SOTF Archive/SOTF Classic

In football if you were thinking—you were losing. Ace was done losing.

That was different from winning though.

Beats stared at the base of the Shoe Tree with a renewed appreciation—it was easier to stare at it than look towards Lori’s body or think of that day two encounter with Connor. Beats had never understood why criminals returned to the scene of the crime. Ace always thought that shit was stupid. When he would watch those crime shows and see the perps do shit like that, Beats would call ‘em dumb. Beats didn’t think he was a criminal. Ace knew he was a victim of circumstance--he had committed crimes all the same. He still found himself at the scene of one and why?

Because Ace felt he had nowhere else to go. Or nowhere he could think of. If you were thinking you were losing--and he was done losing, remember? That's what he kept saying.

And yet...


Beats was lost in thought and somewhat in a vulnerable state. His bag was off his shoulder and the BR18 as well. The three pistols remained on his person, one in each pocket and one in his hand. Beats had reloaded them shortly after leaving Darlene and he found himself gripping the Wildey. More bullets than sense. Beats kept one in the chamber because there was no use pulling it out for intimidation alone. That was one of the rules of having a gun, right? If you were gonna pull it than you had to use it.

Was that just another rule Ace made because he liked having rules to break? That's what rules were made for, right? To be broken?

Beats licked his lips and he thought of the meal he had just enjoyed. His stomach was full and cramping after the subsequent walk. Ace needed to rest and he doubted that he would find a safe place anytime soon. Beats didn’t want to be with people. Ace wanted to wait this out until the very end. There was no need to look for Blaise—Blaise could look for Ace.

The goal now was to outlast. It wasn’t to kill the most—it was to kill last. To be the last one standing. If Ace kept on repeating that to himself maybe he would believe it.

His eyes turned from the tree and he looked towards his feet. To his shoes. Beats became blind and deaf. The muddy and bloody adidas stared back at him and Ace could see the damage that came with walking a mile in his own shoes. Ace thought of Darlene and about how she was different and then more frightening—the idea that Beats was the different one. Maybe it wasn't that Darlene was an angel, maybe it was that Ace was a devil. What did that mean? Why couldn't he stop thinking like that? Ace stared at his shoes and wiggled his toes. In football if you were thinking you were losing...

But that didn’t mean this was winning.

click

((Faith Clementine Marshal-Mackenzie continued from Piece by Piece))

Faith's thumb slid down from the now cocked hammer of the revolver-shotgun, joining the rest of her hand in clutching it's wooden grip, and pulling it tightly into her shoulder. She didn't bother to bring her face down into the stock, there was little point, as she stood only a few paces behind him. Instead she just looked at Ace's back as much as the gun, as it lazily pointed in his direction. She could see tension in his forearm as well, then the dull glint of parkerised steel that hung by his side.

"Drop it."

The hoarse demand felt like it came from another person, spilling out of her before she even had time to think about what she was going to say, barely audible above the rushing in her ears.

The moment stretched. The gentle breeze that ran across the centre of the island continued to rustle the leaves above them gently. A bird chirped it's blissful ignorance loudly as it's wings clattered and thrashed in the dimming light. Faith's heart raced a for a few more frantic beats as her eyes locked onto the pistol in his hand.

"Now."

The voice brought him right out of his zone—the click of the shotgun rubber-banded him back into it instantly. Ace felt his senses tighten. If he was blind before, everything became HD. If Beats was deaf, the world became surround sound. Except it didn’t. Except the only thing he could see was the tree in front of him. The soles staring into his soul. The only thing he could feel was his legs and arms shaking. So much had changed—Ace had changed so much. In spite of everything, he remained a scared ass little boy.

Just not the same scared ass little boy.

“Y’know who I am...?”

Ace had been held at gunpoint before—even with his back turned. Myles had done that and guess who ended up getting murked? Not fuckin’ Ace. Justin and Beats had exchanged bullet after bullet—who was left standing? Not fuckin’ Justin. Ace was corrupted and even his fear couldn’t stop the fire being fueled by his feverish focus on moving forward.

“Then y’know I ain’t gonna do that shit.”

