead.
Unfortunate. If she was not going to participate, they supposed the argument went to them. It was not as if they could be troubled to remember her points for her.
They hardly remembered pulling the trigger.
Blaise had known many Joannes. Not in a literal sense, the name was not so common as a Lucas, but in shared spirit. Artistic types littered the school and the vast majority of them would amount to nothing because they lacked instinct. So many held back in fear of rejection or consequence so that they might simply survive, secretly praying for the day they are backed into a corner. Then, with the chips down and only one shot left, their full creative abilities will rise to the surface in one brilliant flourish. The proper motivation, that is all they need, no?
No.
History remembered those who turned overwhelming circumstances into aesthetic power because those crushed under the folly of their own ambition were too numerous to keep count. Much worse, they were too similar. A brief spark that too weak to flame, then obscurity. Taken in that light she should be gracious; her words failing her now was a far kinder fate than the ever shifting balance of rejection letters, cheap wine bottles, and stray cats she was intent to doom herself with had she survived. Still, they had been impatient. Their retort was out of turn. Crude. Satisfactory, of course, but it would not settle their disagreement. They pinched the cigarette between their fingers and exhaled the smoke in her direction. "I am sorry. It was rude to cut you off. Remind me, we were comparing choices?"
They waited for Joanne's reply. Her face lit up with the spark of the lighter now held inches away, but she did not stir. She remained as she had since Blaise's interruption, slack-jawed and crumpled to her side, a pool of blood forming in unequal measure from her gut and forehead.
Unfortunate. If she was not going to participate, they supposed the argument went to them. It was not as if they could be troubled to remember her points for her.
They hardly remembered pulling the trigger.
untitled_FINAL_FINAL.docx
Joanne Sekai Coleman
Goal for the piece: try to provide some sort of closure for the 34612773487 arcs left hanging because you couldn't even finish your last words, much less anything else
Arcs to (try to) resolve:
- Titty Squad Meetup
- speech to parents, something to somehow solve that fucking mess
- being an example to brothers????????
- doing Something (also maybe figure out what that something is before you Actually actually die lol)
[also where's the climax?????????????????????????????? what kind of death doesn't have a climax????? what kind of person doesn't even finish their last words, like What Kind Of Bullshit is this, 0/10 on imdb, -10% on rotten tomatoes, seriously, What The Fuck]
Possible ideas:
- unspoken words to parents, something to smooth over their conflict, maybe give brothers a house that stays silent for once lol fat chance of that. years of conflict, years of them not even caring enough to settle their difference for the sake of their children?????? and you want them, expect them to sing kumbaya???????????????????????? too melodramatic, too unrealistic, too oscar bait-y
- unspoken words to friends, adele and tanisha, try to encourage them to live on in her memory, Fight The Power also too oscar bait-y. what kind of person would prioritize their friends over their parents, why speak to them and not your parents?
also, why the fuck would you ask them to fight the power, provide some sort of plan? what the FUCK kind of good would you do since you're dead? demetri shouts virtue signaling in the distance.
mom once said that you cant eat principles. you cant live purely off of them. maybe you should've taken those words to mind, before all this. maybe then you'd have something approximating a proper plot with beginning, rising action, climax, falling action, denouement, boom, mrs. hoffman is SHAKING
- elaborate on Something again, virtue signalling, what good is that if you're dead?
for reference, Something would've been stealing weapons, who kills people in front of their own siblings???? but maybe it shouldn't have just been that
ok so none of that's working. nothing solid, no lines, not to speak of line cuts, allusions (you were supposed to minor in history, what kind of history major doesn't have allusions to historical figures, Where Is Your Mind), alliteration, rhyme scheme, meter, nothing. so, what now? there has to be an ending, right? at least manage that
meta-commentary on how half-baked and unfinished this is???? on how unfinished EVERYTHING is? boo hoo, 18 years cut short, sobbing irl except not really since you can't even breathe rn, much less do anything else.
[fuck it. post it, as is. this'll do. it's an ending, at least, what else can you ask for?]
G052: JOANNE COLEMAN: DECEASED
115 STUDENTS REMAIN
Joanne Sekai Coleman
Goal for the piece: try to provide some sort of closure for the 34612773487 arcs left hanging because you couldn't even finish your last words, much less anything else
Arcs to (try to) resolve:
- Titty Squad Meetup
- speech to parents, something to somehow solve that fucking mess
- being an example to brothers????????
- doing Something (also maybe figure out what that something is before you Actually actually die lol)
[also where's the climax?????????????????????????????? what kind of death doesn't have a climax????? what kind of person doesn't even finish their last words, like What Kind Of Bullshit is this, 0/10 on imdb, -10% on rotten tomatoes, seriously, What The Fuck]
Possible ideas:
- unspoken words to parents, something to smooth over their conflict, maybe give brothers a house that stays silent for once lol fat chance of that. years of conflict, years of them not even caring enough to settle their difference for the sake of their children?????? and you want them, expect them to sing kumbaya???????????????????????? too melodramatic, too unrealistic, too oscar bait-y
- unspoken words to friends, adele and tanisha, try to encourage them to live on in her memory, Fight The Power also too oscar bait-y. what kind of person would prioritize their friends over their parents, why speak to them and not your parents?
also, why the fuck would you ask them to fight the power, provide some sort of plan? what the FUCK kind of good would you do since you're dead? demetri shouts virtue signaling in the distance.
mom once said that you cant eat principles. you cant live purely off of them. maybe you should've taken those words to mind, before all this. maybe then you'd have something approximating a proper plot with beginning, rising action, climax, falling action, denouement, boom, mrs. hoffman is SHAKING
- elaborate on Something again, virtue signalling, what good is that if you're dead?
for reference, Something would've been stealing weapons, who kills people in front of their own siblings???? but maybe it shouldn't have just been that
ok so none of that's working. nothing solid, no lines, not to speak of line cuts, allusions (you were supposed to minor in history, what kind of history major doesn't have allusions to historical figures, Where Is Your Mind), alliteration, rhyme scheme, meter, nothing. so, what now? there has to be an ending, right? at least manage that
meta-commentary on how half-baked and unfinished this is???? on how unfinished EVERYTHING is? boo hoo, 18 years cut short, sobbing irl except not really since you can't even breathe rn, much less do anything else.
