Survival Of The Fittest

He moved fast.  Faster than Alex would have believed possible, already a step away with that gun trained of him, and here they were again.  How many times was it now, that Alex had faced him down, sword in his hand, staring down the barrel of that gun?  Why should he fear it now, after all he had faced and done?

Everything felt very distant, disconnected, dream-like.  A lonely monster who couldn't be killed, whatever the world might hurl at him, lurching through a too-bright reality, an impossible world where Alex was a one-eyed killer of innocent women and men he'd once called friends.

And there was Will McKinley.  His first enemy.

"Why the fuck aren't you dead yet?"

"What are you doing?"

That was unexpected.  His heard jerked towards the new voice (on his blindside, haha, get it, blind because Crowe took your eye in the dark) and found a woman there.  Did he recognize her?  Was it Isabel or Kimiko or...

Stay close.  She's still in striking distance.  But don't drop your guard.

(stupid stupid stupid you knew he was having a conversation you heard two voices why didn't you think about that other voice who it could be what it could do you how it could tear you apart end you this could be the end this could be)

(what role are we playing today).

"Your friend here keeps trying to kill me," Alex said, jerking his head towards Will.  His voice still had that guttural rasp he rather liked, the one that made him feel every inch the monster he'd been trying to play

(that I have become)

"It hasn't quite taken yet."  He turned back towards Will.  "And he'll tell you that he's on the side of right, because I hurt his girlfriend.  What he won't tell you is that he never gave me a chance.  Fired on me while my guard was down.  Because he's pretending he's better than me."  What was it that had upset Crowe?  Darius, right?  "Is that how you killed Darius?" Alex asked.  "Gunned him down without a word."

He shifted a little.  "Put down the gun," Alex said.  "I'll put down my sword.  And..."  An image flashed across his delirious, surreal mind, an image of Fezzik and Westley.  "And we'll try to kill each other like civilized people."

For an eerie moment, it felt like the first day all over again. Both of them standing across from another ready to kill with a girl in the room. Except this time she wasn't dead. Yet, anyway. Knowing Alex, he'd turn and shank her just to piss him off and drive the point home that he was a "villain". He stood there in silence, hand wavering as he heard what Alex had to say.

"Hurt? Hurt?! You fucking killed her you fucking psycho!" Breathing became difficult as the words came out. He wanted to scream some more at him, punch him, shoot him, burn the fucker alive for what he's done, but he hasn't got the means for that anymore. His gun was fucked, he should have focused on fixing that, instead he saw so busy playing therapist, goddamnit. And he didn't have anything else, and he could hazard a guess that Amanda didn't either.

"You keep your fucking mouth shut about Darius!" He felt himself shaking more and more as the words spewed out. "We're nothing alike, I gave him a warning to fuck off! You butchered Rea for no fucking reason!"

He looked over at her, if only briefly. He's too close to her, if she ran he could grab and run her through just as he did Rea. It would be a cold day in hell before he let this happen again. But... she could still make it out alive if Alex focused on him, and once he heard him declare they would finish this like men, he knew what needed to be done.

"Go to hell and burn Alex!"

Click.

Do your worst.

"Go to hell and burn, Alex!"

Movement.  The faintest twitch, as Will made to pull the trigger, and Alex ducked low and

click

Failed again.  Failed again.  What were the odds?  How many times could he be saved?  As many as the drama required it?  As many times as it needed, to establish that he was an indefatigable monster of another order, another caliber?  To prove that he would be the monster he had always claimed to be?  That he would become the mask he wore so well?

Focus.  That man is still dangerous.

Alex came up from his duck in a rising slash.  His mind was racing, fire and lightning sundering the lurching unreality he'd been moving in since Crowe took his eyes.

Words on his lips.

"You first."

Of course, as last time he ducked away. For all his bluster and boasting, Alex was just as afraid of dying as the rest of them. And like last time, there was only a click.

Only this time he'd stand his ground. Running away was not an option.