There was a rule about pulling a gun out on someone—if you were gonna do it then you needed to fire the fucker right after. You didn’t have to fire at the person—but the gun needed to go off. The sound of gunfire was enough to prove a point. The absence of it proved one too. You never knew someone was bluffing until you called 'em out on it.

“I don’t want no problems,” he said, eyes forward, “Today don’t gotta be the day for either of us. "

Beats thought about how stupid he was to call someone's bluff again--especially someone he couldn't see. In spite of this, Ace still kept his eyes closed and his hand on the .45. Why'd he return to the scene of this crime? Beats felt he had nowhere else to go. Why he'd call this strangers bluff? Ace felt he still had something left to prove.

Faith, of course, knew exactly who he was. A murderer. She hadn't been keeping track well enough to know exactly how many bodies lay in his wake, but she'd seen one of them, and that was enough to be certain. Enough to turn all bar one of her knuckles white, as her right index finger pressed into the cool metal of the trigger guard, just a few inches of motion away from closing her fist sending the hammer down. A previously useful part of her mind was screaming at her, reminding her of all of the rules of the range, but she kept her gun level. There was only the law of the jungle here.

"Did Connor say that too?"

It was a bitter question. Rhetorical. If Ace had even given him the chance to speak, he would have. There wasn't an ounce of doubt in her mind that Connor would have tried to talk his way out, promise heaven and earth to keep drawing breath. But it made throwing the white flag he was offering into the mud easier, reminding herself that he hadn't extended that courtesy to anyone else.

She fired a shot but it wasn’t a bullet. That said a lot. That said it all.

Ace opened his eyes and he gripped his gun, still on his side. He didn’t raise it and he didn’t loosen his grip. Beats swallowed and then he rose his hands, pistol included to the sky. Ace turned around slowly, he hardly moved a spot and it felt like it took all his strength.

“Does it matter if he did?”

Green eyes did a staring contest with shotgun barrel and lost. Ace blinked and he blinked hard. Faith Marshall-Mackenzie, the vice president. Ace had voted for her. Had her in more than a few classes throughout the years. They weren’t particularly close—but they were friends. Faith was friends with everybody. Ace knew her and Wyatt had a thing, but her and Connor? He was jumping to conclusions and leaping from conspiracy to conspiracy. Beats heart beat out his chest. That couldn't be helped. That's just what happened when you thought your heart was soon to stop beating at all.

Faith had fired a shot but it wasn’t a bullet. Not yet. He'd face these shots head on. If you couldn't be brave you could at least pretend. Ace had a very active imagination.

“You think y’know Connor better than I did?”

Hands in the air. Pistol to the sky. Green eyes did a staring contest with grey.

“You think his death hurts you more than it hurts me?”

It was hard not to tell him to stop turning around, to stay facing away from her, so she wouldn't have to see him. But she owed him that much. Shooting him in the back would have felt wrong, like she was afraid of facing what she was about to do head on. So she stared back at him solemnly, a pair of wide, bloodshot eyes returning the favour as he spoke.

Faith didn't have an answer for his question. She didn't even try and come up with one. What would be the point? It wasn't like a few words could get across what she was feeling. That however Ace felt about it, he didn't deserve the chance to walk away. Him, and Erika, and Blaise, and everyone else who'd cut a bloody path through their friends as they grasped for the poisoned chalice of victory - There couldn't be forgiveness for that.

Her head cocked to the side, lining up the battle sight of the weapon with his centre mass, as a grim line cut it's way across her face. She couldn't stop her eyes from drifting up out of the sight picture, and towards his face, the expression of fear, indignation and guilt that was roiling across it feeling like a mirror of what she felt. It didn't matter. She had to do this. Not for herself, but for Connor, for Wyatt, for Dante, for everyone else who'd died for someone's selfish need to feel like they were winning.

She took a half breath in, and curled her finger in, away from the trigger guard. When that finger met the chequered texture of the trigger, she paused. She felt like she should say something. To let him know that this wasn't just about him. To apologise, even though she had nothing to apologise for - She was doing the right thing. She was making sure he wouldn't get to kill anyone else.