[fuck it. post it, as is. this'll do. it's an ending, at least, what else can you ask for?]
G052: JOANNE COLEMAN: DECEASED
115 STUDENTS REMAIN
Goodbye?
Demetri didn't say those words all that often, he guessed. He'd perfected his teenage-style slipping out of the house while avoiding the awkward bilateral-in-theory unilateral-in-practice affection display demanded of the parental units, because like, he'd never figured it was prudent to treat each parting like the dry-kiss end of the world when Demetri would inevitably be back after some amount of school hours and abortive socialization after-the-fact.
So the words didn't come to him so readily. Not in his fanfiction- he'd been accused by a number of reviewers of lacking a flair for drama, and he was finally beginning to understand why- and not in his reality, and not in his post-reality where he was less the senior from GHHS and more the senior from what was left of GHHS. How was he supposed to say goodbye to people when they were still alive and well in his head?
Somewhere in there, all the awkwardly janky puppet caricatures flocked. Mercy chided him, Lorenzo showed off the metal. Yuko glared at him because that was probably the sum total of what their actual relationship had ever been. Friends were faces were swimming through the gel-consistency goo that pervaded his thoughts like they'd been dunked into artificial flavor generic gelatin (never the Jell-O, Mom insisted there was no difference between generic and brand off the shelf) and Demetri walked along to that backdrop.
Hardly interrupted even by the gruesome discovery of a door and the incidental corpse it came along with.
((Demetri Futscher continued from Heeling Of The USS Dekcuc))
He hadn't even really noted where he'd been going- out of the mess of trees and flora and fauna that Demetri had all avoided with equally clumsy tread had melted out a plaza and the slightly sharper cloying scent of moldy animal fur. He'd followed it along without much weariness, picking out the first wall and the first door and putting his first foot forward.
Retracting it, suddenly alert. He recognized another one of the calorie blimps. Or maybe the same one as the one he'd already met.
Wearing the shattered skin and bone look. Gunshot wounds. Figured they'd save the gun violence for the blacks in the class- liberal or not, GHHS was still fundamentally a school of southern kids, with all the cultural coding that came with. Damn. Demetri with the sudden wealth of gender studies knowledge.
His breath came in a bit quieter. He'd lived in with two corpses for almost as many days- he recognized by now how to tell the freshness. The girl once known as some combination of Joanne, Tanisha, or Adele was still bleeding. Joanne was Tanisha was Adele was Mercy was Dolly was Reuben was Ned was Stepney was the rest of the corpses Demetri had had all too little time to get used to but was still way too used to.
The grip on the spear tightened. The spear in his hands, not the spear in his pants. Important distinction by several magnitudes, probably.
Demetri didn't say those words all that often, he guessed. He'd perfected his teenage-style slipping out of the house while avoiding the awkward bilateral-in-theory unilateral-in-practice affection display demanded of the parental units, because like, he'd never figured it was prudent to treat each parting like the dry-kiss end of the world when Demetri would inevitably be back after some amount of school hours and abortive socialization after-the-fact.
So the words didn't come to him so readily. Not in his fanfiction- he'd been accused by a number of reviewers of lacking a flair for drama, and he was finally beginning to understand why- and not in his reality, and not in his post-reality where he was less the senior from GHHS and more the senior from what was left of GHHS. How was he supposed to say goodbye to people when they were still alive and well in his head?
Somewhere in there, all the awkwardly janky puppet caricatures flocked. Mercy chided him, Lorenzo showed off the metal. Yuko glared at him because that was probably the sum total of what their actual relationship had ever been. Friends were faces were swimming through the gel-consistency goo that pervaded his thoughts like they'd been dunked into artificial flavor generic gelatin (never the Jell-O, Mom insisted there was no difference between generic and brand off the shelf) and Demetri walked along to that backdrop.
Hardly interrupted even by the gruesome discovery of a door and the incidental corpse it came along with.
((Demetri Futscher continued from Heeling Of The USS Dekcuc))
He hadn't even really noted where he'd been going- out of the mess of trees and flora and fauna that Demetri had all avoided with equally clumsy tread had melted out a plaza and the slightly sharper cloying scent of moldy animal fur. He'd followed it along without much weariness, picking out the first wall and the first door and putting his first foot forward.
Retracting it, suddenly alert. He recognized another one of the calorie blimps. Or maybe the same one as the one he'd already met.
Wearing the shattered skin and bone look. Gunshot wounds. Figured they'd save the gun violence for the blacks in the class- liberal or not, GHHS was still fundamentally a school of southern kids, with all the cultural coding that came with. Damn. Demetri with the sudden wealth of gender studies knowledge.
His breath came in a bit quieter. He'd lived in with two corpses for almost as many days- he recognized by now how to tell the freshness. The girl once known as some combination of Joanne, Tanisha, or Adele was still bleeding. Joanne was Tanisha was Adele was Mercy was Dolly was Reuben was Ned was Stepney was the rest of the corpses Demetri had had all too little time to get used to but was still way too used to.
The grip on the spear tightened. The spear in his hands, not the spear in his pants. Important distinction by several magnitudes, probably.