He saw the the blade rush towards him and tried to block with his left arm. It had taken til the last day for him to feel significant pain, courtesy of Michael's shock knife. But that was nothing compared to the sensation of cold steel cutting flesh, and yet leaving a burning sensation in it's wake. He had thought he'd go for a body blow, but of course not, he'd decided he wanted someone else to have their face as fucked up as his is. He barely got his hand up in front of his face, when before his eyes the machete went through the middle of his hand before forcing it's way up, it took everything in him not scream from the pain. Adrenaline kicking in, he quickly flipped the gun in his right hand upside down and holding it by the barrel, threw a fierce blow aimed for his non damaged eye.

As he did so, he yelled out for her.

"Amanda! Run!"

She did.

She scrambled up at fast as she could, but her shaky legs betrayed her as she moved, everything lurching, nothing making sense and then she was down on the ground again, but further from the two of them. Far enough to get up and make another break for it.

She needed to get up again. She needed to do something. Will was hurt, she could hear the pain in his voice and she wanted so desperately to run as hard as she could.

But she was on the ground, and she needed to help Will and Alex was getting closer, and it took her far too long just to realise exactly where she had fallen. She was exactly where she needed to be. Was it coincdence that she was here, now? Did she mean to move her, to fall here?

Her gun was close enough for her to reach.

She could do it. She needed to help. Make up for the times where she failed to do anything that mattered. She could do something that actually meant something for once.

She raised the gun towards a person for the third time that week.

She was still scared.

She still didn't want to do this.

She didn't have the right to do this.

Even if Will had helped her, even if he was hurt, even if Alex was getting closer, even if she was angry that she failed to do it before, it took everything she had just to try.

Her fingers weren't listening to her anymore, quivering more than she expected, but it wasn't as if her brain was giving commands either.

The shot went off.

Blood flew through the air.

He could see out of the corner of his eye her moving away, good girl. Now to keep this prick busy while she gets out. He made contact and hit him in the face as hard as he could, his left arm in front taking the brunt of the damage from. He could still turn this around.

It was then the loudest noise he'd ever heard in his life came.

He knew something had gone wrong when he felt something warm on his chest, the same burning sensation as on his hand. He looked down and saw the hole in shirt with blood coming out, staining it.

He'd been shot.

But Alex didn't have a gun and Will's didn't work, that meant...

"...Amanda?" Everything felt like it slowed down. Alex however did not, and suddenly it felt like he was being torn open by him. His body felt limp and his defense went to shit, he was leaning on the wall to keep himself up.

When the hell did she get a gun? Where was it? Why didn't she leave? Goddamit! Why does all the bad shit happen to him when tries to do good? After everything that's happened, he's really going to die at his hands...

"I'm sorry Rea."

The gun was gone from Will's hand (and Will's hand might soon be gone from Will's body, ha!) and Alex was already backing away and turning to face the other woman, might be Will's ally or might not but she had seen Will pull the trigger first so it couldn't be that hard to convince her that he didn't need to kill her

Except she was already pointing her gun towards him.

"Shit!" he hissed, and moved to step away, but there was a terrible, thudding pain against the side of his head, something heavy and hard and awful, and he cried out and stumbled backwards as the blow landed and then

Gunshot, like thunder (and how many times now had he heard that awful sound).  Blood in the air.

Alex waited for the pain, and saw Will slump in front of him.  His mouth opened, then closed.

She'd missed.  She'd missed!  Alive again!  No gun could kill him!  

Not as long as she doesn't fire again.

Alive.  Alive!  In spite of every trial this wolrd had hurled against him, he was alive!  And he intended to stay that way.  He intended to win.

He slashed at Will as the other man fell.  He twisted, pulling the bag from his shoulder, weighed with weapons and goods, and hurled it at her.  He sprang towards her from the corner, thinking madly of that paintball game with Gulley and Crowe, the one that had taught him this trick to make sure they couldn't get an easy bead on him, thinking of childish games and make-believe murder that had led him here, now, to this moment with a woman in front of him whose name he didn't even know, just like Rea-

And what felt like the fist of an angry god smashed into the back of his head.

*CLANK*

*WATANK*

*KRINK*

((Jonathan Gulley continued from Either Thou or I, or Both, Must Go With Him ))

Wordlessly he swung.

Again and again. The only sounds he made were the whacks of the toilet seat and the muffled breathing under his mask. Jon wouldn't relent.

