((Etain Brennan continued from Lean on Me))
It would be an understatement to say things were a little tense after Etain got Kris away Reiko and the homicide gang. It wasn't just that he knew she was a killer. He'd made a sort of peace with that, in a way. It wasn't pressing until he'd heard her name a third time on the morning announcements. She hadn't volunteered anything, and he hadn't asked. That wasn't to say he didn't want to know. It was just, well, he was still so happy to see her that he wasn't keen to ruin things by bringing it up. Call him naive.
So, the two of them sort of wandered. They were heading the opposite direction of Reiko, and that was enough. For him, at least. If Kris had a destination, she was keeping quiet about it. Keeping quiet about a lot of things, actually. He'd chalk it up to various forms of shock. That was okay. The fact they were both alive, both reunited, that was enough for him. Mostly.
For reasons both practical and personal, the Irish boy found a nice, secluded spot sit down. It was a nice spot to rest up maybe catch a word with Kris. He desperately wanted to believe there was an explanation for her name on the announcements. He needed to believe that there was something didn't know, some crucial information that made it all make sense. All he needed was for her to explain it to him, to make everything make sense.
Etain took a seat in a dry section of the swamp setting both bags off to the side and motioning for Kris to take a seat next to him. The silence seemed to last forever, and he was hoping she'd start first. Seeing how that wasn't going to happen, Etain broke the silence.
"Wha' happened, Kris?" He asked simply, pleadingly. Etain took her hands in his as he tried to understand. "Ya had ta 'ave a good reason, aye? They attacked you, right? Sometin? They started it, right?" When no answer was forthcoming, Etain looked away and let his hands slip free, away from Kris. He fidgeted uncomfortably, adjusting and readjusting his hat. For lack of anything else to say, he nodded over at the bags. "Ah kept yers. Yer bag, Ah mean." After another silence, Etain looked back over at Kris. "Don't worry about it. Explaining', Ah mean. Ah'm jus' 'appy ta see ya again."
Nothing But Soundwaves
((Kris continued from Lean On Me))
Etain hadn't said anything. Neither had Kris. It wasn't the comfortable silence that they'd shared back in Minnesota when hanging around with Tabi and the conversation had naturally died down. It wasn't the ... slightly (romantic?) anticipatory silence that had existed when the two of them were driving to prom on that night. No, this was an uneasy quiet, a sinister quiet. They both knew exactly the issue that was there, but neither of them wanted to broach it. How the hell could it be brought up? Kris sure didn't want to mention it, and although Etain obviously had it on his mind, he wasn't asking.
Were it not for the tension in the air, Kris would almost have been able to pretend that they were out on the camping trip this had all been supposed to be. For a few instants, looking at Etain's face again, she'd been able to do that. Blank out the memories and the creeping tendrils. And then the announcement had hit. And of course, she'd been on it.
Skull... Blood. "So it... it's okay... I forgive you." No.
Kris wasn't about to be credited for the death of a bleeding skull. Reality didn't care about hallucinations. Somewhere, somehow, she'd known about Al being there, delusions or no. She's known. There wasn't an excuse. Murdererrrr.
Then Etain stopped. Kris winced. She didn't want to stop, she didn't want to sit down and... and discuss. She'd expected this, sooner rather than later, it'd had to come. They couldn't just keep going and going. Sooner or later, this had to come. Etain would want an explanation. Worse... she knew what he'd do. He'd try to understand. He'd be sympathetic to her, he'd... maybe he'd even forgive her. Try to say that she was excused from the unforgiveable. Kris couldn't face up to that. This wasn't her getting pissed off at Etain because she'd been trying to land a trick all day. This was killing.
Kris sat down alongside Etain, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin on them. She wouldn't meet his eyes, instead she stared away into the depths of the swamp. They were on the fringes now, and though the bog had been awful; damp, odious and cloying, heading into it seemed almost like an attractive prospect. Odd that after all her relief at finding Etain... she couldn't bear to be in his company.
Etain took hold of her hands, asking the question. Kris shrank back, tried to take her hands away, but he kept a firm grip. He asked again, trying to find a reason for her, an excuse. No, begging for a reason. It would be so easy to say yes, it had been a series of misfortunes, that it wasn't her fault. Easy to lie, but... Kris couldn't force her tongue to move. It was paralysed.
Bespectacled eyes. A frown. Not stern. Not angry. Disappointed. Erik is disappointed. Let him down. She stares at her shoes. "Look at me, Kris." She doesn't. She can't. father asks again. Kris meets his eyes, feeling tiny. She is tiny. Eight? Nine? Thereabouts. Event soon, wedding. Kris hates her little white dress. But she'd promised. Promised him not to get it dirty. Snuck out into the yard, had a skate. Bailed, fell in the mud. "Promises are important. You shouldn't lie like that...'
Kris still didn't look at him.
"Etain I... You want a lie? I can't lie to you. Nobody started it... nobody came after me, I..." Kris choked back a sob, forced herself on. It was a confession, she had to make it, to Etain if anyone, she had to. "I wasn't defending myself. I was scared but fuck, who isn't, Etain?" Kris turned away from him. "I'm not gonna lie just cause it'd be easier. I'm a killer Etain, you... don't try to understand!"
Etain hadn't said anything. Neither had Kris. It wasn't the comfortable silence that they'd shared back in Minnesota when hanging around with Tabi and the conversation had naturally died down. It wasn't the ... slightly (romantic?) anticipatory silence that had existed when the two of them were driving to prom on that night. No, this was an uneasy quiet, a sinister quiet. They both knew exactly the issue that was there, but neither of them wanted to broach it. How the hell could it be brought up? Kris sure didn't want to mention it, and although Etain obviously had it on his mind, he wasn't asking.