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Blaise's grip on the spear loosened. Its weight had already been a factor for discussion when they were sorting through Dolly's possessions, but what was the harm of options? The harm, as it were, was that the thing was unwieldy, gaudy, and a pain in their ass to pack once its job was finished. They could not imagine readying it with any speed under actual threat, and there was no point in lugging it around in the open when they had their rifle. Still, it had served a singular purpose. Without its sharpened blade they would not be able to retrieve a length of rope they had spied knotted on the outer facade. They would not waste effort imagining its original purpose. It had taken quite a bit of maneuvering, but a significant chunk was severed from the whole. When split into sections it would be more than satisfactory. It would be ideal to subdue certain elements over giving them the quick end they had not deserved. Opportunity would arise to fulfill their vow, and when it did Blaise had new plans. New, wonderful plans.
The folded contraption thunked against the door a moment before they entered. It amused them to prepare a greeting for Joanne since the next step of preparation was seeing to her supplies, but it caught in their throat. Joanne's corpse was not the first thing that caught their attention on entrance. Another figure had happened upon their work, one they could not mistake. You did not take someone's money so regularly and forget their form. In this light his hair caught a shade not dissimilar to long expired fast food french fries, though if forced to guess they would say it was at two orders of magnitude filthier than an abandoned fryer. Their rifle pointed at his back as a matter of formality; they did not fear him, and they would not kill him so soon. Fiscal irresponsibility aside Demetri's value stemmed from how amusing it was to watch him squirm.
They had gone days without proper entertainment.
They coughed. "Bonjour. Were you with her?"
The folded contraption thunked against the door a moment before they entered. It amused them to prepare a greeting for Joanne since the next step of preparation was seeing to her supplies, but it caught in their throat. Joanne's corpse was not the first thing that caught their attention on entrance. Another figure had happened upon their work, one they could not mistake. You did not take someone's money so regularly and forget their form. In this light his hair caught a shade not dissimilar to long expired fast food french fries, though if forced to guess they would say it was at two orders of magnitude filthier than an abandoned fryer. Their rifle pointed at his back as a matter of formality; they did not fear him, and they would not kill him so soon. Fiscal irresponsibility aside Demetri's value stemmed from how amusing it was to watch him squirm.
They had gone days without proper entertainment.
They coughed. "Bonjour. Were you with her?"
"If we had been together I'd be the one who did that to her." Demetri dryly recanted the sum total of his history with the corpse when it had still drawn breath. Voice void of emotion, even worry.
Parallel to that moment, he heard himself reliving the mistakes of his past. Not the ones where he got financially blackmailed by a midget manlet of a not-quite-a-man Cthulhu in human skin, though he had reason to relive those too when said circus freak was holding a gun to his back? But it was more along the lines of, he guessed, all the hypotheticals in life where he and the boys would brag about their combat skills under prowess. See, ask the Demetri who hadn't yet gone to Washington D.C ever in his life and he would have insistently reported on his ability to spin three sixty degrees and kill two birds with one bullet with an AR-15 because that was the only gun he was really aware of as a consumer of Something Awful approved pop culture.
"I'd watch out if I were you. I bet I stab you faster than you finish pulling the trigger."
Worth a shot, he guessed. Belatedly he noticed the awkwardness of his grip on the spear. His hand was less attached to the actual pole and more to the ribbon-like cloth attached near the bigger of the two sharp pointy ends.
"Why do it? Kill her, I mean. Not 'kill me', or any other definition of 'do it' that would imply anything awkward and or fatal."
The speaking fast under stress part, that was a relevant callback for both of them, he guessed.
Parallel to that moment, he heard himself reliving the mistakes of his past. Not the ones where he got financially blackmailed by a midget manlet of a not-quite-a-man Cthulhu in human skin, though he had reason to relive those too when said circus freak was holding a gun to his back? But it was more along the lines of, he guessed, all the hypotheticals in life where he and the boys would brag about their combat skills under prowess. See, ask the Demetri who hadn't yet gone to Washington D.C ever in his life and he would have insistently reported on his ability to spin three sixty degrees and kill two birds with one bullet with an AR-15 because that was the only gun he was really aware of as a consumer of Something Awful approved pop culture.
"I'd watch out if I were you. I bet I stab you faster than you finish pulling the trigger."
Worth a shot, he guessed. Belatedly he noticed the awkwardness of his grip on the spear. His hand was less attached to the actual pole and more to the ribbon-like cloth attached near the bigger of the two sharp pointy ends.
"Why do it? Kill her, I mean. Not 'kill me', or any other definition of 'do it' that would imply anything awkward and or fatal."
The speaking fast under stress part, that was a relevant callback for both of them, he guessed.
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The pattern was familiar. Demetri made a brazen raise well beyond any information he could possess. It was easy to say the words of a killer, but his name was no more noteworthy here than it had ever been at home.
Blaise called, and showed nothing.
Already on his heels he would begin to sweat. The first bluff had not worked, clearly because it was not big enough. Only an idiot would double down on a losing hand, no? So surely if he raised again, he must have something? As always he was tragically unaware that the self-loathing he radiated inward expanded exponentially when taken in from the outside. Only an idiot, yes. Demetri was exactly that idiot. The proportions and complexion of a amateur contortionist salving incompetence with methamphetamines combined with coordination they assumed would render a newborn giraffe indistinguishable from a career instructor at Vaganova by comparison did not make a compelling case against a bullet. They would say there was no way he bought his own hype but ah, as established, Demetri was exactly that idiot.
Blaise called, and showed nothing.
A further bet would be suicide, which despite the good it would do the universe Demetri never pursued intentionally. Posturing gave way to the true reason he lingered rather than bolt for another entrance with encouraging warmth dripping down his leg. He wanted answers. Asked that question in nearly every other situation, and the answer would be...complicated. Not worth debating. Joanne's predicament was simple, though.
Blaise raised, and showed their teeth with a bemused smile. "She was a thief. You know what I do with thieves."
Blaise called, and showed nothing.