He didn't care if Alex begged, screamed, or cried. He had to kill him.

Me or him. Him or me. One of us has to die today.

He swung again and Alex ducked, the seat bouncing off the wall. He lurched forwards, pushing against Jon's midsection and forcing him into the wall. Jon raised the toilet seat and swung down on Alex's head and neck until he relented.

Alex lurched back, and swung his machete down at Jon. He raised the toilet seat, the middle of it catching the blade, stopping it from splitting his skull open. He pushed back and swung, Alex swung too.

The first slash moved across his midsection, and if it weren't for Michael's jacket, Jon's insides would be outside. Jon swung upward in retaliation, and felt a sharp pain move up his side to his arm as Alex swung again, harder this time, cutting through Mike's jacket, Brendan's hoodie, and Jon's skin.

Jon stumbled to the left, and felt another slash go down his back. Muffled screaming came from the Nixon mask as he turned around swinging towards Alex blindly.

He didn't care if Alex slashed, tore, and carved him up. He had to kill him.

Me or him. Him or me. One of us has to die today.

He rushed towards Alex, swinging the toilet seat blindly. Alex swung back, slower, but better aimed. Jonathan had no skill in fighting whatsoever, his only advantage was hitting him from behind.

Alex had experience, reach, strength, and weapons. In any other scenario Jonathan wouldn't stand a chance.

He still didn't stand a chance.

Slash after slash, Jon felt the stings, not as bad as the first, but much worse than any scrape he's had on a skateboard. He got lucky once. Alex swung horizontally, Jon swung vertically.

The machete hit the floor, and Jon raised the toilet seat again. He aimed for the mouth.

Alex's head twisted to the side, red coming from the mouth. A sound not unlike skittles spilling from the bag onto the tiles came next.

Words finally came from the Nixon mask in barely coherent screams.

"Say his fucking name! You hunted him! You tortured him! You murdered him!"

He swung again. Alex could only block with his arms now, with the occasional punch towards his direction. Jon kept moving forward, Alex kept moving back. He swung again.

"Say his name! I want to hear you say it!"

*KRANK*

"You hunted him!"

*KLANK*

"You tortured him!"

*CONK*

"You murdered him!"

Alex's back hit the wall.

Jon moved up raising the seat.

"I want to hear you-"

He swung.

"Say! His! Name!"

Alex caught the seat. The world stopped.

Alex. Caught. The. Seat.

Jon's eyes widened, he gasped under the mask.

Me or him. Him or me. One of us has to die today...

And all my sins come home to roost.

He pivoted on his heel, fast as he could, swung his machete up, too late: again, something slammed home into him.  And again.  And again.

He moved, as best as he was able.  He slashed, but there was his nameless assailant in his absurd fucking mask, swinging a...was that a god damn toilet seat?  Was he trying to kill him with a god damn toilet seat?

This lunatic place run by lunatic people.

They danced, swinging and stabbing, trying to end each other, grunting and shouting.  Alex drew blood.  He was faster.  He was sharper.  He was-

He swung, and the masked man feinted, and swung differently.  The toilet seat caught Alex's hand, and the machete fell to the ground.

Shit!

He reached back for his bag, forgetting he'd flung it at Amanda, weapons and all.  A moment later, and the man was upon him, catching him with a walloping blow to the face.  Teeth clattered against a far wall: aching tumors of emptiness and pain seizured up in Alex's mouth, as blood dripped down his chin.

And more.  And more.  He'd lost his balance, his rhythm.  And the blows rained down, and Alex blocked and dodged as best he could, but his head was spinning and one eye was gone and then, in the midst of those blows he heard the voice.

Jonathan Gulley--little faggot Gulley, little coward, the only other man who'd fought with him in that abandoned paintball lot so long ago.  Gulley, who'd kissed Crowe on the lips so soon before he'd died.  Gulley.

"SAY. HIS. NAME."

And all my sins come home to roost.

Alex hit the wall.  Jonathan raised his toilet seat again.  Is this how it ended?  One mad avenger, one old friend, a toilet seat ahead?  Where was the justice in this, the honor, the theater?  What notion of fittest would be served?  What story?

I don't want to die.

This was not how Alexander David Tarquin died.