Were it not for the tension in the air, Kris would almost have been able to pretend that they were out on the camping trip this had all been supposed to be. For a few instants, looking at Etain's face again, she'd been able to do that. Blank out the memories and the creeping tendrils. And then the announcement had hit. And of course, she'd been on it.
Skull... Blood. "So it... it's okay... I forgive you." No.
Kris wasn't about to be credited for the death of a bleeding skull. Reality didn't care about hallucinations. Somewhere, somehow, she'd known about Al being there, delusions or no. She's known. There wasn't an excuse. Murdererrrr.
Then Etain stopped. Kris winced. She didn't want to stop, she didn't want to sit down and... and discuss. She'd expected this, sooner rather than later, it'd had to come. They couldn't just keep going and going. Sooner or later, this had to come. Etain would want an explanation. Worse... she knew what he'd do. He'd try to understand. He'd be sympathetic to her, he'd... maybe he'd even forgive her. Try to say that she was excused from the unforgiveable. Kris couldn't face up to that. This wasn't her getting pissed off at Etain because she'd been trying to land a trick all day. This was killing.
Kris sat down alongside Etain, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin on them. She wouldn't meet his eyes, instead she stared away into the depths of the swamp. They were on the fringes now, and though the bog had been awful; damp, odious and cloying, heading into it seemed almost like an attractive prospect. Odd that after all her relief at finding Etain... she couldn't bear to be in his company.
Etain took hold of her hands, asking the question. Kris shrank back, tried to take her hands away, but he kept a firm grip. He asked again, trying to find a reason for her, an excuse. No, begging for a reason. It would be so easy to say yes, it had been a series of misfortunes, that it wasn't her fault. Easy to lie, but... Kris couldn't force her tongue to move. It was paralysed.
Bespectacled eyes. A frown. Not stern. Not angry. Disappointed. Erik is disappointed. Let him down. She stares at her shoes. "Look at me, Kris." She doesn't. She can't. father asks again. Kris meets his eyes, feeling tiny. She is tiny. Eight? Nine? Thereabouts. Event soon, wedding. Kris hates her little white dress. But she'd promised. Promised him not to get it dirty. Snuck out into the yard, had a skate. Bailed, fell in the mud. "Promises are important. You shouldn't lie like that...'
Kris still didn't look at him.
"Etain I... You want a lie? I can't lie to you. Nobody started it... nobody came after me, I..." Kris choked back a sob, forced herself on. It was a confession, she had to make it, to Etain if anyone, she had to. "I wasn't defending myself. I was scared but fuck, who isn't, Etain?" Kris turned away from him. "I'm not gonna lie just cause it'd be easier. I'm a killer Etain, you... don't try to understand!"
-
ifnotwinter*
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
[[Ilario Fiametta III continued from Paper Tigers]]
Ilario couldn't believe it. Twice he'd blinked and turned away, convinced that the sight in front of him was some kind of a mirage brought on by stress. Now, he sat hidden by a leaning tree, covered in moss, dead and rotten as it slowly leaned farther and farther into the swampwater below. The AK lay on his lap, and he'd tucked his shoes (ruined by seawater and sand and blood but he wasn't going to think about that part) close into the trunk, where the sludgy mess gave way to a small hummock of grass.
Kris Hartmann was out there. Kris, whose name he'd heard on the announcements more than a single time. Kris, who had cut down teenagers, still caught in the last awkward growth upwards, still dancing their stilted mating waltz, like they were dry grass. Or animals. Kris, who had given into the island and become as an animal herself, lashing out, biting any hand that drew near to her.
We euthanize dogs. The reminder floated in his head, wormed through his thoughts. Jackson - had been a mistake. Ilario hadn't known, it hadn't been his fault. But this girl, she was a killer. She admitted it herself. It was his responsibility to put her down, to save the others. Unconsciously, he sat a little taller. He hadn't done anything special before this, apart from good grades. He had always been that one, that studious one without many friends, intelligent but always, he thought, something of a disappointment. Lacking a spark.
Here was his spark. He would be a hero, the way he had always in some half-remembered part of his mind believed he could be. He would show his father. He would show everyone. He remembered JJ, what he'd done to Rosa, how they'd come to blows and he'd been sent reeling to the floor in a haze of embarrassment and blood. He hadn't been strong then. But he hadn't had his gift then, either.
His fingers stroked along the barrel, meandered over the gun's surface until they touched the selector lever. He'd memorized the manuel, knew how to handle it by now. He slipped the lever off safety, into semi-automatic. The easiest. And she was right there, oh, she was right there. Just waiting. There was the boy, of course, but-
-but it was for the better. He was likely her next victim. No, this was still what he had to do. Moving as silently as possible, Ilario turned, in a half-crouch, poking his torso out from behind the tree. Yes, they wouldn't be able to see him. He could fire.
He smiled, faintly. It was all so easy, now. Everything spread out in front of him, so simple. He swallowed, throat constricting on the dry taste of the pills he had taken earlier. Had it been too soon? He wasn't sure. Not that it really mattered, of course. Nothing mattered now. Nothing but the gift.
Father.
I'll do it.
This is for you.
I'll protect them.
His finger curled around the trigger, and squeezed.
Ilario couldn't believe it. Twice he'd blinked and turned away, convinced that the sight in front of him was some kind of a mirage brought on by stress. Now, he sat hidden by a leaning tree, covered in moss, dead and rotten as it slowly leaned farther and farther into the swampwater below. The AK lay on his lap, and he'd tucked his shoes (ruined by seawater and sand and blood but he wasn't going to think about that part) close into the trunk, where the sludgy mess gave way to a small hummock of grass.