Already on his heels he would begin to sweat. The first bluff had not worked, clearly because it was not big enough. Only an idiot would double down on a losing hand, no? So surely if he raised again, he must have something? As always he was tragically unaware that the self-loathing he radiated inward expanded exponentially when taken in from the outside. Only an idiot, yes. Demetri was exactly that idiot. The proportions and complexion of a amateur contortionist salving incompetence with methamphetamines combined with coordination they assumed would render a newborn giraffe indistinguishable from a career instructor at Vaganova by comparison did not make a compelling case against a bullet. They would say there was no way he bought his own hype but ah, as established, Demetri was exactly that idiot.
Blaise called, and showed nothing.
A further bet would be suicide, which despite the good it would do the universe Demetri never pursued intentionally. Posturing gave way to the true reason he lingered rather than bolt for another entrance with encouraging warmth dripping down his leg. He wanted answers. Asked that question in nearly every other situation, and the answer would be...complicated. Not worth debating. Joanne's predicament was simple, though.
Blaise raised, and showed their teeth with a bemused smile. "She was a thief. You know what I do with thieves."
"All too well." Demetri chewed the salt lick he'd once called the fleshy bits of the inside of his cheek. Tried to subtly strengthen the grip on the spear, whereupon it casually evaded his grip like most folk of the female persuasion and rocketed a few inches forward and down. Instinct barely had him reasserting tension around what was left of the spear's ribbon wound between his fingers. Somehow, it turned out, he could even hover hand inanimate objects.
He understood, all too well and all too of a sudden, the disconnect between the part of life that was a game and the part of life that was kids and a mortgage and parents shipped off to the retirement home. He felt, keenly, the specific spot where he was still grasping for the knee jerk punchline to the joke that had long since stopped existing.
"I'm calling bullshit. No way someone that big could get close enough to pull a pickpocket without being noticed."
Like that. That also wasn't funny. No odds the joke landed, but somehow it was out there, the bad hand he was trying to bluff with.
"But I don't fucking get it," Demetri continued, not knowing- even with all the adrenaline sharpening his five senses and all the subtler ones between. Not knowing whether he was speaking on autopilot, or with all the conviction he could possibly muster.
"I had you on a short list of people who'd probably shoot up the school, sure." Almost conversational, the way Demetri casually recanted it in an entirely separate state of mind from the part of himself continuing to process the very much real weight of a muzzle digging inches closer to his spine. "Somewhere in the vicinity of Lucas B. post elections. But, you know. I wasn't taking myself seriously. I didn't think, like..." A pop of the lips, as he tried to speak pure silence for a slow moment. "Anyone would really do it. I guess. Not even you."
It wasn't a bluff, end of the day. Ante all the way up and Demetri was still the exact same kid- bad at body language.
He understood, all too well and all too of a sudden, the disconnect between the part of life that was a game and the part of life that was kids and a mortgage and parents shipped off to the retirement home. He felt, keenly, the specific spot where he was still grasping for the knee jerk punchline to the joke that had long since stopped existing.
"I'm calling bullshit. No way someone that big could get close enough to pull a pickpocket without being noticed."
Like that. That also wasn't funny. No odds the joke landed, but somehow it was out there, the bad hand he was trying to bluff with.
"But I don't fucking get it," Demetri continued, not knowing- even with all the adrenaline sharpening his five senses and all the subtler ones between. Not knowing whether he was speaking on autopilot, or with all the conviction he could possibly muster.
"I had you on a short list of people who'd probably shoot up the school, sure." Almost conversational, the way Demetri casually recanted it in an entirely separate state of mind from the part of himself continuing to process the very much real weight of a muzzle digging inches closer to his spine. "Somewhere in the vicinity of Lucas B. post elections. But, you know. I wasn't taking myself seriously. I didn't think, like..." A pop of the lips, as he tried to speak pure silence for a slow moment. "Anyone would really do it. I guess. Not even you."
It wasn't a bluff, end of the day. Ante all the way up and Demetri was still the exact same kid- bad at body language.
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Observe and understand why Demetri was never meant to gamble. At the heart of very deception is confidence, if you believe the lies you tell with overwhelming certainty the truth becomes irrelevant. More often than not others will become swept up in their doubts; how can they avoid it when their resolve crumples under your own? Any story, any behavior, is plausible if you only commit to it wholeheartedly. It will not last, but what does? There are limits, yes, but only in the response of others. They may choose not to believe, but to discern what is underneath your bravado will be beyond them. Commit, and in sufficient time they will submit in one fashion or another. One must only concern themself with how to capitalize on that concession. It was how Blaise obtained nearly everything they wanted. "I did not say she was not noticed. Do you not agree it would be unjust to call her a thief without evidence?"
Demetri was a liar too aware that he was lying. Review. The first bluff: Had I been with Joanne, I would have killed her myself. The second bluff: I am more willing to kill with the spear than you are with the gun. Taken in a vacuum with all other factors discarded, these were consistent principles. With commitment even Demetri could convince another he believed they were true, which had a value all of its own. There was leverage to be had in your own truth. Blaise did not consider themself an expert in firearms, so perhaps he could prove deadlier. It would be enough to give pause, no? But even without dissecting his first and second bluffs, he was betrayed by the third: I did not believe anyone in our class would kill another. Generosity Blaise found themself full of today dictated they take it as a bluff rather than an outright admission, at least on first pass. A way to lull them into carelessness, perhaps? But what purpose did it serve? It distracted them from fear of his killer instinct into confusion at his naivety. He could not leverage both, and if his aim was to confuse it was done sloppily. Too genuine.
Yes, Demetri knew too well when he was lying, and too well when he was truthful, and made few efforts to blur the two. When phrased that way it almost sounded charming, and it was in some number of their classmates. Innocence, or more aptly naivete as noted before, had a certain appeal that cemented Demetri was not bluffing. He was a vile little worm who thought nothing but the worst in everyone he met. If he did not believe they were capable of this, it was not because he could not conceive it. Not naive. Incompetent. Unfit for this place not because of any unrealistic virtue but because he was unfit for existence.
