Whatever

[Cactus]

Sleep didn't come as easily on the fifth night of Survival of the Fittest, but as the tall teenager made his way through the foliage, he knew that even a terrible sleep was still a chance for his body to recover from whatever ailed it during the day. Somewhere along the line, he'd found himself a large stick; a walking stick in practice, but in a tough situation, it would serve as a really crappy club. This was there he was, now — trying ever-so-hard to forget about the fact that clubbing someone to death was an actual possibility for him now. Once upon a time, the hardest thing he'd ever had to consider was what college to attend, what would give him the best chance at an optimal future.

Connor Lorenzen's optimal future for now involved surviving another week.

My, how the tables had turned.

((Connor Lorenzen continued from The Man Comes Around))

His dreams that evening hadn't helped any. Most of the time, Connor didn't recall his dreams; by the time he was awake in the morning — basically the second his alarm went off — his mind was already firing on all cylinders. Be it the lack of nutrition, proper hygiene or just the slick weather, Connor's mind emerged from its slumber in a bit of a fog on the sixth day. The dream hadn't been anything outrageous, nothing terrifying, but rather just something mundane; he'd been playing football. Yet every time he tried to dish the rock, it wouldn't go. It would just putter out, as though the football were made of lead. It was infuriating. People were getting mad at him, the fans on the sidelines were booing. Coach Oppenheimer, he had been screaming so loud that his eyes bulged out of their sockets, and then his skin had melted off, and —

Yeah, the less he thought about how the dream ended, the better. Coach had been on the bus, and while Connor hadn't seen anything that would have told him otherwise, he still preferred to imagine that the coach hadn't met the same grisly fate as the other teachers. He'd shut his eyes when he'd opened them to see Ms. Garcia sitting in front of them, and the sound of the gunshot had told him all that he needed to know about what had happened. In that circumstance, it felt more appropriate to let his mind fill in the blanks without damaging his own psyche by imprinting such violence into his mind.

Somehow, that had been an exceptional strategy. Six days in, and realistically, all he felt was tired and hungry. There'd been a degree of trauma; absolutely. He had been wearing an explosive collar around his neck for almost a week, and it did him far better to try and forget it than to recall just how deadly it could be. Connor wasn't stupid. He knew the statistics for getting out of Survival of the Fittest. Escape from within was essentially impossible. Escape with the aid of an outside agent... well, he still had a sliver of hope for that. There was no way that his father hadn't at least tried, but even with the vast resources at his proposal, this was a group that had eluded capture for the majority of Connor's life for a reason. If they were so simply found, the United States military would have done them in a long, long time ago.

So yes — there was still hope, albeit slim hope, but Connor knew he had to face reality. The reality of the situation was that no one was coming, and by the time any mercenaries-for-hire could figure out the location of the island, the seventh hellish contest of Survival of the Fittest would be over, nothing to be found but the corpses of George Hunter High School's finest.

Their finest, their weakest; there was no discrimination. They were all damned, most likely.

Stepping through a hanging leaf that dripped condensation down upon him as he moved it out of his way, Connor came to an opening — it was a garden of sorts, and it was empty. The early morning sun peeked over the trees and granted it a serenity of sorts. He saw no movement in the area; only what looked like the remnants of a campfire, the obvious signs that people had been here before, and something that he couldn't quite make out at the far end of the garden near the campsite. He'd have to investigate later. As it stood now, the morning announcements would soon come, granting the latest brand of horror all over the island and enlightening them all on just whom had joined the killing game, and who had checked out of it.

For the first time, Connor found himself more than a little anxious at the impending crackle of the speakers, and with a sigh, he looked into the sky and shut his eyes.

Any moment now.

"Whatever," it was an utterance for himself, meant to keep him on the straight and narrow, to keep his impartiality intact. Those departed were just people he'd never see again, much like it would have been had they all gone off to separate schools following graduation. It was simple, it was easy to conceptualize.

