SOTF Mini

James was getting cold feet. He always got cold feet, Fisk had realized by now. When it was go time, he always hesitated and it made things so much harder. It was... difficult to deal with, but Fisk tolerated it because, despite all of that, when push comes to shove, James was always there. He always had the group's back, even if he didn't quite necessarily want to jump in. Right now, James needed that push, and the sooner he could lose that hesitation, the sooner James could become self-reliant, capable of holding his own, maybe even beating Ivan when the inevitable ambush comes.

"James..." Fisk did his best to smile softly, it was different from his psychopathic leers. He hoped it was reassuring, despite the clown paint. "Look at her man, you did this. I just brought her here so she couldn't get away." He dropped his hook to the side, one hand staying on James' shoulder as the other reached for his belt loop. He showed James his shiv. "You're right though, it could be a waste of bullets. This'll be more efficient, if not as humane. She's already hung upside down, ready to bleed. It'll be like slaughtering an animal."

He spoke, knowing James would rather not do the latter option. It wasn't in his nature to get up close and personal. "I get it though. You're squeamish. First time's the hardest...for most people. I want you to know I'm not doing this as some sort of test, or punishment. I won't make you do this if you don't want to."

"But I'm going to be honest with you. After this, it gets easier. Way easier. I want you to prepare for the real thing. When, you know who shows his ugly mug." Stokes didn't need to know who he was talking about. She didn't rate the information. "When the time comes, I want you to be able to go full throttle, a no mercy blitzkrieg on the people who'd want you dead. Not just for me, or The Respects. For yourself."

"If you don't want to do this, I won't blame you, I won't judge. I won't make you, and I'll finish her myself. But don't think you can't do this. You fucked her and Junji up. Hell, fatbody will probably bleed out before the night's over." Fisk then nodded to Stokes. "So would she if we didn't get to her first. You can do this. You're capable. Out of all of us, you're literally the most athletic of our group, but you don't even realize it. You're stronger than you think you are."

"I just want you to realize that."

The mistake of staying out here was that Verity could still hear everything.

Only hear, though. Not see. Not know. There were shouts and gunshots and music and there was no way of telling what those noises ultimately meant. Who was winning. If anybody on her side was hurt. If Fisk was…

If he’d gone…

She took a breath.

She took a breath.

And then she saw someone rush out one of the windows on the other end of where she could see. Not… not Fisk, not James, not Sofia. Couldn’t recognize exactly who, but…

But she didn’t have to. Whoever they were, they were the enemy.

(and given you’re meant to be one of them now…)

She dropped the trident again. Got the glock from her pocket. Raised and aimed and let rip.

"Guh-god. J-just fucking shoot, mygh-me so I don't have to listen t-to him talk."

She wished she could sound brave and brash, give those words the delivery they deserved.

She could barely lift herself off the floor.

"S'like a b-movie agh-and baby's first cult fucked an' had an idiot kid-"

Fisk’s smile left him as Stokes interrupted his pep talk.

“Shut the fuck up.”

He turned around and kicked her in the bullet wound.

Fisk was trying to comfort him, to get him ready to do the dead, ease him into it. James knew that, he could tell by the tone of voice he used, some of the words, but instead of comfort or fear, all he could feel was a fire rising in his gut. Disgust.

It was so condescending, insulting, to have Fisk lay things out this way. James didn’t need Fisk to lay out what James’s feelings were for him like some self-righteous idiot. Hell, he fucking knew that Stokes’s imminent death was partially his fault! He knew that he had helped make this happen and he didn’t need Fisk repeating the fact back to him like it was some grand insight that would help him.

James shuddered when he saw Fisk kick Stokes. Why couldn’t it just be over?

His gaze hardened, fixed on Fisk, and he swallowed. James found that in that moment, he wanted one thing: to hurt him.

“Bacchia’s dead, Fisk. Ivan killed her, and I watched it happen. We talked first, though. You wanna know what she told me?”

James could feel the tension resting in his jaw. His hands were shaking, knees locked up.

“She told me she wouldn’t come back, because you’d get us all killed.”

Fisk's jaw clenched. That was some new information.

...


...


"And look where running away got her."

And that was that. Fisk would not be moved and James was so far in that he could see no way up. Verity did not step in from her station to take over, and he still didn’t know what had become of Sofia and Chris. The deed was as good as done already. Something like a laugh emanated from his throat, accompanied by his eyes tearing up. What a godawful time for that to happen.