On reflex they reached for a cigarette tucked in one of a dozen hiding places, but their hand froze at their side. All would be empty. Restraint asked that they leave their remaining supply in their bag, and it curled their fingers away from disappointment one by one. "Demetri," they spoke with a tremor. "I do not wish our names associated, so I am offering you a kindness. Take that," the barrel gestured towards the head of his spear, "and find the strength to do what your mother could not when she discovered you in the womb."
Demetri was a liar too aware that he was lying. Review. The first bluff: Had I been with Joanne, I would have killed her myself. The second bluff: I am more willing to kill with the spear than you are with the gun. Taken in a vacuum with all other factors discarded, these were consistent principles. With commitment even Demetri could convince another he believed they were true, which had a value all of its own. There was leverage to be had in your own truth. Blaise did not consider themself an expert in firearms, so perhaps he could prove deadlier. It would be enough to give pause, no? But even without dissecting his first and second bluffs, he was betrayed by the third: I did not believe anyone in our class would kill another. Generosity Blaise found themself full of today dictated they take it as a bluff rather than an outright admission, at least on first pass. A way to lull them into carelessness, perhaps? But what purpose did it serve? It distracted them from fear of his killer instinct into confusion at his naivety. He could not leverage both, and if his aim was to confuse it was done sloppily. Too genuine.
Yes, Demetri knew too well when he was lying, and too well when he was truthful, and made few efforts to blur the two. When phrased that way it almost sounded charming, and it was in some number of their classmates. Innocence, or more aptly naivete as noted before, had a certain appeal that cemented Demetri was not bluffing. He was a vile little worm who thought nothing but the worst in everyone he met. If he did not believe they were capable of this, it was not because he could not conceive it. Not naive. Incompetent. Unfit for this place not because of any unrealistic virtue but because he was unfit for existence.
On reflex they reached for a cigarette tucked in one of a dozen hiding places, but their hand froze at their side. All would be empty. Restraint asked that they leave their remaining supply in their bag, and it curled their fingers away from disappointment one by one. "Demetri," they spoke with a tremor. "I do not wish our names associated, so I am offering you a kindness. Take that," the barrel gestured towards the head of his spear, "and find the strength to do what your mother could not when she discovered you in the womb."
"God damn."
There was some sort of squint-and-tilt-the-picture-and-hear-it-on-Fox-News-and-you'll-see-it levity that almost blew all the tension out like a needle kissing a balloon, and almost caused Demetri's face to break out in a pestilence of smile.
"Mom's a good Christian though, she'd never even consider it." The knee-jerk defense of his parents was a no-brainer, anyways. Demetri didn't even have to prematurely shoot himself in the foot (stab himself?) to come up with that.
"I was planned, anyways. Dunno if that's the case with you, maybe you've got some kinda resentment or something but that ain't on me." The fire-and-forget attempt at a rebuttal, on the other hand, was carefully thought out over a whole second's worth of time, and awkwardly slotted between neckbeard-y gulps of breath as a result.
He was going to stick by it though. Good quality comedy. He'd defend it to his dying breath. Literally, apparently.
"I dunno. I've run into a couple guys that are pretty menacing in terms of how much skull-breaking-open they've done in my immediate vicinity. You know, like. Tyrell's pretty bad in that regard. And, uh, same with Lorenzo but. Somehow you're the most legitimately fucked up out of the lot of them." Was he validating Blaise's there-are-more-than-two-genders shit by lumping it in with a bunch of dudes? More importantly- he might have been biased? Of the three, Blaise was the only one who was actively trying to kill him, probably. "As in, not only have you always been like this, you've always been pretty proud of it too. So like, excuse me for thinking self-defense wasn't your motive in any of the corpse-making you've accomplished, y'know."
It wasn't an accusation, even. Demetri was still pretty stubbornly bland with the whole 'situationally appropriate tone of voice' thing.
There was some sort of squint-and-tilt-the-picture-and-hear-it-on-Fox-News-and-you'll-see-it levity that almost blew all the tension out like a needle kissing a balloon, and almost caused Demetri's face to break out in a pestilence of smile.
"Mom's a good Christian though, she'd never even consider it." The knee-jerk defense of his parents was a no-brainer, anyways. Demetri didn't even have to prematurely shoot himself in the foot (stab himself?) to come up with that.
"I was planned, anyways. Dunno if that's the case with you, maybe you've got some kinda resentment or something but that ain't on me." The fire-and-forget attempt at a rebuttal, on the other hand, was carefully thought out over a whole second's worth of time, and awkwardly slotted between neckbeard-y gulps of breath as a result.
He was going to stick by it though. Good quality comedy. He'd defend it to his dying breath. Literally, apparently.
"I dunno. I've run into a couple guys that are pretty menacing in terms of how much skull-breaking-open they've done in my immediate vicinity. You know, like. Tyrell's pretty bad in that regard. And, uh, same with Lorenzo but. Somehow you're the most legitimately fucked up out of the lot of them." Was he validating Blaise's there-are-more-than-two-genders shit by lumping it in with a bunch of dudes? More importantly- he might have been biased? Of the three, Blaise was the only one who was actively trying to kill him, probably. "As in, not only have you always been like this, you've always been pretty proud of it too. So like, excuse me for thinking self-defense wasn't your motive in any of the corpse-making you've accomplished, y'know."
It wasn't an accusation, even. Demetri was still pretty stubbornly bland with the whole 'situationally appropriate tone of voice' thing.