If only he believed all of that.

[MK Kilmarnock]

It didn't really feel like morning. The sky could get lighter if it wanted, but the longest night of Wyatt's life kept dragging on.

((Wyatt Carter continued from Russo's MO))

The only noise for at least a mile was the sounds of crunching leaves and ragged exhalation. The sound started to become too much to bear, so Wyatt tried to make his footsteps quieter, to little success. It stood to reason there was only so quiet somebody of his size could possibly be, but he tried and kept trying. At one point he fancied his gait to be that of a grizzly bear: lumbering, maybe a little clumsy to look at, but with power in every step that could build up a lot of speed if you weren't paying attention. They'd bulldoze through the woods and through the competition as well. That was the plan.

Wyatt thought he recalled a poem he was once forced to read in literature class, something about plans and everything going tits-up like they had. The thought that he should have just given up did cross his mind, and his survival tactic was to remind himself that's what a coward, a bitch, would have done. Paul and Stephanie Carter didn't raise no bitch.

He was thinking about Mom and Dad a lot more in recent hours. It was for the best if he could at least channel it into something positive.

Wyatt thought he saw the signs of life beyond the edge of the treeline. He stuck his hand out, a silent symbol for Tirzah to stop moving for the moment. He pulled his gun from his belt and inched forward, hunched down a bit so he was only about as tall as she was at her full height. Carefully parsing what he saw through the dim light of dawn, he realized they had come across one of the better faces on the island, one of the most friendly. Like a musical organ about to play its first note, Wyatt took a deep breath in preparation to call out to Connor.

He caught his breath, because anything could happen here. People who should have gone on living way longer than they did were dead, and kids who had it coming should have had their tickets punched by now. The only two people completely exempt from having possibly murdered Bret were Tirzah and himself. Connor was no different. Wyatt didn't know. He didn't completely trust. But his gut was telling him, after he stopped himself to be careful, that he should call out anyway.

"Connor. Hey." Flat notes were the best Wyatt could afford. But they should have been loud enough to hear, even all this way.

After all, even if he tried, he just couldn't be all that quiet.

[Cactus]

Of all the things he'd figured would shake him from his reverie, Connor Lorenzen expected a crackle, but instead received a growl — an oddly familiar one.

His subconscious relaxed his body immediately, the voice was that kind of familiar, but maybe due to the haze or the fog of his brain, he couldn't place it. More than that, his eyes darted around, looking through the trees for where it had come from. He'd been identified by name, so that was a plus, no one looking to flat-out murder him would have called out. Scanning the trees, he rubbed sweat from his brow as he searched, and then —

"Wyatt!"

Thank the good Lord above; the stars had aligned and there was literally no one he was happier to see right now. He gathered that much to the disbelief of his fellow George Hunter students, his pal was not the first person he would have expected to fly off the deep end, bathing in the blood of his fellow students. Wyatt was a lot of things — loutish, occasionally violent, a little more brusque than was polite, but he was a loyal friend whose rough exterior hid a soft heart. Part of the reason he'd been so furious with Ivy after the revelation with Bret had been because he knew that deep down inside, Wyatt would never set out to hurt his brother, but rather had likely been manipulated into it by someone whose true nature was perfectly apparent to him. In breaking up their fight at his after-prom party, Connor had made it crystal clear that whatever had happened was between them, but that they were brothers, and brothers had to work it out.

Odd, coming from him — an only child.

So to see him now, emerging from the trees, gave him a sense of relief. If escape by external means was no issue, perhaps there was something that could be done from within. Perhaps there was a way that they could buck the system, put their combined brains and brawn together and figure a way out of this. While Wyatt was no dummy, Bret was smarter than he appeared, and together, provided the Carters hadn't decided to murder half of the island after a week of this nonsense, the three of them could probably do some real damage.

Things were starting to look up, and Connor's face slowly crept into a smile.