He raised his hands with sudden desperate strength, and caught the falling toilet seat.  He felt the impact from wrist to elbow to shoulder, but did not yield.  

"You ran."

The words came.  Whose words?  His, or the character he'd been trying to play?  Was there any difference anymore?  That moment when he and Crowe had clashed on the docks, he'd wanted it.  His one remained eye bored into the matching mask hole.  Fire in his gaze, and no artifice behind it, no difference between the man he was and the man he'd claimed to be.  At this moment, role and player were in perfect harmony.  He'd wanted to kill.  No more hesitation.  No more mercy.  Something new had sharpened his awareness and his rage, transformed him into a monster in an earnest, and the truth was he longed for that feeling, because this place robbed him of any chance or impulse towards decency.  He offered Crowe mercy, and Crowe punched him.  He bared his back, and Crowe advanced with blade in hand.  He offered Will a fair fight, and Will chose...

Again.  And again.  And again.  Nothing fitting quite right.  Nothing going the way it was supposed to.

"You ran," he said.  "You knew what I aimed to do.  I told you.  I told you both.  And you ran."  His grip tightened on the toilet seat.  He shifted to his full height, glaring into the mask holes.

"We live on the edge of life and death," Alex hissed.  "We'd forgotten, but we remember now.  What we are.  What we can be.  And what you are, Jonathan Gulley, is a coward, even worse than Crowe."

Gulley tensed, and tried to swing.  Alex tensed, and wrested the toilet seat from him in one great stumbling heave.  He turned that stumble into a charge, hammered his shoulder into Gulley's chest, slammed him back against the shelves.  Gulley kicked, punched, and Alex kept moving, slammed him backwards once, twice, thrice, each time bouncing a different part of him against a wall or a shelf, and then he caught him and twisted and hurled him to the ground.  Gulley scrambled to his feet, and Alex grabbed the back of his head, and hammered it home against the wall.

Again.  And again.  And again.  Until Gulley was barely fighting him anymore, and blood dripped down the neck of that ridiculous fucking mask, and wasn't that just like Gulley and Crowe, refusing to fit into the story, refusing to behave the way they were supposed to, so Alex peeled the mask from his bloody face and glared into his eyes.  

Alex looked monstrous.  The blackened flesh of his taken eye, the blood dribbling down from his mouth, blood in his hair and blood on his clothes, ragged and ridiculous and just a little bit theatrical, even now.

"No more masks!" shouted Alex, and plunged Gulley's face towards the wall again.

Jon's breathing increased rapidly. Alex started talking, even with most of his front teeth gone he was still talking, blaming, pretending it was his fault Michael was dead.

T-that he had the audacity to pretend he was the one responsible, that he hunted him and killed him after all he did and it was his fault. Jonathan felt himself growl, he had never thought he could do that, let alone the fact it wasn't intentional, it just happened.

He lurched back, ready to knock the rest of Alex's teeth out.

Me or him. Him or me. One of us has to die today...

Alex used his height to his advantage, pulling the seat down, away from him. The force knocked Jon back, he tried to catch his footing. He almost caught his footing, but Alex took his breath the very next moment.

He felt the shelf jab into his back, an uncomfortable pop followed it. He didn't get a chance to groan in protest before his feet were off the ground again.

This time he landed face first into the opposite shelf. He tried to grab onto the grooves in the shelf to hold him down, but the squeaky protests of leather and something cracking was all that he heard as he was dragged back again, his fingertips on fire.

His back smashed into the opposite shelf, and he had enough time to swing at Alex. He punched and kicked. It didn't work, and he felt the gravity betray him as the world turned upside down. He reached out and grabbed onto Alex's hair, pulling it as he crashed into the ground below.

He could remember crashing his skateboard and getting up off the ground for one more trick. He looked at the lock of blonde hair in his hand and made a stupid laugh for the situation. As he tried to get up he remembered Courage The Cowardly Dog, and the way he laughed when he got hurt. It was nostalgic, peaceful even if it was unusual to think of now. Memories distracted him from the pain.

They also distracted him from Alex. It wasn't but a second later that reality came back, and a hand smacked across one side of his head, the other side hitting the wall. He couldn't hear momentarily, his ears were ringing.