Kris Hartmann was out there. Kris, whose name he'd heard on the announcements more than a single time. Kris, who had cut down teenagers, still caught in the last awkward growth upwards, still dancing their stilted mating waltz, like they were dry grass. Or animals. Kris, who had given into the island and become as an animal herself, lashing out, biting any hand that drew near to her.
We euthanize dogs. The reminder floated in his head, wormed through his thoughts. Jackson - had been a mistake. Ilario hadn't known, it hadn't been his fault. But this girl, she was a killer. She admitted it herself. It was his responsibility to put her down, to save the others. Unconsciously, he sat a little taller. He hadn't done anything special before this, apart from good grades. He had always been that one, that studious one without many friends, intelligent but always, he thought, something of a disappointment. Lacking a spark.
Here was his spark. He would be a hero, the way he had always in some half-remembered part of his mind believed he could be. He would show his father. He would show everyone. He remembered JJ, what he'd done to Rosa, how they'd come to blows and he'd been sent reeling to the floor in a haze of embarrassment and blood. He hadn't been strong then. But he hadn't had his gift then, either.
His fingers stroked along the barrel, meandered over the gun's surface until they touched the selector lever. He'd memorized the manuel, knew how to handle it by now. He slipped the lever off safety, into semi-automatic. The easiest. And she was right there, oh, she was right there. Just waiting. There was the boy, of course, but-
-but it was for the better. He was likely her next victim. No, this was still what he had to do. Moving as silently as possible, Ilario turned, in a half-crouch, poking his torso out from behind the tree. Yes, they wouldn't be able to see him. He could fire.
He smiled, faintly. It was all so easy, now. Everything spread out in front of him, so simple. He swallowed, throat constricting on the dry taste of the pills he had taken earlier. Had it been too soon? He wasn't sure. Not that it really mattered, of course. Nothing mattered now. Nothing but the gift.
Father.
I'll do it.
This is for you.
I'll protect them.
His finger curled around the trigger, and squeezed.
Suffice to say, this wasn't going how he had hoped. It was hopelessly naive, but Etain had been expecting something that would perfectly explain everything. Maybe something about a wacky chain of events, something. Not a confession. Definitely not a confession. It wasn't what he was expecting, or what he wanted. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted Kris to say. How was he supposed to process that? The girl he cared about immensely was playing along, actually playing the game. What could a person say to that? How was he supposed to feel? It was Kris, sure, but there was a point where good-will wasn't enough to excuse something.
Nonetheless, he tried desperately to understand, to rationalize what she was telling him. He couldn't just gloss that bit of trivia over, it was something that had to be dealt with. Did she turn into some sort of psycho after that first kill on the first morning? Was she pushed and pushed and pushed until she finally snapped? He'd know Kris for a long time, the idea that she was a killer in the making was laughably absurd. Yet the evidence was all around him, denial being the only thing keeping him from accepting that.
He hated this. This whole situation. He probably wouldn't win an award for originality stating that, but he thought it all the same. The island, the fighting, the damned announcements. Etain wanted to be back in St. Paul, chilling in the skate park, or maybe even hanging out with Kris. Back before everything was turned upside down, when things were relatively simple. Back before he had to decide what to do about the fact that his girlfriend(?) was a killer.
Even with his trepidation and second-thoughts, he had to say something. Despite the feeling that Kris didn't want his forgiveness and understanding, he just couldn't turn his back on her. Even if his common sense was telling him to cut his losses, this was Kris he was talking about. A line from Preacher seemed apt, one spoken by the token Irish vampire. " 'It's not so easy ta stand by yer friends when they're stuck on tha road ta hell, is it?' " Etain muttered, more a general statement then anything directed to Kris. He was silent, letting the silence sink in before he spoke again. "Ah'll stand by ya Kris, no matter what ya do. Ah care about ya too much to do anyting else."
After a moment, Etain climbed to his feet. It wasn't the end of the discussion by any stretch, but it was for the end for the moment. Kris wasn't unrepentant. She was obviously feeling pretty rotten. A psycho killer wouldn't be feeling guilty. That didn't make it okay, what she'd done, but it made it easier to come to terms with. Etain turned back to Kris, extending a hand to help her to her feet. "C'mon. We kin talk abou' this later, alright?"
Or not. Anything he might have wanted to say was cut short by the bark of an assault rifle, a bark followed quickly by what felt like a hammer knocking the wind out of him. For a fleeting second, he was puzzled. He realized he might be in trouble when he felt liquid trickle down his throat and air escape from a hole in his neck. Was it Reiko, coming to finish Kris for her sister and him for interfering in the first place? The part of him that was thinking liked that idea. He'd moved in front of Kris right before the shot, so that added up. But maybe it was Clio, coming to finish the job she started on the beach? Even as his hands rose to his throat and h slumped to his knees, he guessed that it didn't matter to him that much.
Etain knew it was bad the second he tried to breath, and he felt air coming through his throat, instead of his mouth, and he just knew the liquid that was trickling down wasn't saliva. This wasn't right, it couldn't be. He wasn't a bad guy, and he might even go so far as to say he was a pretty decent one. Why did this have to happen, especially now? He'd found Kris, was finally starting to get to the bottom of things, then this happened. It wasn't fair.
Oh God, Kris. How terrible must this be for her? Her best friend, shot right in front of her? He could safely say she wasn't the only one upset, but even in his present state he was thinking of her.
He wanted to go home, wanted to be back in his normal hang-outs. He wanted a chance to tell Kris everything he'd never gotten a chance to tell her. He wished he'd asked her out sooner, some point when they might have been able to actually go on an Honest to God date. Wanted his parents, and his skateboard, and his comics. He wanted to be back in his boring room, with his crummy alarm and creaky bed. Really, anything beside dying in the swamp in front of the girl he loved. And he really really hoped he wouldn't die. He really really hoped he wouldn't die.