Wyatt was brandishing a gun, which gave him the slightest pause, but it wasn't pointed his way, so whatever. This was one of his best friends; he wasn't going to shoot him. Raising his hand in greeting, Connor started walking towards the trees.

"Y'all have no idea how fucking glad I am to see your ugly mug," he started, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "This ain't right, man. None of this."

As he got a bit closer, he slowed his gait. Wyatt looked completely exhausted, uncharacteristically missing his usual bravado. Not only that, he wasn't alone. Whomever was with him, it was a girl, her identity a mystery to him — he couldn't see her through the shadows of the trees. This was a potentially combustible element, depending upon who it was. The last time he'd seen Ivy, she'd been with Ace — he hoped against all hope that it wasn't her who was crouched behind him. He'd be happy if he never saw Ivy Langley again; he couldn't imagine Bret would have cared much for that, either.

"How're you holding up?" he stopped, sighed, and turned his palms up, recognizing just how inane the question was. "All things considered."

Something was wrong, here. His intuition was screaming at him in a way that it never had before; something in Wyatt's eyes was haunted, different. Connor ignored the feeling. This was Wyatt Carter, one of the few people in the world he genuinely trusted outside of his own family. He wouldn't do anything stupid.

Right?

[MK Kilmarnock]

Connor was almost too happy for Wyatt, but the happiness was out of seeing him. This was a new feeling for the cavalcade of fresh experiences the island and its little game seemed to bring him. Most people dreaded seeing him approach. That wasn't new. People who he had an unkind disposition toward probably shat themselves when he came anywhere near them. Tirzah had been a little different; she sought them out, even killing somebody who seemed to be getting in the way just because it was ruinous to her plans. Ron wasn't even ruinous; he was an inconvenience, and that's why she removed him. Wyatt reminded himself of that constantly, and between that and her demeanor frankly being all the more difficult to read, he hadn't been able to place much trust in her. It was only now that he leaned on her harder than before because she was his only pillar, the only person he could trust to not have taken his world away.

But Connor was another surprise, because the two of them meeting seemed like a fresh of breath air. Wyatt read Connor's attitude and let go of as much tension as he could afford... it was not much, but his shoulders dropped a little. He holstered the gun back in his belt, and tried to keep looking Connor in the eyes as a proper southern man should.

"I ain't doing well," Wyatt replied grimly. "Come on out, Tirzah. He's okay. It ain't him."

He could feel it wasn't him. He felt like, if he stared down Bret's killer, he would have known instantly. Connor wouldn't be happy to see him. He'd be apprehensive at best, aggressive at worst, smug somewhere in between. And he would have been a right shame to put in the ground, but it seemed Wyatt wouldn't have to. Not yet. Hell, maybe Connor would help. He was friends with the both of them, him and Bret. He'd want to get revenge.

Wyatt motioned with his hand for Tirzah to hurry up, looking from side to side as he habitually clenched and relaxed his jaw.

[Ruggahissy]

"I'm sorry not everyone's got tree legs," she said, emerging from behind and foliage out of the way. She emerged and saw Connor, stopping just slightly behind Wyatt. Her response was along the lines of what it would be if you told her that the ice cream machine was on at McDonalds. A half-interested, mildly positive "Oh."

"Yeah, hi, or whatever."

Tirzah looked at him with a similarly tired look, though her brand of tired was not the same as Wyatt's. Following their grim discovery, she elected to go back to sleep for a few more hours, but he'd woken her up to get a move on before sunrise. When she sighed, she felt a deep kind of exhaustion that made her chest feel drained, and if she sat, it was in her legs too. Tirzah was just tired of being on the island, which made her previous facade more difficult to keep up.

No duh. Bret was killed with something big and stabby and Connor didn't appear to have anything like that as far as she could see, so ergo.

She didn't say this, she had just enough wits left about her to know that it wouldn't go over well. But she did make the sort of hand motions to herself, looking like she was presenting Connor as if he were a fabulous new car that could be won on a game show.