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Emprexx Plush
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Clumsy as it was, the attempt to rile them might have landed with better luck. Why Demetri wanted to anger them when their gun had not left his sight and their last victim had not yet cooled behind him they could not imagine, but he was hitting the right notes. They did not wish to give him too much credit, some of the annoyance had to be unintentional. Like how he wasn't listening to them; they had never said anything about killing Joanne in self defense. They did not style themself a victim, Joanne filled that role as amply as her ill-fitting jeans. Her death was an execution for a crime, there was no pretense of threat. It came from his own moralizing, perhaps, or the revenge fantasies they were certain regularly played through his mind as he pumped his way to impotent climax each night. Everyone was a threat to a creature like Demetri, and with his imagination absent of duty that was the only justification he could conceive that wasn't...how had he said? Legitimately fucked up. An unexciting take, debating it would offend the value of their time. The only logical motivation for such provocation was that he wanted them to attack him, and it was a coin toss whether they would oblige or deny him out of spite. That is, if they were considering the proposition at all. The truth is that much of Demetri's rant was lost on them after one particular name.
Demetri had seen Lorenzo. He could know his whereabouts. It depended on when, mm, and where, it could be worthless information by now, but it was a start. The cock-addled vandal was wounded. He could not travel far, especially with so many targets on his back. It was not unlikely he would do what he did best and crawl into the first hospitable hole he found. If he had been as fortunate as Blaise with scavenging, he could lie in wait for some time unless he was flushed out...
The rifle snapped to Demetri's chest. Blaise's smile flashed above it. "Pardon. You saw Lorenzo, yes? I am dying to hear all about that."
Demetri had seen Lorenzo. He could know his whereabouts. It depended on when, mm, and where, it could be worthless information by now, but it was a start. The cock-addled vandal was wounded. He could not travel far, especially with so many targets on his back. It was not unlikely he would do what he did best and crawl into the first hospitable hole he found. If he had been as fortunate as Blaise with scavenging, he could lie in wait for some time unless he was flushed out...
The rifle snapped to Demetri's chest. Blaise's smile flashed above it. "Pardon. You saw Lorenzo, yes? I am dying to hear all about that."
Demetri was dully surprised- oh god, oh man, frame of reference spinning- when his mouthing off didn't immediately and prematurely end with him writhing on the floor and ineffectually twerking in his own blood.
It was a close run thing, though. Face to face Demetri was reminded that the gun was very much in play, when he hardly needed the reminder. Another reminder as an aside- Blaise remained inordinately short and that had never stopped being a thing. Blaise's smile was very literally only right above the stock of their gun.
"And I'll be dying to tell it to you I guess." Demetri sighed, more with his mouth than with his lungs. Everything from the neck down was gripped by an intense static of paralysis, radial from the point where a little patch of damp fabric was all that segregated flesh and steel. Brown v. Board about to up and end his whole life, continuing the metaphor the way only he knew how.
"I walked in on him, uh.. think it must have been east of here, closer to the rice paddies if I was following the sun the right way." Sun rose in the east, right? Shined upon the weebs and the Hayashibaras of the world. "He was just finished with Emil. It's pretty fucked up, like, how much you can bash someone's head in. Think of a bowl of soup but all the chunky stuff in it spells a vaguely human shape."
Though he guessed Blaise knew all about that, one of her kills might have been brutal for all he knew and remembered. Demetri sternly contemplated Blaise's eyes, blue as the sky and probably an antithesis to the hue of their soul.
"And of course, we immediately engaged in gay make outs, staying in character." He let the vapid lie swim for a second before sinking it. "What happened is I chased him. I, uh, had a gun back then, actually. Had him in my sights for a bit- close enough that I could have blown off his head, or something. But I didn't take the shot... I dunno."
He would have shrugged if he was willing to move an inch.
It was a close run thing, though. Face to face Demetri was reminded that the gun was very much in play, when he hardly needed the reminder. Another reminder as an aside- Blaise remained inordinately short and that had never stopped being a thing. Blaise's smile was very literally only right above the stock of their gun.
"And I'll be dying to tell it to you I guess." Demetri sighed, more with his mouth than with his lungs. Everything from the neck down was gripped by an intense static of paralysis, radial from the point where a little patch of damp fabric was all that segregated flesh and steel. Brown v. Board about to up and end his whole life, continuing the metaphor the way only he knew how.
"I walked in on him, uh.. think it must have been east of here, closer to the rice paddies if I was following the sun the right way." Sun rose in the east, right? Shined upon the weebs and the Hayashibaras of the world. "He was just finished with Emil. It's pretty fucked up, like, how much you can bash someone's head in. Think of a bowl of soup but all the chunky stuff in it spells a vaguely human shape."
Though he guessed Blaise knew all about that, one of her kills might have been brutal for all he knew and remembered. Demetri sternly contemplated Blaise's eyes, blue as the sky and probably an antithesis to the hue of their soul.
"And of course, we immediately engaged in gay make outs, staying in character." He let the vapid lie swim for a second before sinking it. "What happened is I chased him. I, uh, had a gun back then, actually. Had him in my sights for a bit- close enough that I could have blown off his head, or something. But I didn't take the shot... I dunno."
He would have shrugged if he was willing to move an inch.
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The paddies. Blaise had no frame of reference for where that might be, location was not their strong suit. The map would assist though. They could search the area for hiding places, it was not as if they had anything better to do at the moment. If not Lorenzo other witnesses might surface. Ones with a more engaging account than Demetri, who could not resist editorializing his homophobia in the middle. It put them in a difficult position; as they had said, they did not wish to sully their name with association to his, and he had fulfilled his end of the transaction. There was little reason to believe he was covering, Demetri had neither the spine nor the empathy to stick up for any human being that way. Certainly not a murderer the disgusting little incel had considered subhuman before any of the myriad offenses he'd committed in the last few weeks. Hmm. There could be value in his self righteousness though. What they had in mind for Lorenzo would be best done with assistants, and Demetri could at the very least be intimidated into place with proper explanation.