The wall came back again. And again, and again, and again, and again, again, again, and again.

He grabbed Alex's arm, his face, he clawed, he punched, he thrashed, he screamed. None of it worked.

He was slammed again and again, his body not wanting to work anymore.

This was it.

Me or him. Him or me. I had to die today...

The mask stuck to his face like glue, he couldn't see, his eyes were stinging when blood poured into them. His skull throbbed, and Alex just kept smashing him.

The sticky cocoon left his face and the beatings stopped. Alex stared at him, Jon knew Alex wanted to hear him brag one last time before it was over. Jon didn't hear what he had to say, he screamed over him.

"S...s-shut up and do it already!"

He hit the wall again and the world turned into bright splashes of color.

He slumped down to the floor, his back to the wall as he heard Alex make his way across the room towards Amanda. He had failed her once again. He was going to kill her, and there wasn't a damn thing Will could do.

But then something happened, someone else had come in to play hero, bashing the shit out of Alex with what looked like a toilet seat. He tried to place who it was attacking him, but concentrating on that became difficult when all he could feel was the pain from his wounds overriding any attempts at doing so. Whoever it was, they had just saved some time for Will.

He heard the clatter of steel on floor and looked over to see his machete, the very thing he'd used to carve him up and leave him lying here. Stained with blood and ready for use. He crawled over to it slowly as he heard the sound of something hitting the wall over, and over, and over again. Punctuated by screaming and flailing. A vicious fight for their lives.

As he grabbed it, feeling the blade to the tip. He knew what needed to be done. Will forced himself up on his feet, taking unsteady steps towards the two as he heard the demented yelling from them both before plunging the machete as hard as he could into Alex's back. He put all his weight into the attack and twisted and turned the blade inside him, making him feel all the pain he felt. And compared to last time, didn't offer any quips or last words to him, just silence as screams filled the air once more.

It was like watching a movie almost.

Jon could see it all happen in... third person, it felt like. He couldn't feel it, but he could see every hit. He could hear every smack against the ground, every drop of blood flying this way and that.

He reached up feebly, trying to grab at Alex's face, trying to get him to stop. Alex bit down on his hand, yanking back and forth like a rabid dog. His head reeled back and the glove was torn from Jon's hand, which fell limply by him. He took a good long look, and realized what that searing pain was when Alex dragged him back and forth. He tore his own nails out trying to grab the shelf, they stood out in odd angles, red leaking from his finger tip- another smash interrupted his train of thought.

He was forced to look at Alex one last time. He saw his hands open up, his thumbs reel back. He knew what Alex was going to do with those thumbs. That freak made sure his fucked up face would be the last thing he saw, and Jon knew it. He closed his eyes, not like it would help.

Screaming filled the room.

This was it, this was what dying felt like.




















It only took seconds later to realize that it wasn't Jon screaming.

Alex had a machete rammed just under his ribs and he was the one screaming, grasping at the blade. The blade twisted and Alex screamed even louder.

This was his chance.

Me or him. Him or me. Alex HAS TO die today...

He brought his hand toward's Alex's face, towards the burnt scar tissue that covered half of it. He scraped down, his fingers catching on something soft and sticky. His head reeled back again. Itdidn't catch.

It did cause him to lean back however, giving him just enough room to crawl out from under him.

"Fuck you, you toothless cyclops creep!"

Alex stood up, machete still hanging through him. He brought his leg up and kicked Alex where he could in the situation, between his legs. With an audible pop, Alex leaned over, his knees buckling. A head crushed for another head crushed you bastard. He looked behind him, and saw the toilet seat. He rolled to his front and started crawling towards it.

So close, but so far. He forced himself to his feet, the world spinning, his peripheral vision turning into black and pink stars as he felt nausea come over him. It felt like he was staring down a tube, he couldn't see anything around him, just things in front of him.

He fell to the ground again and continued crawling. He was just a little over a foot away now.

This was it, it was almost over now.

"S...s-shut up and do it already!"

Not bad, as last words went.  Alex leaned back to smash his head against the wall again.

Thkkt.