[Cactus]

So Wyatt's companion had an identity, albeit one he wasn't immediately familiar with. Tirzah; the name ran through his mind as she came out and mumbled a greeting in his direction. He returned it with a nod. Tirzah, why on Earth was that so familiar? She wasn't a cheerleader, nor was she on student council. He'd seen her around before, that much was certain, but where? Had she made an impact at prom, or heck, maybe even at Swiftball? His mind was tired, and nothing was coming as quickly or as sharply as it usually might. He should have known her for some reason. Narrowing his eyes at her, he studied the girl for a moment. A little tactless perhaps, but something in the back of his mind —

Connor snapped his fingers.

"Tirzah, of course. Volleyball. Sorry, hun. Took me a second. Nice to see you," it wasn't really, but that was the polite thing to say. Connor considered himself a gentleman, and if there was anything to hold on to while drudging through hell, it was going to be his moral compass.

Flashing her a smile; a sad, weary one, but a smile nonetheless, he turned his attention back to Wyatt. Quite obviously, his friend had been through more of a ringer than he. If he had to consider it in a macro view, Connor hadn't really had too much of a problem throughout the first six days of Survival of the Fittest. He was using a smart strategy — keep your head down, don't engage anyone violent, keep to the shadows. He'd spoken and kept company with people who he surmised were no longer alive, Caroline Ford chiefly amongst them. It still didn't seem like a real thing that she wasn't around anymore, but for someone as evidently disturbed as she had been for their brief encounter, it didn't shock him.

Poor girl had never had a prayer.

Something flicked the back of his mind; something he was looking past. Blinking, he brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes. It was — a nagging feeling, something even more wrong than Wyatt's demeanour, but — God, he was tired. Tired, hungry, and ready to leave this hellish ordeal behind. Maybe somehow, they could wait it out. Help couldn't be an entirely lost cause, could it?

"No, I don't reckon any of us are all that well, are we? Sorry. Dumb question," he shrugged, trying to push away the nagging sense of wrongness that was beginning to gnaw at him. To push it down, he started to speak it away.

"Been pretty lucky myself. Almost a week now, I've been movin' around, keeping to the woods, avoiding pretty much anyone who'd ever looked at me wrong, y'know? Ain't no telling who's out of their everloving minds now."

But you're okay, aren't you Wyatt was the unasked question, the assumption. Connor trusted him; he was a teammate, he was a friend. If someone goes after one of us, someone goes after all of us. That was his motto, that was the way it had always been between him and the boys. Had he done his share of damage control over the years? Sure — but it was part of the dynamic. So what was it? What was off? What had Wyatt's six days on the island been like? And what of Tirzah? He had made the volleyball connection, but there was something else— his leadership voice took over and buried the bubbling doubt.

"Got tired of sittin' around, though. We need to do something. There has to be some way out of here, some way to bust out. People have done it before, right? I reckon that nobody's perfect. Least of all these assholes. Gotta find Bret, maybe even Ace — get a few strong, smart folks together. Show 'em that nobody messes with us. Hit 'em where it hurts, right?"

He sounded strong, his posture straightened much like he would when trying to pump the team up before an important drive, before a crucial game. He had captained teams to victory before; this was no different. Wyatt was already searching for someone — obviously his sibling. Once the three of them got together, there was nothing they'd be unable to accomplish. Perhaps they could even find Madison, too. If his father wasn't able to come and get him off of the island, then maybe he would have to do it himself. Connor was in control; he smiled.

He would make his own legacy; just not quite the one he had always envisioned.

"What d'you say? Y'all in for a little jailbreak?"

[MK Kilmarnock]

Wyatt's lips pulled away from his teeth in a jaws-clenched grimace at the mention of Bret's name. The eye contact broke at that moment too.

The best way he could find to express himself was to start walking perpendicular to Connor and Tirzah, hands on his hips.