There was the matter of his failure to consider. He had already held Lorenzo at gunpoint once, and not only had he failed to shoot him he had lost the gun as well. To Lorenzo? No, he would have mentioned it, and they doubted Lorenzo would have left him alive. So he...gave it away? Misplaced it? Forgot it, as he had no less than a hundred late payments? Only the first would be of note. If they cared they might interrogate further, but what was one more gun in the wild? No, they had more pressing business. "Ah, Demetri..." They sighed heavily and let the gun dip downwards. "I would thank you, but you disappoint me. All this bluster," their voice twisted to an imitation of his own, " 'I bet I stab faster than you shoot,' feh. You could not pull the trigger on a murderer when he did the deed in front of you." Their expression darkened. "I wonder...if your instincts would have been more certain if you knew. Not just a murderer, but a rapist." Blaise was looking beyond him now, scowling through the crack in the door. "Ah, well. I will find him. When I do..." Eyes turned back to Demetri's face, staring him down in silence. First his face, then to his collar, down his chest, mercifully quick past his waist, down to his knee.
That's where they pulled the trigger.
"It will be as simple as that."
They would collect their supplies and be gone before he finished wetting himself. If he stopped screaming long enough to hear them, he might glean answers about the whys and hows of their bid for survival. Or not. Either outcome suited them; Demetri's suffering was its own reward.
((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued In The Finders Keepers Fallacy & Other War Profiteering Parables))
There was the matter of his failure to consider. He had already held Lorenzo at gunpoint once, and not only had he failed to shoot him he had lost the gun as well. To Lorenzo? No, he would have mentioned it, and they doubted Lorenzo would have left him alive. So he...gave it away? Misplaced it? Forgot it, as he had no less than a hundred late payments? Only the first would be of note. If they cared they might interrogate further, but what was one more gun in the wild? No, they had more pressing business. "Ah, Demetri..." They sighed heavily and let the gun dip downwards. "I would thank you, but you disappoint me. All this bluster," their voice twisted to an imitation of his own, " 'I bet I stab faster than you shoot,' feh. You could not pull the trigger on a murderer when he did the deed in front of you." Their expression darkened. "I wonder...if your instincts would have been more certain if you knew. Not just a murderer, but a rapist." Blaise was looking beyond him now, scowling through the crack in the door. "Ah, well. I will find him. When I do..." Eyes turned back to Demetri's face, staring him down in silence. First his face, then to his collar, down his chest, mercifully quick past his waist, down to his knee.
That's where they pulled the trigger.
"It will be as simple as that."
They would collect their supplies and be gone before he finished wetting himself. If he stopped screaming long enough to hear them, he might glean answers about the whys and hows of their bid for survival. Or not. Either outcome suited them; Demetri's suffering was its own reward.
((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued In The Finders Keepers Fallacy & Other War Profiteering Parables))
Demetri needed some time to stop screaming. Noticing in particular that the hard falling back onto his ass and belting out the ineffectual high pitched mating call wasn't a particularly awesome look on him, after several long seconds of staring into the void through a poker hot curtain of tears. Demetri tried to rally, as an itchy warm rush flooded the collective of his body that wasn't weeping like he was on his time of the month. He managed a few weakly deep breaths in rapid fire, the pathetic sound coming out his mouth lowered almost an octave, to where human ears might have been able to perceive it.
He observed, then, that all the hunk of flesh below the gunshot wound felt numb and inert. Briefly, the inside of his skull felt like zero gravity. He reached instinctively for the blur of destroyed himself that existed on one side of his kneecap, in a shockingly huge gash that went front to back, somehow getting deeper the further back it went. The glistening chunk of metal he assumed was the bullet had landed between his legs.
Guns were scarier in real life than they were in video games. Who knew.
Anyways, he really had to stop all the crying and hyperventilating. Dad might have been watching, or Mom, or Hannah. He didn't want them to think that he was suddenly not cool and calm and collected. Damn, come to think of it. He hoped Jordan or Ming weren't watching him somehow. He would like to think that he couldn't have lost anymore of their opinion and regard for his edgelord masculinity and raw sex appeal- the sort of shit Gordon Ramsey wouldn't touch with a (five inch) knife.
Demetri, soberly quiet now, considered his surroundings with his remaining presence of mind. Blaise was gone, Demetri still had weapon and supplies firmly attached to the parts of his body not exploded like trashcan Jell-O. He was alone with the corpse of Fat Girl 1/3. He mumbled an apology her way, his head stooped as he continued to helplessly evaluate the ceaseless seeping that stained the denim torn and shredded all around the wound. No reason to say he was sorry- it wasn't her in particular that he'd let down.
Blaise had said little, most of their point likely having been hollow (if Demetri remembered his /k/ faggotry still, that had been an accurate gun pun). What little they'd said had resonated, almost deeper through his skin than the bullet.
Lorenzo.
Lorenzo was bad news, before killing two men and after. It made sense. Demetri might have even been inclined to make the prison cell jokes at Lorenzo's expense, once upon a time. Still. Demetri couldn't even begin to think it could be true. Not because Blaise wasn't reliable. They certainly were not, but that was besides the point. It wasn't about Blaise being right or not, it was about the implications of their being right. Lorenzo wasn't evil. Lorenzo was a committer of two separate homicides. But somehow...
Somehow, it was time to face the facts. Demetri couldn't run from them forever. Couldn't hide too- all the dead emotions and stuff, it had just been his excuse to not accept the simplest of concepts.
They could never go back. It was already over. For all but one of them- who was likely going to be the one person who least deserved to escape of them all.
There was no more petty high school 'lul Demetri got btfo by the abstract concept of two X chromosomes' chicanery. No more joking around. No more late night 4-Chan, arming himself to the teeth with furry porn gifs to email spam doxxed liberals. No more innocence. No more friends he could trust unconditionally to have his back, because he knew that all the BS and all the politics aside, there were good people among the faceless masses of Chattanooga. Chattanooga. She was gone, and he'd never see her again.
Yet another relationship with a girl ended prematurely and unsatisfactorily. Figured.