“Alright.” The resistance had always been pitiful.

James took a step forward, brushing aside Fisk’s shiv. He didn’t care about the ammo, and if James was going to have to do this, he was not interested in literally feeling Stokes die. This just had to be done.

“Yeah, alright.” James felt his voice getting quiet as he spoke.

He closed his eyes and found the act of breathing becoming quite a bit more difficult. Still, he did his best to steady the weapon in his hands when he looked again upon the girl that had been ordained as his victim.

“H-Hey, Stokes.” He didn’t know why he was still talking.

Stokes ugly screamed.

she kinda missed the rest of their little heart-to-heart, busy puking up her life in dark red spatters.

It was streaked down her chin, when she finally managed to raise her head back up, meet James' eyes with glassy eyes.

She said nothing.

She hocked one last gob of blood on Fisk's shoes.

The lack of words didn’t make it any easier. James held his gaze on Stokes for a moment longer as she spat blood at Fisk, before swallowing once again, his throat incredibly dry.

Finally, he closed his eyes again and, holding his breath, James pulled the trigger.

She'd tried, at least.

Stokes' head jerked, once.

She hit the floor.

Fisk paid no mind when Stokes spat blood at his feet. He’d been knee deep in the shit for a while now, and it’d been splattered over his clothes before. Droplets on his shoes didn’t mean nothing.

He looked up at James for only a second, and flinched as he pulled the trigger, surprised at how fast he came to terms with doing it. Fisk felt...

Relief.

James could, he would survive this. He had the power, the strength, the will to do so. All it took was for James to hate him to unleash that potential.

Fisk stepped forward, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Get some rest man. We'll clean up from here."

James didn’t really hear what Fisk said, didn’t really feel the hand on his shoulder. James wasn’t really there at the moment, couldn’t look at what he’d left behind.

“I, uh…” He swallowed.

“I heard something earlier. Think I’m… I’m just going to go check on Sofia. I’ll be back.” James placed the machine gun down on one of the tables before staggering out of the restaurant.

Some time later, he collapsed on his hands and knees and threw up.

((James Highchurch continued elsewhere…))

Fisk held the gun tight as James made his leave. He stepped up to Stokes, who’d fallen since being shot, he’d have to hang her up again. He wiped the blood she spat on his shoe back onto her shoulder. He reached into his bag and pulled out the orange spray can.

Tssst. Tst. Tst.

F

He left his mark on the corpse’s back as he grabbed the rope again. He hefted Stokes back into the the air through the support beam again, tying the knot once more, leaving her to hang upside down like he did Ivan.

He reached into his bag and pulled out the banner he made, from the banner Ivan made. He tied it around the top of the restaurant the way he found it tied along the top of the sailboat. He stepped back and looked at it. Cut apart and taped back together, it said a new message.

HERE/ IVAN

LOVE/ RESPECTS:

Below that were bright orange arrows pointing down. Below those arrows were the hanging corpse of Stokes, spotlighted by the destroyed ‘safe zone’.

He turned to Verity.

“Let’s get out of here.”

((Fisk Bateman continued elsewhere.))

Junji hit the jetty with a heavy thud. He lost his balance immediately, falling onto his knees. He winced in pain, but it was nothing compared to everything else. He could hear Fisk behind him. He could hear his voice, barely ten feet away. He was so close, and he was mocking Stokes. Blood rushes to Junji’s face.

He reached for his gun, using his left arm as his right hung limp. The window was high, but he could still aim at it. If Fisk came over to the window, he could blow his head off. He could save Stokes.

But someone else had a gun out here, and they fired a shot at him. It didn’t come close, but it was too close for comfort. Junji wanted to turn around and start shooting back, but he knew he couldn’t. Even if he had more than one miserable bullet, he was still outnumbered: he had seen how many people were outside at the start, after all. He had to get out of there. That was the whole point of not staying with Stokes as Fisk got to her. That was the whole point of leaving his best friend to die.

He lumbered away, as fast as he could. His arm was dripping blood the whole time, leaving a trail for anyone to follow. It didn’t matter.

((Junji Yamada continued in Rubbing Alcohol.))

While all of this happened downstairs, a lone figure was still hiding upstairs, praying that no one would remember they existed.

And that no one would come up to the second floor.