"Bret's-"

Wyatt cleared his throat. He tried to speak up a little.

"Bret's not. Around. Anymore."

[Ruggahissy]

Tirzah shrugged at Connor "No offense taken." He continued talking to them -- mostly Wyatt -- and she looked up at the sky. It was starting to be fully morning now. The speakers were going to crash to life and tell them what they already knew soon. She stayed quiet when Connor asked them if they were down to fight the good fight or whatever and then Wyatt tried in his Wyatt way to tell him what happened, which she was sure let the air out of Connor's football.

If they were going to make it to the next day, especially with the blow to the armor the announcement was going to dole out, Tirzah decided to try and do some repair work. She walked up to Wyatt and took his right hand in her hands.

"I'm sorry. I know how much you two loved each other, how devoted to each other you were. Maybe you don't know how there can be a life without him, but I feel like he'd want you to have one anyway."

She stood on her tip toes and gave him a hug.

"If I had a brother, I'd want him to be like you guys were."

She did have a brother. His name was Erik.

[Cactus]

Bret wasn't around anymore; well heck, that made sense. Wyatt had said something about searching for him. Tall as he may have been, Connor knew that he still had a few inches on the bearded Carter. There were few people in the school who were as tall as Connor and Wyatt, so he could see why there would be —

Connor blinked.

Something nagged at him. Tirzah, again. She was saying something to Wyatt. The words made sense, they were in standard sentences that he understood, but somehow his brain stopped comprehending them. Tirzah — something about her, something wasn't right with what she was doing. He blinked a few times as though it would allow him to reboot his mind. This was wrong; this was all wrong.

"What," he stated, as though it solved everything.

Stomach rumbling, Connor looked at the ground for a moment. It was still damp from all of the rain that had soaked the island over the past few days, moisture was everywhere. Dirt, sweat, and rainwater coated his soul.

"He's not around — okay so," he felt drunk, "let's go find him. He — he can't be far."

Looking back up he couldn't stop looking at Tirzah; no, actually — he couldn't bear to look at her. Why? What was going on, what was he missing? Why couldn't he put all of this together, it didn't make any sense, all of the pieces weren't coming together for him.

"Right? Let's go, let's go get him, and y'all can, we'll—"

His strong tone cracked, and for the first time he could remember in his entire life, his hand started to quiver. The big game had finally arrived, and for the first time, he didn't feel ready. Looking down at it in confusion, he then helplessly looked up at Wyatt, an expression practically begging his friend to deny the understanding that was ever-so-slightly beginning to creep over his mental horizon.

[MK Kilmarnock]

Wherever Tirzah touched, Wyatt had tensed. He'd tensed before contact, his muscles stiffened like iron cables, rough and unyielding, wrapped in a covering of skin that felt somewhat inconsequential. And in the moment she touched him, he bristled with his shoulder rolled up.

Her words, though, had a gentle flow to them that eased him in the way they needed. They slipped through the cracks in his armor and he wished they were true. Holding onto them caused a feeling, a... a wave, as the only way Wyatt could potentially describe it, to wash into him. It felt like that slow-burn moment with Bret, not the initial shock of finding him, but the one after that which crept up on him until he was in over his head and only then did he realize he was mired in it.

He choked it back quickly, crushing his left thumb in his own fist to use it as a focus, but his right arm had almost totally relaxed. He raised it to let Tirzah in and gently draped it over her shoulder, lightly squeezing her back as she hugged him. He intended for it to be lightly, anyway, but if she started to gasp or wheeze in discomfort he'd take that as his cue he was being just a bit too rough.

"I wanna find who did it to him, man."

Wyatt's voice hoarsely wrenched itself from his throat, head turned as far as anatomy allowed and even then, Connor was in his peripherals. "Somebody killed him. They're gonna tell me who."