He heard the sound first.  Like leather cracking, clothes ripping.  An odd sound, and so intimate, like he could hear it with more than his ears, like he could hear it with his whole body, and then there was the spice of cold in his guts, pressing in on him from the outside almost like a prostate exam but the angle was wrong and-

-and the icicle twisted, and Alex's world dissolved into agony.

no no no no no no no no

no no no No No No No No No

No No No No No No No No No

No NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

NO NO

"NO!" he shrieked, trying to twist free of that awful pain, and trying to move just made it worse, murderous waves washing over his limbs and nerves and snuffing out every last one of his thoughts, and Gulley was twisting in his grasp too, clawing at his face (and for the first time that dead skin hurt) and then there was a kick and his lower body went numb and nausea rose in his guts, met the terrible penetrating pain and melded together and Alex tumbled away, shrieking still.

He hit the wall, hard.  The handle of the machete hit the wall harder, so the blade pushed deeper, and with a crunching pop, its tip poked its way out of Alex's chest.

hello my baby hello my honey

He collapsed against the wall, breathing like a rabbit, too fast, his eyes glazed, staring at that sword poking out of his chest, raising his eyes to take in the scene.  Bloody Gulley, clawing for the toilet seat.  Bloody will, fallen backwards.  The woman...Amanda?  Amanda Tan?

This wasn't right.  This wasn't right.  Alexander David Tarquin was the villain here, he was supposed to outrun/outlast everyone, he was supposed to survive and prove himself the fittest.  He'd already killed Crowe.  Will had been next.  He shouldn't be dying.  He shouldn't be dying.

Tears on his face.  He could feel them, and he couldn't stop them.  Fucking Christ, this sword hurt.  Everything hurt.  His face, his ribs, his arms and legs, from shocks and fights and blows, and there was a pounding in his head and with every pound he could feel himself dying a little, the color washing out of the world as the blood flowed from his wound.

He'd killed Rea.  He'd killed Crowe.  And he was gonna die here, like this, in spite of everything.  In spite of killing his friends, in spite of sending Jeremy away, in spite of...

Sobbing.  

It's not fair.  It's not




you gonna die like this?

What on earth did it matter now?  They'd won, and what a victory.  One man shot down by his would-be avenger, one avenger with his face bashed in, clawing for a toilet seat, and they man they'd killed crying as he died in a closet on an empty island.

Lunatics running everything.

You're dying.

I know I'm dying.  You don't have to tell me.  I can feel this thing in my guts.  I can feel it killing me.

You're dying.

I know!

So how do you die?

What the fuck did that matter now?

You killed Rea.  You took Crowe's finger.  He took your eye.  You killed Crowe.  Tried to kill Will.  Tried to kill Gulley.

And now he was dying.  All pointless.

Not pointless.

Pointless!

You were gonna be a villain.

What kind of villain dies like this?

You ever watched a movie?  Hans Gruber falls down a building like a bitch.

Hans Gruber.  John McClane.  Michael, I'm so sorry, I should have just-

You're dying.  There's no time to lose.  The cameras never stop rolling.

No, they were probably on him now, laying out the scene for all to see.  The murderous villain comes back to finish the job.  The man who will be the fittest, finally laid low.  A small triumph for our heroes, in this hopeless place.  They finished their mission, but the villain can't let them get out that clean, can he?

Fuck, it was so hard to think.  It was so hard to breathe.

He chuckled.

It was hard.  It hurt his chest, and his back.  His wound heave with it.  He felt like he almost vomited.

He kept chuckling.  He didn't know what else to do.  Blood pouring down his face and chest, tears dripping from his eyes, dying and laughing.  That felt right, didn't it?  Properly villainous.

"I was wrong!" he laughed, tears glistening on his cheeks.  "Avengers...in earnest!"  He bared his teeth in something between a grin and a grimace, showing the holes Gulley had left behind.  "Even...in death, you..."

He coughed, and blood and bile flecked against his leg.  He breathed, slow and steady, sobbing no more, laughing no more.  He could barely see.

"No more...masks..." he mumbled, as his eyes flickered to Gulley's pitiful, crawling form.  "No...see?  This is...who we always..."  He gestured vaguely around the room.  "That's...the game.  Take off...the mask, and..."