Her grip on the trigger tightened. Closed her grip, millimetre by painstaking millimetre. The hammer in the corner of her vision crept ever so slightly lower, preparing to fly forwards. Her heart rang loud in her ears.

She just had to pull the trigger.

She let out a quiet, shaky breath. The motion should have been easy, but it felt like an elephant was sitting on her chest. The mechanism in her hand creaked ominously, and she felt the last hair of resistance pressing against her. She closed her eyes as tight as she could. Stars sparked in the self-created moment of darkness.

Ace wasn't in the sight picture by the time she opened them.

The barrel of the gun drifted down and to the side, her expression wavering just as much as it did, between guilt and anger and sadness. She couldn't do it. She couldn't shoot him, even after all he'd done. It didn't matter how much of a bastard he'd been, she couldn't bring herself to be the person who condemned him to death, not with her own hands. She'd seen too many last moments, too many desiccated corpses to convince herself that there was any honour in it.

Beats’ heart stopped—his breath remained caught in his chest. It was a staring contest—grey eyes against green. Ace wasn’t blinking and he wasn't thinking. In football if you were thinking you were losing. Ace was done losing. That was different than winning.

It was a staring contest—and then Faith blinked. Then Faith lowered her weapon.

Ace’s heart started beating again. His breath escaped his chest with a large gale of an exhale. Beats began lowering his hands. Slowly at first but then very quickly. He couldn’t help it. Ace was fast. He had been born fast and every movement he made he made with speed. Beats made every decision quick—even when he decided to hesitate. Even when the decision was wrong. It was all about speed--Ace was even quick to take it fuckin' slow.

He didn’t take it slow here though. Here he went fuckin’ fast.

Faith gave him an opening and Ace took it. She lowered her weapon and he brought his hands down and took aim with his. If she wasn’t capable of pulling that trigger on someone like Ace at this point? He wasn’t going to give her a chance to do it later. Beats wanted to win. Ace wanted to go home. It wasn’t personal, it was just the game. If Faith hadn’t learned that by now, he wasn’t going to give her a chance to learn it at all. His pistol aimed at her chest, with his hands shaking, the bullets were much more likely to hit her in the shoulder. That didn't matter much. For Ace aiming was all about chance and circumstance. For Ace the only thing that mattered when you had a gun out--was whether or not you were willing to use it.

And Faith, clearly wasn't. Her loss. Ace was done losing.

“If you ain't bout it," he swallowed, "Don't try to be it.”

It took a fraction of a second for Faith to process what he'd said, but that was two fractions of a second too many.

Her shoulder ignited. White, burning agony crept down her arm, as it curled up under her chin. She barely noticed the gun falling from her limp grasp. Her attempt to duck down and to the side, out of the way of his shot, disintegrated, as her legs buckled underneath her. She hit the ground on her other side. A hand - her hand - clutched the wound. Pressed down, feebly, trying to stop the bleeding. Her first few panicked breaths subsided.

She screamed.

It didn't help with the pain. Even the act of her heart beating felt like it was stretching the wound. But it was the only thing she could do to keep focused, to keep her eyes open as she felt them desperately wanting to close. She felt dizzy, her cheeks tingling in a nauseating way, as she forced another lungful of air in past her clenched teeth.

The scene that was in front of her felt distant, unimportant, almost like she was looking at it through a thick pane of glass. The horizon stretched up and down, splitting a canvas of green and brown in half with a thin line of blue. She saw a pair of legs moving, and tried to look up for a moment, but the second her head left the ground it throbbed resentfully. The tension left her neck, and her face slapped into the mud again.

She tried to scream again, but she couldn't hold it for long, the piercing tone cracking as she had to pull in more air. It was appended with a sob. Then another one, before she gasped for air again.

"Make it stop... Make it stop..."

Faith went down screaming. Then she took onto crying—sobbing like the little girl she was. It was similar to Justin in a lot of ways and yet completely different. Faith had came at him with a gun drawn—Faith had her hands on that trigger. This chick was Junior NRA or some shit, everybody knew it. She had evoked Connor's memory as if she was on some vigilante mission and Ace was the target--fuck that noise! Beats needed to win--Ace needed to get home. What game did it look like Faith was playing aiming that shotgun at him? It sure wasn't checkers. What game was she playing lowering it? Sure wasn't SOTF. Faith faltered and Ace rose. She took aim but Beats fired the shots. Faith took the bullets and Ace took the chance. And that's the way it always was, wasn't it?