[Cactus]

No sooner were the words out of Wyatt's mouth; time stood still for Connor Lorenzen. His expression was a mixture of confusion and bare comprehension of what the words Wyatt had pieced together meant. There was no ambiguity to what he had said, and yet somehow, Connor felt as though he were standing in a cloud of fog that inhibited his ability to understand simple English.

He was a stranger in a strange land.

"He's," Connor tried the words on for size, they felt like he were speaking in tongues, "dead?"

In his mind's eye, he saw Bret Carter. Brusque, all business and as per usual, only having just a small bit of patience for his brother's shenanigans. It felt bizarre; all of the nights on the phone, dissecting opposition defenses, all of the shared high school experiences that were continuously feeling oh-so-far-away. Bret was a friend, and if he were being honest, maybe one of the few people that he had gathered he'd make an effort to stay in touch with. The two of them were on a similar path — both seeking a football career, and so while Wyatt and he were often partners in crime for more of the debaucherous, rowdy parts of high school, his brother was steadfast, more serious, existing more on the same level that Connor himself did.

Except now, if Wyatt was to be believed, the other Carter brother no longer existed at all. The twins were no longer a pair, no longer a unit. Connor felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. The offensive line had let the defensive end through and his absence had sacked him back for a loss.

Massive loss.

"I can't— that's not," it was impossible. His name hadn't been on the announcements yet. Those bastards hadn't claimed Bret Carter for their cause yet, so maybe he'd been wounded, maybe Wyatt was wrong. He must have been over-exaggerating, talking with his usual bluster. Perhaps they'd been separated, and Wyatt had just written his brother off, just with the same kind of —

Come on, Connor. Stop.

His shoulders sank; he shut his eyes and mentally scolded himself. He'd never been much of a scrambler; Connor always felt more comfortable in the pocket. When it broke down, throwing the ball away had long been his preferred method of dealing with the situation. Reset the down and we'll try it again — just his standard MO. But this time, there would be no reset, no starting over. His mind was doing mental gymnastics, but much like his body, his mind wasn't much for acrobatics. So the sloppy attempt at protecting himself was just that — and it failed.

"When?" He managed to croak out, and then opened his eyes. "How?"

He stood perfectly still, eyes still locked on Wyatt. It was just as well; his knees felt weak and if he took a step he knew he'd topple over. This was information that he didn't want to know; he still didn't want to believe that any of this was real, but he had to understand his situation. Connor had to read the play — come up with options.

It was just a shame that in this particular situation, the world was using an entirely different playbook, and no one had thought to share it with him.

[Ruggahissy]

Tirzah silently let him draw her in and constrict around her with emotion. It was an unfamiliar experience to have someone's emotions close on in you from all sides. She felt him shake with anger when he declared his intentions to find Bret's murderer and could feel the beat of his heart against her shoulder. Her fingers slowly relaxed from their curled positions and she put them around his waist, patting him on the side affectionately.

She looked up when she heard Connor speak.

"Last night," she said simply. She wasn't sure what had killed Bret. She hadn't looked at the body very closely. Tirzah looked out at the plants: wild life. "My brother's named Erik," she said suddenly, quietly to Wyatt. "But I only see him once or twice a year. I don't think we like each other."

[MK Kilmarnock]

Connor asked questions. Too many questions. Questions Wyatt didn't want to answer, and with each one he worked his jaw more furiously while a vein in his forehead gradually became more prominent. Tirzah speaking up was a blessing he didn't know he'd welcome until it came. A little bit of tension melted out of his ribs and his breathing became less restricted, if only somewhat.

It was only a few hours ago. One day he had Bret and the next he was already gone. Wyatt couldn't remember the last words he'd ever said to him and for some reason, just realizing that made him sob a little bit. He bit down on his cheek until he tasted blood, and the sobbing stopped. Tirzah felt so small under his arm; everybody did, really, but her especially so in this moment. With most of his arm still over her back, he rubbed her shoulder, gently squeezed it, then picked his arm up to allow her to step out.