Fuck no the words were getting away from him.  He focused on his breathing (breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out stay alive this isn't over yet they're going to watch this moment they're going to watch you die and is this how you're going to leave them is this how it ends is this)

"...off the mask," he mumbled.  "And see...who's strong, and who's..."  

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.

"Survival...of the..."

That's not it.  There's more to say.  It's curtain call and the play is coming down and you want to leave them with a memory of who you were and that's your last line?  You can do better, you're Alexander David Tarquin, you have survived guns and lightning and bullets and blades you have fought over and over and over again you sent Jeremy away you killed your friend and you killed an innocent girl and this can't be how it ends, it can't.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Breathe in.  Breathe out. Breathe

ALEXANDER DAVID TARQUIN: ELIMINATED

So close... Almost there.

Laughing. Laughing behind you. Was he getting back up? No... No! Not now, not when you was this close! Get up.

Get up!

He crawled onward, so close, yet so far. "I was wrong!" Shit... What? "Avengers...in earnest!"

What in the fuck was he talking about? Jon turned around to look. He wasn't getting up.

"Even...in death, you..."


"No more...masks..."

"No...see? This is...who we always..."

"That's...the game. Take off...the mask, and..."


Jonathan grabbed the seat, and wiped the blood from his eyes. Alex wasn't going anywhere. He had to get in the last word. The last laugh. That's all it was.

"And see...who's strong, and who's..."

"WOULD YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?!"

He pulled himself up, using the shelf as leverage as he dragged himself towards Alex. Each step hurt. Each breath hurt. Each thought hurt.

"Survival...of the..."

Jon fell to the floor, forcing himself to crawl the rest of the way. He grabbed onto the edge of the shelf again, standing himself up. Don't you fucking dare die just yet, you bastard. Don't you...

Alex was dead.

Will was close to dying.

You were close to dying...

Jon dropped the seat and collapsed onto the ground, staring at the ceiling.

The world kept spinning, bright shapes were appearing in and out of his vision. It was...funny really, it was like going to the dentist.

It was all so... pointless, Michael was right about it. None of it mattered, none of them would make it home anyways. Pointless, so fucking pointless.

He watched the room melt away around him.

All of his friends were dead, and all the people who killed his friends were dead, or dying right here with him, right here in this room. Funny how that worked out, huh? He felt himself crack a smile at that thought, that these people wouldn't get away with what they did, and Jon helped it happen.

He walked in ready to die anyways. What did he have to live for anyways? Did it even matter if you were successful or not? Make sure Alex died for what he did to Michael, what he did to you? Darius' voice spoke up inside Jon's head, yelling "AW YEAH THERE WE GO, APC DESTROYED MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!"

Yeah, mission accomplished.  

It was fucked up, but he felt himself smile like a fool.

He had forced the blade deep within; put everything he had in making it as painful for him as possible. Days of thinking, dreaming of this moment powering him up. Alex tried to move, but all it did was make the blade go in deeper, hurt more, a slow sickening sound booming from him as he hit the wall and the blade went fully through.

He fell backwards onto the floor. As he landed he felt a sense of relief. He finally kept one promise that he had made. He heard him make his speech and turn to him showing his face and it's damage across the days, a twisted image of the boy from the first day, carved and full of holes. He heard the words spew out of him, trying to be a villain to the end. Will just shook his head as he died before he could finish.

"I...I did it Rea." Words that just came out and clung to the air as it became harder to breath, the world zooming around him and the feeling of bile rushing up his throat made it even worse.

Laying his head down to think, and feel out the moment made the pain come back like a train, his hand was beyond repair and bullet wound was burning like hell. He didn't have much time left in him. He could have come back from being hit in the hand, maybe. But getting shot? Fuck no. If he did that , shit would get infected and he'd all be kinds of fucked up. Right now he needed to make sure she was alright.

"Yo-you alive? Amanda?" He coughed and sputtered the words out into the stinging air as he forced his head up and scanned the room around him for her, he couldn't see as well as he laid there, neither her or whoever it was who had been fighting Alex, though from what he could hear over that fucking speech, they were probably crumpled to floor over with him.

Who was it? Amanda? Sure as hell didn't sound like her and from what she looked, not really fighter. Someone else then. But who?