Chances were never given, they were taken like interceptions. Faith threw the pass and Ace took it back.

Her sobs and her screams were enough to motivate motion—but none of the motivation was deadly. Ace didn’t have to kill someone like Faith. Someone like Faith couldn’t kill someone like Ace. Still—she had to pay some sorta price. If you come at the king, you best not miss. He couldn’t risk her second guessing herself or wising up to what victory cost out here on this island. That'd be a death sentence and not for her. His ears rang from gunfire and the sobs that were coming out of her prone and now bleeding form. Fear became fire and fire became fuel and Ace transformed into a being of instinct. Fight or flight and Ace felt like he had wings.

Make it stop? How'd Faith want him to respond to that? Did she even know what she was asking?

"I would if I could," Ace didn't have to kill Faith, "But I can't so I won't."

Someone like Faith couldn't kill Ace.

Beats grabbed his bag and his rifle with clumsy hands. Ace ran away from the scene of this crime with long strides and a animal type aggression. Beats felt the fire in his belly turn to coldness in his heart. Ace ran until he ran out of breath. Beats ran until his ears turned deaf and his eyes went blind.

[ Ace Ortega Continued In: The Gift My Father Gave Me pt.3 ]

The crashing of footsteps through the undergrowth became less and less distinct, each step blending just a little more into the background noise of the woods, until she lost track of where it started and the sound of wind running through leaves began.

She was alone again.

Even the birds that had watched her idly, moments ago, had left in a burst of motion after the shots rang out. Not that she was inclined to try and look around for them, anyway. Faith stayed curled up on the floor, halfway to the fetal position as her legs drew level with her hips, her left arm cradling her right and trying to keep it steady. The hole in her shoulder still burned with the same intensity, but it stayed the same if she didn't move it, rather than spreading across her arm like wildfire.

It let her get used to it.

The pain slowly ebbed, from blinding to unbearable, from unbearable to excruciating. It wasn't much of an improvement, but it gave her just enough room to be able to think about anything but how badly it hurt. A grimace cut it's way across her face as she grasped out with her good hand, tugging on the strap of her bag, and inching it closer to herself. She had to stop the bleeding.

The zip gave way, and she brought out the tin that contained her medical supplies, her blood slicked thumb slipping off the edges of it as she tried to wrench it open. It's contents spilled out of the ground unceremoniously in front of her. She already knew what she was looking for. Her fingers fumbled with the triangular bandage, the kind of thing normally reserved for holding up a sprained wrist, as she tried to guide it through the crook in her arm.

Faith craned her neck forwards, and bit onto the end of the bandage, keeping it in place as she shakily worked it around her back. The ends met, and she twisted them together into a knot, the fabric now in a loop around her shoulder. Her hand gripped one end taught by her side, but it wasn't enough. She could still see dribbles of fresh blood running over the dark brown patches where it had begun to dry. She steadied herself. Counted it down in her head.

She wrenched her head back, pulling the loop as tight as he could. Everything hurt worse than before, but she held it for as long as she could, even as her left arm shook. As she collapsed back into the dirt again, letting out another shaky breath, she just hoped it was tight enough.

Time passed. Not enough time for the sun to dip below the horizon, but enough time for it to move the shadows in the clearing over her face. She wasn't sure how long it had been, but she couldn't feel any fresh blood on her arm. She could barely feel anything at all in her arm, other than a distant ache that seemed to radiate all the way through it. It was hard to tell when the memory of the pain had hurt more than the pain she was actually feeling.

Getting up took more time. Every stage towards standing upright forced her to stop, as pins and needles and stars in her vision tried their best to topple her. But, eventually, she stood up. She swayed lightly, as her left hand cradled her right forearm against her chest. One foot gingerly made it's way in front of the other.

She wasn't dead yet.

((Faith Clementine Marshal-Mackenzie continued in I Was Just A Kid))