Of course, toppling onto the ground like he was, that was a distant hope. At least he avoided falling onto Kris. Traumatic as this was, it wouldn't help anyone if he fell on her, gushing blood and all. The Irish boy managed to stop scrabbling at his throat long enough to grasp one of her hands. He tried to speak, tried to say anything, but all the came out was a bloody gurgle. The last thing Etain saw before his eyes closed for good was Kris.
B092 - Etain Brennan - DECEASED
Nonetheless, he tried desperately to understand, to rationalize what she was telling him. He couldn't just gloss that bit of trivia over, it was something that had to be dealt with. Did she turn into some sort of psycho after that first kill on the first morning? Was she pushed and pushed and pushed until she finally snapped? He'd know Kris for a long time, the idea that she was a killer in the making was laughably absurd. Yet the evidence was all around him, denial being the only thing keeping him from accepting that.
He hated this. This whole situation. He probably wouldn't win an award for originality stating that, but he thought it all the same. The island, the fighting, the damned announcements. Etain wanted to be back in St. Paul, chilling in the skate park, or maybe even hanging out with Kris. Back before everything was turned upside down, when things were relatively simple. Back before he had to decide what to do about the fact that his girlfriend(?) was a killer.
Even with his trepidation and second-thoughts, he had to say something. Despite the feeling that Kris didn't want his forgiveness and understanding, he just couldn't turn his back on her. Even if his common sense was telling him to cut his losses, this was Kris he was talking about. A line from Preacher seemed apt, one spoken by the token Irish vampire. " 'It's not so easy ta stand by yer friends when they're stuck on tha road ta hell, is it?' " Etain muttered, more a general statement then anything directed to Kris. He was silent, letting the silence sink in before he spoke again. "Ah'll stand by ya Kris, no matter what ya do. Ah care about ya too much to do anyting else."
After a moment, Etain climbed to his feet. It wasn't the end of the discussion by any stretch, but it was for the end for the moment. Kris wasn't unrepentant. She was obviously feeling pretty rotten. A psycho killer wouldn't be feeling guilty. That didn't make it okay, what she'd done, but it made it easier to come to terms with. Etain turned back to Kris, extending a hand to help her to her feet. "C'mon. We kin talk abou' this later, alright?"
Or not. Anything he might have wanted to say was cut short by the bark of an assault rifle, a bark followed quickly by what felt like a hammer knocking the wind out of him. For a fleeting second, he was puzzled. He realized he might be in trouble when he felt liquid trickle down his throat and air escape from a hole in his neck. Was it Reiko, coming to finish Kris for her sister and him for interfering in the first place? The part of him that was thinking liked that idea. He'd moved in front of Kris right before the shot, so that added up. But maybe it was Clio, coming to finish the job she started on the beach? Even as his hands rose to his throat and h slumped to his knees, he guessed that it didn't matter to him that much.
Etain knew it was bad the second he tried to breath, and he felt air coming through his throat, instead of his mouth, and he just knew the liquid that was trickling down wasn't saliva. This wasn't right, it couldn't be. He wasn't a bad guy, and he might even go so far as to say he was a pretty decent one. Why did this have to happen, especially now? He'd found Kris, was finally starting to get to the bottom of things, then this happened. It wasn't fair.
Oh God, Kris. How terrible must this be for her? Her best friend, shot right in front of her? He could safely say she wasn't the only one upset, but even in his present state he was thinking of her.
He wanted to go home, wanted to be back in his normal hang-outs. He wanted a chance to tell Kris everything he'd never gotten a chance to tell her. He wished he'd asked her out sooner, some point when they might have been able to actually go on an Honest to God date. Wanted his parents, and his skateboard, and his comics. He wanted to be back in his boring room, with his crummy alarm and creaky bed. Really, anything beside dying in the swamp in front of the girl he loved. And he really really hoped he wouldn't die. He really really hoped he wouldn't die.
Of course, toppling onto the ground like he was, that was a distant hope. At least he avoided falling onto Kris. Traumatic as this was, it wouldn't help anyone if he fell on her, gushing blood and all. The Irish boy managed to stop scrabbling at his throat long enough to grasp one of her hands. He tried to speak, tried to say anything, but all the came out was a bloody gurgle. The last thing Etain saw before his eyes closed for good was Kris.
B092 - Etain Brennan - DECEASED
Kris couldn't look in Etain's direction, much less at his face. His words tore at her, not because they were cruel, no, exactly because they weren't cruel. It wasn't acceptance or forgiveness, thank god... but he wasn't condemning her either. That wasn't right. You didn't embrace the man on the gallows then cut the rope. Etain spoke, it seemed to Kris, in razor blades of kindness. She couldn't meet his eyes.
Which meant she didn't see him get shot.
But she certainly heard it.
The second the sound of gunfire ripped through the air, Kris knew. It wasn't a guess, a suspicion or a dread. She knew. The skater didn't think for the barest instant that she'd been hit, wasn't even really afraid of it. No. It was Etain that had been hit - killed. It made sense, of course it did. Kris evaded punishment, judgement, instead it was others that took the fall, took the pain.
He was dead. Looking was a formality.
But Kris looked anyway, because perhaps, somewhere inside of her, there was a little scrap of hope that she was wrong. That the horrible surety was misplaced, that she hadn't just heard the smack of a bullet on flesh and a gasp of pain.
The blood pouring out of Etain's neck put paid to that slender, desperate delusion. Kris sat there, frozen in place, unable to even twitch a limb. Kris wanted to help him, but... what was there that she could do? The pathetic bandages in (Reika's) her pack weren't about to cure a shot to the throat. Etain was dying, Etain was going to die and it was her fault. Somebody... somebody had taken a potshot at her, knowing what she'd done, and he'd just got in the way. Always dodging the consequences.