Demetri worked in silence for a time. Slow, needing to put his back into it because goddamn did everything get stiff and sore when it all hurt this bad. A slightly wrong amount of pressure on the leg as he tried to drag it around, and Demetri hit the ground once again, hit that sweet balls-chopped off falsetto as he cried uselessly for the Nth time in an hour. He stabilized his sagging foot flat against a wall eventually, allowing him to suspend his still way too drippy leg off the cold concrete ground.
Lorenzo continued to take up the free real estate in his mind as he worked. An ex-friend. A good friend. The worst man possibly alive in all worlds ever. Hitler comparisons not even needed. Demetri was numb to it. He was numb to the freshly excavated blood fountain on his knee. He wrapped it in gauze, several times over. The only kind-of hard thing he could spare (his dick wasn't big enough for the job), the works of Karl Marx, he wadded up crudely into a tube and formed into some kind of splint he could brace his knee against. More gauze secured it.
Over time, Lorenzo began to fade away. He instead began to wonder what someone like Mercy would say, or Faith, or what Garren would say, if they were with him. He listened to their advice, often morbidly hilarious as it was comforting. Maybe that was just his brain filling in their words on his behalf. Mansplaining all over Mercy's character. Maybe he was just talking to himself, over and over again.
But still, it got him up. Got him on his two feet, his one remaining good leg. The spear as his crutch. For a serene moment in time, he traveled with friends at his side.
The pain of his first step forward drove them away again. His journey was impossibly hard, and it was definitely alone.
((Demetri Futscher concluded in Red Of Tooth And Claw))
He observed, then, that all the hunk of flesh below the gunshot wound felt numb and inert. Briefly, the inside of his skull felt like zero gravity. He reached instinctively for the blur of destroyed himself that existed on one side of his kneecap, in a shockingly huge gash that went front to back, somehow getting deeper the further back it went. The glistening chunk of metal he assumed was the bullet had landed between his legs.
Guns were scarier in real life than they were in video games. Who knew.
Anyways, he really had to stop all the crying and hyperventilating. Dad might have been watching, or Mom, or Hannah. He didn't want them to think that he was suddenly not cool and calm and collected. Damn, come to think of it. He hoped Jordan or Ming weren't watching him somehow. He would like to think that he couldn't have lost anymore of their opinion and regard for his edgelord masculinity and raw sex appeal- the sort of shit Gordon Ramsey wouldn't touch with a (five inch) knife.
Demetri, soberly quiet now, considered his surroundings with his remaining presence of mind. Blaise was gone, Demetri still had weapon and supplies firmly attached to the parts of his body not exploded like trashcan Jell-O. He was alone with the corpse of Fat Girl 1/3. He mumbled an apology her way, his head stooped as he continued to helplessly evaluate the ceaseless seeping that stained the denim torn and shredded all around the wound. No reason to say he was sorry- it wasn't her in particular that he'd let down.
Blaise had said little, most of their point likely having been hollow (if Demetri remembered his /k/ faggotry still, that had been an accurate gun pun). What little they'd said had resonated, almost deeper through his skin than the bullet.
Lorenzo.
Lorenzo was bad news, before killing two men and after. It made sense. Demetri might have even been inclined to make the prison cell jokes at Lorenzo's expense, once upon a time. Still. Demetri couldn't even begin to think it could be true. Not because Blaise wasn't reliable. They certainly were not, but that was besides the point. It wasn't about Blaise being right or not, it was about the implications of their being right. Lorenzo wasn't evil. Lorenzo was a committer of two separate homicides. But somehow...
Somehow, it was time to face the facts. Demetri couldn't run from them forever. Couldn't hide too- all the dead emotions and stuff, it had just been his excuse to not accept the simplest of concepts.
They could never go back. It was already over. For all but one of them- who was likely going to be the one person who least deserved to escape of them all.
There was no more petty high school 'lul Demetri got btfo by the abstract concept of two X chromosomes' chicanery. No more joking around. No more late night 4-Chan, arming himself to the teeth with furry porn gifs to email spam doxxed liberals. No more innocence. No more friends he could trust unconditionally to have his back, because he knew that all the BS and all the politics aside, there were good people among the faceless masses of Chattanooga. Chattanooga. She was gone, and he'd never see her again.
Yet another relationship with a girl ended prematurely and unsatisfactorily. Figured.
Demetri worked in silence for a time. Slow, needing to put his back into it because goddamn did everything get stiff and sore when it all hurt this bad. A slightly wrong amount of pressure on the leg as he tried to drag it around, and Demetri hit the ground once again, hit that sweet balls-chopped off falsetto as he cried uselessly for the Nth time in an hour. He stabilized his sagging foot flat against a wall eventually, allowing him to suspend his still way too drippy leg off the cold concrete ground.
Lorenzo continued to take up the free real estate in his mind as he worked. An ex-friend. A good friend. The worst man possibly alive in all worlds ever. Hitler comparisons not even needed. Demetri was numb to it. He was numb to the freshly excavated blood fountain on his knee. He wrapped it in gauze, several times over. The only kind-of hard thing he could spare (his dick wasn't big enough for the job), the works of Karl Marx, he wadded up crudely into a tube and formed into some kind of splint he could brace his knee against. More gauze secured it.
Over time, Lorenzo began to fade away. He instead began to wonder what someone like Mercy would say, or Faith, or what Garren would say, if they were with him. He listened to their advice, often morbidly hilarious as it was comforting. Maybe that was just his brain filling in their words on his behalf. Mansplaining all over Mercy's character. Maybe he was just talking to himself, over and over again.
But still, it got him up. Got him on his two feet, his one remaining good leg. The spear as his crutch. For a serene moment in time, he traveled with friends at his side.
The pain of his first step forward drove them away again. His journey was impossibly hard, and it was definitely alone.
((Demetri Futscher concluded in Red Of Tooth And Claw))
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