The way she'd initially laid things, he thought she didn't have a brother at all, but having one that was super distant must have felt like the same thing. He never imagined having a sibling that you didn't just... talk to or live with. And when you live with somebody, you annoy them, and you fight. He'd take all the fighting in the world now, because going home alone was going to be so much harder.

"Announcements will play soon," Wyatt said, attempting to regain his calm. "That's all I care about right now."

[Cactus]

Connor wanted to help his friend. He wanted to go to him, wrap him in a bearhug and tell him that they were going to make it right. That somehow, they would find the bastard who did... whatever had been done to Bret, and make them pay. He wanted to pledge his vengeance and fury to Wyatt's cause.

He wanted to do all of that, but all of his limbs felt so heavy. So he didn't move.

It was just as well. Wyatt was obviously struggling, his friend experiencing a myriad of emotion at the death of his brother. Whomever Tirzah was to Wyatt, she was doing exactly what he needed at the time. Seeing the waves of emotion washing upon his friend's face broke something inside of him, but Connor didn't cry. He didn't sob, he didn't break down. The only feeling was a hollow realization that things were not okay, and they were never going to be okay ever again. For lack of a better option, he nodded. Connor could barely look at Wyatt anymore, the grief on his sizable friend a foreign emotion and not one that became him.

"We'll do," he managed," whatever we have to."

What the hell did that even mean? Connor knew damn well that it meant searching someone down to murder them, and that went against everything Connor knew and stood for. Killing someone, even in retribution for the death of someone he genuinely cared about, was wrong. It was immoral, and it was exactly what these monsters wanted of them. When push came to shove, was that something he was capable of?

He didn't know; he almost didn't want to. But often, perception was reality, so as shaken as Connor felt internally, he couldn't allow anyone else to understand the doubt that had taken up residence within him. Straightening up, he took a breath, and tried to muster all the courage and strength that he had learned on the football field over the years. A true leader never admitted that the game was out of reach, even in the worst of circumstances. There was always a chance. It was the refrain he'd been echoing over and over, but this time, it wasn't regarding a rescue.

Connor stepped forward, the facade a crumbled mess of what it once was, but still partially there. He was the captain once more; facing a no-win situation. He stepped forward to Wyatt, and clapped his friend on his upper arm, the thick bicep reminding him of just how formidable a presence the linebacker could be.

"I'm with you. Whatever it takes."

His voice faltered, he reinforced his posture to compensate.

"For Bret."

Silence for a moment, and then the speakers crackled, bringing the moment of reckoning with it.

[MK Kilmarnock]

Wyatt nodded in appreciation of the sentiment, but it rang hollow not because he thought Connor was insincere, but because it was a reaching out for help he wouldn't be able to fully accept. Suppressing his instincts to voice these thoughts as his instincts habitually had him do, he remained quiet for the announcements. Somehow, he knew they were coming, like an electronic buzzing in the air. There was just something subtle about the speakers powering up he could detect, just like the ones over George Hunter High's athletic fields. How strikingly familiar it seemed sent a shiver up his spine.

He didn't have to wait long to hear Bret's name, causing Wyatt to double take up to the sky in the general area the loudspeaker might have been located. Claudeson. Claude was the one responsible.

Wyatt's breathing picked back up through the remaining announcements because of course he wasn't actually listening to any of it, playing the name he heard over and over, ignoring the stupid joke somebody made at his family's expense. They'd pay for that later, when everybody else had a bullet in their brain or a slit in their throat. But the very next person to die had to be Claude. Claude the eternal thorn in both their sides, the narc when Ty received the beating he richly deserved. Did he target Bret, or did he just happen to run into him and thought it might have been a good idea to kill him?

Didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that little cunt was a dead man.

"Alright," Wyatt grunted, unable to quell the rose tint overtaking his face. "I know who I'm killing now."

He limply pulled his arm from Tirzah and started to walk in a direction. Didn't matter which one.