Kris's hand was halfway extended to Etain, as if that would have made a difference. As he sank to the ground, toppling onto his side, he grabbed it. Green eyes, normally so sparkling and rougish, were instead filled with pain. He tried to say something to her, but couldn't choke it out. The grip on Kris's palm suddenly fell away, and Etain fell onto his back, the light going out of his eyes for good.
Kris shook.
Then she scrambled over to Etain's b- Etain and threw herself on top of him, buried her face in his chest, and howled. Tears flowed freely once again and she clung to him like she never wanted to let go.
Pain, a fall. Missed trick. Get up and try again.
"Tha' looked like it stung. Need a hand?"
Skatepark. Fooling around. Ripping up the half pipe.
"Hey, Kris, any plans fer tha prom?"
Acceptance. Oh my god. Yes. Yes. Awesome.
"Fer future reference, Ah'm a firm fan ah the flyin' hug. Jus' ta let ya know."
Prom night.
"Oi tink Ah'm tryin' ta say is that ya look wonderful. Oi'm right happy ya said yes, if'n ya didn' get tha' before."
Awkward moment. Kiss? Nearly kiss?
Could've, should've been more.
"Nonono no no no no! Etain I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" Kris hugged Etain, grasped him tightly, not caring if their assailant was gearing up for another run. "I'm sorry I'm sorry. Etain I'm sorry I love you, I LOVE YOU!" she kissed him fervantly, feverishly on the mouth. His lips were still warm. "Etain please no, I'm sorry I love you!"
And she sobbed.
Which meant she didn't see him get shot.
But she certainly heard it.
The second the sound of gunfire ripped through the air, Kris knew. It wasn't a guess, a suspicion or a dread. She knew. The skater didn't think for the barest instant that she'd been hit, wasn't even really afraid of it. No. It was Etain that had been hit - killed. It made sense, of course it did. Kris evaded punishment, judgement, instead it was others that took the fall, took the pain.
He was dead. Looking was a formality.
But Kris looked anyway, because perhaps, somewhere inside of her, there was a little scrap of hope that she was wrong. That the horrible surety was misplaced, that she hadn't just heard the smack of a bullet on flesh and a gasp of pain.
The blood pouring out of Etain's neck put paid to that slender, desperate delusion. Kris sat there, frozen in place, unable to even twitch a limb. Kris wanted to help him, but... what was there that she could do? The pathetic bandages in (Reika's) her pack weren't about to cure a shot to the throat. Etain was dying, Etain was going to die and it was her fault. Somebody... somebody had taken a potshot at her, knowing what she'd done, and he'd just got in the way. Always dodging the consequences.
Kris's hand was halfway extended to Etain, as if that would have made a difference. As he sank to the ground, toppling onto his side, he grabbed it. Green eyes, normally so sparkling and rougish, were instead filled with pain. He tried to say something to her, but couldn't choke it out. The grip on Kris's palm suddenly fell away, and Etain fell onto his back, the light going out of his eyes for good.
Kris shook.
Then she scrambled over to Etain's b- Etain and threw herself on top of him, buried her face in his chest, and howled. Tears flowed freely once again and she clung to him like she never wanted to let go.
Pain, a fall. Missed trick. Get up and try again.
"Tha' looked like it stung. Need a hand?"
Skatepark. Fooling around. Ripping up the half pipe.
"Hey, Kris, any plans fer tha prom?"
Acceptance. Oh my god. Yes. Yes. Awesome.
"Fer future reference, Ah'm a firm fan ah the flyin' hug. Jus' ta let ya know."
Prom night.
"Oi tink Ah'm tryin' ta say is that ya look wonderful. Oi'm right happy ya said yes, if'n ya didn' get tha' before."
Awkward moment. Kiss? Nearly kiss?
Could've, should've been more.
"Nonono no no no no! Etain I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" Kris hugged Etain, grasped him tightly, not caring if their assailant was gearing up for another run. "I'm sorry I'm sorry. Etain I'm sorry I love you, I LOVE YOU!" she kissed him fervantly, feverishly on the mouth. His lips were still warm. "Etain please no, I'm sorry I love you!"
And she sobbed.
-
ifnotwinter*
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
The shot was loud in Ilario's ears. He'd never imagined it would be was that loud, a sharp crack that split the air around him. The recoil slammed back into his shoulder - he'd tried to be prepared, lowering his center of gravity and bracing himself, but the shock still knocked him sideways. He half-stumbled, half-fell into the side of the tree, aware through the ringing in his ears that something had gone horribly wrong.
The recoil. His aim had been good, he knew it had, but the recoil had changed the angle of the gun's barrel. Had it still hit? He scrambled to his feet, heart in his throat, breath catching and choking and starting to speed up. No. No panic, not now. Couldn't panic. Had to breathe. Had to look.
He kept himself hidden as he peered out at the scene in front of him. Kris Hartmann was still up, she was making noise, she was saying something, garbled words, a name. There was a boy at her feet. There was red splashing the foliage around him, soaking into the water around his body. Blood. A lot of blood. The last few spurts were still trickling down his collarbone. The bullet must have gone right through the artery. The boy's artery. Not Kris's.
He backed up a step, Unconciously, his hand wrapped around his mouth, finger pinning his right nostril shut. Forcing himself to take deeper breaths. No panic. No panic. It was okay. It had to be okay. He hadn't - he'd screwed up, fine, he'd made a mistake, but people made mistakes. It wasn't a big (you're father doesn't make mistakes) deal, he could - he could make this work for him. He'd killed someone he hadn't meant to kill, but - he couldn't see the boy's face. He didn't know who it was. It could be a killer. Maybe he had done the right thing.
Yes.
