Survival Of The Fittest

"Oh, fuck..." gasped Shawn, a horrified look on his face as he stood there helplessly, watching as Aracelis brought that bat down upon Beth's skull with a sickening crack.

Well, helpless was perhaps the wrong word. If he'd chased after Leslie straight away instead of scrambling for his glasses, he might have been able to come to his ally's aid in time. It also probably would've helped if he had kept running, instead of stopping and gawking as Aracelis channeled her inner Negan. Truth be told, right now he was scared out of his mind, his face turning pale and his spear shaking as he questioned whether it was even worth coming to Beth's aide at this point.

He almost turned and ran away right there and then, if it didn't become obvious that his competitors were about to flee as well, opting to instead chase them off before they could finish the job. It was easy to come to an ally's rescue when his enemies were already on the run, after all.

"Yeah, that's right! You better fucking run!" he yells, watching them flee into the woods before turning back to Beth, kneeling down beside her and clicking his fingers a couple times. "Beth? Beth?!? C'mon, talk to me damnit!"

Everything quickly went to shit. In an instant, Beth’s fortunes reversed, and before she had time to fully comprehend what had even happened to her she felt the impact of a foot on her chest, rolling her onto her back.

Fuelled by adrenaline and hate, and beginning to recover control of her spasming muscles, Beth fumbled at the shoe planted on her. Instinct and fear said to fight with all she had. Hate demanded defiance to the end.

“G-go to hell,” Beth attempted a snarl, managed more of a faltering stammer.

Sudden movement prompted the girl to jerk her head away. Then an indescribable pain erupted from her temple. Needless to say, she screamed.

Aracelis was saying something. Leslie was saying something.

Bethany groaned. She turned her head back up to meet her attacker’s gaze. No, she wouldn’t give her the same satisfaction, she…

Bethany’s vision swam. Dark shapes ebbed and flowed at the edges of her sight. The pain was as constant as it was intense. Was that Shawn? Or the killer’s little goon? Beth’s hand came falteringly up to her head.

“Fuck you!”

She’d tried to scream it with all of her chest. Beth had never cursed aloud before, not as far as she could recall. She wanted to make it count. But her voice came out weak, ragged. Her fingers came away wet, and warm. Far too wet.

No, no, she wouldn’t beg. She was better than that. She was a good person, a strong person, she had to be, she’d decided so. Someone was talking to her. Everything was so hazy. So unfocused. Beth’s hand went from her head to the fouled pickaxe. She could use it stand, she could… get up… fight?

Clicking? That was distinct. How much time had passed? Bethany couldn’t make out who was standing over her. But they weren’t hurting her. Must be Shawn. Her fingers felt sickeningly moist, sticky, as she reached out to grab his hand. Had to be Shawn. Please be Shawn. Even before this hell, who else could she genuinely trust but Shawn?

“I’m, I’m, I,”

Bethany’s vision obstinately refused to clear. The indistinct boy-shaped silhouette loomed large over her, but friendly. She had to be stronger. Had to get up. Had to stop fucking stammering. But she was so cold, and her chest insisted on hurting from where it’d been stomped on despite the much more insistent signals from her skull.

Beth grasped weakly, frantically, for Shawn’s hand. Strength seemed to be returning to her, slowly but surely. She would survive. She was sure of it. She’d make sure of it. By God’s will or her own she’d fight on.

“Give… give me water. P-painkillers. S-somewhere, somewhere warm. We can still,”

Still what? Give chase? Follow their tracks later on? Something like that. Some part of her was cognisant of Aracelis’ weakened state, and still demanded to see her lose a second eye for her crimes.

“We, I, I won’t let her, won’t let her get away.”

God. She sounded pathetic. She needed to recover. Get her strength back, get her sight back. Then she could get her own back. She had to.

[Bethany Lyon continues, too strained to stand on her own.]

She felt him haul her up, his grip tight but arm shaking.

He pulled her along with him, refusing to allow her dragging feet to slow them down.

Leslie was the bodyguard to her celebrity and he was extracting her from what remained of the danger.

Aracelis' consciousness kept fading in and out but she was sure she heard herself laughing as she was led away.

((Aracelis Fuentes continued in Myopia))

((Leslie Romero continued elsewhere in a safe spot as well))

A dark cloud hung over Shawn's head as he listened to Bethany mumble away.

Frankly, it was a miracle she was conscious at all to begin with. In a way he almost wished that she wasn't, would have made things easier if she'd died instead of clinging to life with the stubbornness that was oh so typical of her. At least then he could move on, focus on his own safety instead of looking after an injured friend.

She always loved making things more complicated, didn't she?

Pausing as he mused over his thoughts, he silently rummaged through her things and took out a half-empty water bottle, along with some painkillers that he was quick to feed her. "Easy there, killer. She's long gone at this point..." he says, glancing outwards just to be sure, before reaching down to hoist her up. "C'mon, let's get you indoors..."

He slowly guided her towards the cabin, dragging her bag and pickaxe along behind him. He kept an eye on her every step of the way, observing her motor functions after that vicious injury. What he observed didn't exactly leave him with much hope, 

"Doubt she'll last though, after you carved a chunk out of her face like that" he says, clearing his throat. "Hell, maybe we'll get lucky and an infection finishes the job, eh?"

He shouldered his way past the door, guiding her through that cabin to the first bed he could find, easing her down gently before wiping his brow.
"Theeeere we go... Anything else I can getcha?"

Bethany mumbled something, he couldn't tell what, before quickly passing out. At which point he slumped back into a chair, watching her for a long, long time. His expression betrayed no emotion, staring as his thoughts began to drift.

She was as good as dead, wasn't she? At best she was sporting a whopper of a concussion, at worst: Severe brain damage and a fractured skull. Even a minor injury could be fatal in a game like this, with zero hope of proper medical care. If anything, the merciful thing at this point would be to...

He found himself glancing over at the pickaxe laying against the windowsill. 

Then back at Bethany. 

Then back at the pickaxe.

Slowly, he began to inch towards it...


((Shawn Bellamy continued in Zugzwang))