And if it wasn't? If he'd killed an innocent - but people weren't innocent, not anymore. Not here. If he hadn't killed someone yet, he would. Ilario was sparing others. He would kill and - and he was a boy, he might do worse, to Rosa or Frankie or any other girl, and he might hurt people, badly, and Ilario had put him down and that was okay. That was just - that was okay. He hadn't made a mistake.
His breathing calmed. Unconciously, he slipped a hand in his pocket and fingered the pill bottles. It was all good. It was all okay. He was still doing the right thing. And he hadn't lost his opportunity. Not yet.
Settling back on his heels, he watched Kris. She was on the body, crying, sobbing. Crocodile tears, he thought idly. He'd seen them from both his sisters. Did she have a weapon? Not that it mattered. She was a killer. She didn't need a weapon. But he had one, and she hadnt seen him. He had the advantage. He could do this.
Settling the gun into his shoulder once more, he watched her, quietly. His finger settled on the trigger, not moving quite yet. The sobbing girl was in front of him, perfectly in his sights. All it would take was a shot. Easy. So easy. Easy like the air moving in and out of his lungs, slow, measured, calm.
But somehow-
But somehow, not yet.
The recoil. His aim had been good, he knew it had, but the recoil had changed the angle of the gun's barrel. Had it still hit? He scrambled to his feet, heart in his throat, breath catching and choking and starting to speed up. No. No panic, not now. Couldn't panic. Had to breathe. Had to look.
He kept himself hidden as he peered out at the scene in front of him. Kris Hartmann was still up, she was making noise, she was saying something, garbled words, a name. There was a boy at her feet. There was red splashing the foliage around him, soaking into the water around his body. Blood. A lot of blood. The last few spurts were still trickling down his collarbone. The bullet must have gone right through the artery. The boy's artery. Not Kris's.
He backed up a step, Unconciously, his hand wrapped around his mouth, finger pinning his right nostril shut. Forcing himself to take deeper breaths. No panic. No panic. It was okay. It had to be okay. He hadn't - he'd screwed up, fine, he'd made a mistake, but people made mistakes. It wasn't a big (you're father doesn't make mistakes) deal, he could - he could make this work for him. He'd killed someone he hadn't meant to kill, but - he couldn't see the boy's face. He didn't know who it was. It could be a killer. Maybe he had done the right thing.
Yes.
And if it wasn't? If he'd killed an innocent - but people weren't innocent, not anymore. Not here. If he hadn't killed someone yet, he would. Ilario was sparing others. He would kill and - and he was a boy, he might do worse, to Rosa or Frankie or any other girl, and he might hurt people, badly, and Ilario had put him down and that was okay. That was just - that was okay. He hadn't made a mistake.
His breathing calmed. Unconciously, he slipped a hand in his pocket and fingered the pill bottles. It was all good. It was all okay. He was still doing the right thing. And he hadn't lost his opportunity. Not yet.
Settling back on his heels, he watched Kris. She was on the body, crying, sobbing. Crocodile tears, he thought idly. He'd seen them from both his sisters. Did she have a weapon? Not that it mattered. She was a killer. She didn't need a weapon. But he had one, and she hadnt seen him. He had the advantage. He could do this.
Settling the gun into his shoulder once more, he watched her, quietly. His finger settled on the trigger, not moving quite yet. The sobbing girl was in front of him, perfectly in his sights. All it would take was a shot. Easy. So easy. Easy like the air moving in and out of his lungs, slow, measured, calm.
But somehow-
But somehow, not yet.
"No! No! This isn't- that wasn't- ETAIN pleasepleaseplease Etain you can't leave me I love you! C'mon I said - I actually said - oh please Etain Etain nonono I l-l-love yoou!"
Kris couldn't help but babble. Every emotion she felt, every thought that she'd never said, should've said, they all came rushing out of her at once. And... they fell on deaf ears. Either they were dead, or they were uncaring, or they were disconnected, lapping up the drama, fixed to their TV sets. But for Kris, there was nothing beyond Etain, the very moment. She clung to him, as if that could hold life, draw it back, and all the while the words spilled from her, carving through the tears, until in the end, only two sentiments were left. Over and over.
"Etain it's all my fault I'm sorry I'm so sorry, Etain I love you, I love you... I'm sorry."
And she did. She'd loved him - she still loved him. Kris had been in love with him for a long time, maybe even longer than she even realised. Maybe from that first time Etain had rolled up to her in the skate park and introduced himself in that memorable, wonderfully distinctive accent of his. Etain had always been there, always supported Kris, encouraged her to finish that line, perfect that new trick, share in her triumphs, help her pick up and move on from her defeats. A shared passion for a hobby, maybe, but... something more the whole time, Kris realised that.
The thrill when he'd asked her to go to prom, that keening anxiety when Kris had introduced him to her father, desperately wanting more than anything else for him to approve of Etain. How that night, she'd felt like the luckiest girl ever born, how she'd felt so dreadfully uncertain of whether or not to kiss him. How when they'd finally said their goodbyes, Kris couldn't think of anything except him. Anything except whether he had just asked her as a friend or...
And Etain had... he'd felt the same way. Why else... why else would he have stuck with her after everything she'd done? That wasn't friendship, that was something more. So she'd... Kris had really got him killed. Somebody had been gunning for her and instead Etain had been ...
Kris blinked. They were still here. Etain's killer was still...
She sat up, reluctantly letting go of Etain, although she was still on top of him. Her head snapped around, wild, staring eyes seeking the attacker. Kris looked like hell, not that she would have cared even if she knew about it. Etain's blood was all over her face and body, staining her skin and turning her hair a deep pink. Through the crimson mask, pain-filled brown eyes roved, a spark of madness glimmering within them.
Then...
"WHERE ARE YOU!?" Kris screamed, her body shuddering uncontrollably. "Why Etain!? WHY HIM DAMMIT YOU FUCKING FOTZE!? He did nothing! He wasn't responsible! Just because I l-love him doesn't - HE DIDN'T DESERVE THAT YOU SON OF A WHORE! What'd Etain do!? He isn't me! HE DIDN'T EVEN FUCKING DO ANYTHING YOU BLOODTHIRSTY SON OF A BITCH! IT WAS ME! MY FAULT! WHY ETAIN YOU WORTHLESS CUNT!?"
Kris couldn't help but babble. Every emotion she felt, every thought that she'd never said, should've said, they all came rushing out of her at once. And... they fell on deaf ears. Either they were dead, or they were uncaring, or they were disconnected, lapping up the drama, fixed to their TV sets. But for Kris, there was nothing beyond Etain, the very moment. She clung to him, as if that could hold life, draw it back, and all the while the words spilled from her, carving through the tears, until in the end, only two sentiments were left. Over and over.
"Etain it's all my fault I'm sorry I'm so sorry, Etain I love you, I love you... I'm sorry."
And she did. She'd loved him - she still loved him. Kris had been in love with him for a long time, maybe even longer than she even realised. Maybe from that first time Etain had rolled up to her in the skate park and introduced himself in that memorable, wonderfully distinctive accent of his. Etain had always been there, always supported Kris, encouraged her to finish that line, perfect that new trick, share in her triumphs, help her pick up and move on from her defeats. A shared passion for a hobby, maybe, but... something more the whole time, Kris realised that.
The thrill when he'd asked her to go to prom, that keening anxiety when Kris had introduced him to her father, desperately wanting more than anything else for him to approve of Etain. How that night, she'd felt like the luckiest girl ever born, how she'd felt so dreadfully uncertain of whether or not to kiss him. How when they'd finally said their goodbyes, Kris couldn't think of anything except him. Anything except whether he had just asked her as a friend or...
And Etain had... he'd felt the same way. Why else... why else would he have stuck with her after everything she'd done? That wasn't friendship, that was something more. So she'd... Kris had really got him killed. Somebody had been gunning for her and instead Etain had been ...
Kris blinked. They were still here. Etain's killer was still...
She sat up, reluctantly letting go of Etain, although she was still on top of him. Her head snapped around, wild, staring eyes seeking the attacker. Kris looked like hell, not that she would have cared even if she knew about it. Etain's blood was all over her face and body, staining her skin and turning her hair a deep pink. Through the crimson mask, pain-filled brown eyes roved, a spark of madness glimmering within them.
Then...
"WHERE ARE YOU!?" Kris screamed, her body shuddering uncontrollably. "Why Etain!? WHY HIM DAMMIT YOU FUCKING FOTZE!? He did nothing! He wasn't responsible! Just because I l-love him doesn't - HE DIDN'T DESERVE THAT YOU SON OF A WHORE! What'd Etain do!? He isn't me! HE DIDN'T EVEN FUCKING DO ANYTHING YOU BLOODTHIRSTY SON OF A BITCH! IT WAS ME! MY FAULT! WHY ETAIN YOU WORTHLESS CUNT!?"
-
ifnotwinter*
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
She was looking right at him.
She was looking right at him.
Ilario's breath stopped completely, catching hard in his throat. He froze to the ground, muscles still as marble, carved in pale stone. His eyes locked onto her own, bloodshot, lashes spattered with blood, tears coursing from the tiny pink ducts. For a moment there was nothing but detail, and he saw it all. Under his finger was the trigger, warm, inviting. So easy. She might have one too. He couldn't see her hands without moving, she might have a gun like his, nestled into her side. Prepared to spit noise and lead and mark his final messy exit.
But her eyes moved.
Uncomprehending, they roved away from him. Coincidence. His breathing came back in a great flood, and he dragged air into his protesting lungs. Jackson, forcing rebreathed oxygen into his mouth. But no. Not thinking about that now. In front of him Kris was screaming. Insults poured from her lips, harsh in the air. He wrinkled his nose. He hated the sound of the words. They were guttural and angry. But they fit her.
His own lips curved, just for a moment, into something like a smile. Or a grimace. Killer. The blood she must have washed off had been returned. Like Lady Macbeth, out damned spot. He could wait for her to self-destruct, the way he had begun to but hadn't because he was strong, he was going to be strong and he had his gift and he knew what his purpose was now.
Her purpose was evil. She cried her crocodile tears and screamed her anger at him the way he'd heard his sisters a thousand times and he knew she was angry at herself, not at him. Angry she'd been caught. Denied her fun. A quick death was easier, he reminded himself. And the boy might have been her accomplice.
But too much thinking. Too much time, passing in fits and starts. Moments slow enough to watch the passing of insects, speeding until everything was too quick and difficult to understand. Keep only one thought. And an easy one, at that. The right thing.
Protection.
Our Father, who art in St. Paul...
Aiming was easier now. She wasn't standing still, but he decided that didn't matter. The good guys always won, right?
For the second time, the trigger bowed under his finger.
She was looking right at him.
Ilario's breath stopped completely, catching hard in his throat. He froze to the ground, muscles still as marble, carved in pale stone. His eyes locked onto her own, bloodshot, lashes spattered with blood, tears coursing from the tiny pink ducts. For a moment there was nothing but detail, and he saw it all. Under his finger was the trigger, warm, inviting. So easy. She might have one too. He couldn't see her hands without moving, she might have a gun like his, nestled into her side. Prepared to spit noise and lead and mark his final messy exit.
But her eyes moved.
Uncomprehending, they roved away from him. Coincidence. His breathing came back in a great flood, and he dragged air into his protesting lungs. Jackson, forcing rebreathed oxygen into his mouth. But no. Not thinking about that now. In front of him Kris was screaming. Insults poured from her lips, harsh in the air. He wrinkled his nose. He hated the sound of the words. They were guttural and angry. But they fit her.
His own lips curved, just for a moment, into something like a smile. Or a grimace. Killer. The blood she must have washed off had been returned. Like Lady Macbeth, out damned spot. He could wait for her to self-destruct, the way he had begun to but hadn't because he was strong, he was going to be strong and he had his gift and he knew what his purpose was now.
Her purpose was evil. She cried her crocodile tears and screamed her anger at him the way he'd heard his sisters a thousand times and he knew she was angry at herself, not at him. Angry she'd been caught. Denied her fun. A quick death was easier, he reminded himself. And the boy might have been her accomplice.
But too much thinking. Too much time, passing in fits and starts. Moments slow enough to watch the passing of insects, speeding until everything was too quick and difficult to understand. Keep only one thought. And an easy one, at that. The right thing.
Protection.
Our Father, who art in St. Paul...
Aiming was easier now. She wasn't standing still, but he decided that didn't matter. The good guys always won, right?
For the second time, the trigger bowed under his finger.
Silence was all the reply she got. The attacker had either made themselves scarce or just bunkered down. What did it matter anyway? There or not, Kris had no way of defending herself. She was unarmed, now... and she couldn't even bring herself to care about it. For so long, Kris had thought that losing that gun would be like losing a limb, yet meeting Etain had seen her drop it without a second thought.
But losing Etain... that was far worse than a limb. It felt as if somebody had torn her heart from her chest, then devoured it in front of her.
Rage exhausted in one profanity-laced explosion, Kris slumped, head dipping down, eyes locking on Etain's face. He didn't look peaceful, exactly, but nor was his expression contorted with pain. That seemed somehow wrong. He was dea-hurt. D-injured people weren't supposed to have calm faces. The lack of anguish mocked her, suggesting and hinting that perhaps he was alright, that his eyes would slide open, he'd flash her that winning smile and then that distinctive accent would again be in her ears.
Nothing of the sort.
Kris looked up again. She wasn't sure why, perhaps too traumatised to look at Etain for any longer. Her eyes locked on something, a metallic gleam, and all of a sudden, what had seemed a hummock to tear blurred eyes resolved itself into a person. By a tree. Somebody was... somebody was there. Pointing a gun at her. It was... it was them. Kris could've raged, she could've shouted and screamed at her attacker, for killing Etain. But somehow, it no longer mattered to her.
Ilario Fiametta could do his worst. He'd already murdered Etain, he'd already taken the one person that truly mattered away from her. There was no point in this... no point in any of it. That little thought in the back corner of her mind had been all but snuffed out. It wanted her to struggle, fight back, play. But for that one fibre, every part of her being was just overwhelmingly... numb. Crushed in despair. Yes, he could do his worst.
Kris closed her eyes and spread her arms wide, waited for the end.
The gunfire rattled, bullets swept through the air.
...
What?
Kris opened her eyes again.
...
She wasn't dead.
She wasn't hurt.
The bastard had missed.
The son of a bitch had fucking missed.
It was... unbelievable. All that, and when it was her turn... he screwed up?
Kris knelt there and stared at Ilario for a few long seconds. Then she leaned down and grabbed hold of Etain's... she grabbed hold of Etain's body, lifted as best she could. He was a deadweight, Kris tried not to think about it. For a few further moments, Kris just cradled Etain in her arms before, with a burst of strength, she managed to sling his limp form over her shoulder. Kris stumbled slightly as she gained her footing. Etain was heavy, too heavy for this to really be practical. It didn't matter.
She turned and, labouring under the weight, staggering off into the swamp.
((Kris continued in Corpsewalker))
But losing Etain... that was far worse than a limb. It felt as if somebody had torn her heart from her chest, then devoured it in front of her.
Rage exhausted in one profanity-laced explosion, Kris slumped, head dipping down, eyes locking on Etain's face. He didn't look peaceful, exactly, but nor was his expression contorted with pain. That seemed somehow wrong. He was dea-hurt. D-injured people weren't supposed to have calm faces. The lack of anguish mocked her, suggesting and hinting that perhaps he was alright, that his eyes would slide open, he'd flash her that winning smile and then that distinctive accent would again be in her ears.
Nothing of the sort.
Kris looked up again. She wasn't sure why, perhaps too traumatised to look at Etain for any longer. Her eyes locked on something, a metallic gleam, and all of a sudden, what had seemed a hummock to tear blurred eyes resolved itself into a person. By a tree. Somebody was... somebody was there. Pointing a gun at her. It was... it was them. Kris could've raged, she could've shouted and screamed at her attacker, for killing Etain. But somehow, it no longer mattered to her.
Ilario Fiametta could do his worst. He'd already murdered Etain, he'd already taken the one person that truly mattered away from her. There was no point in this... no point in any of it. That little thought in the back corner of her mind had been all but snuffed out. It wanted her to struggle, fight back, play. But for that one fibre, every part of her being was just overwhelmingly... numb. Crushed in despair. Yes, he could do his worst.
Kris closed her eyes and spread her arms wide, waited for the end.
The gunfire rattled, bullets swept through the air.
...
What?
Kris opened her eyes again.
...
She wasn't dead.
She wasn't hurt.
The bastard had missed.
The son of a bitch had fucking missed.
It was... unbelievable. All that, and when it was her turn... he screwed up?
Kris knelt there and stared at Ilario for a few long seconds. Then she leaned down and grabbed hold of Etain's... she grabbed hold of Etain's body, lifted as best she could. He was a deadweight, Kris tried not to think about it. For a few further moments, Kris just cradled Etain in her arms before, with a burst of strength, she managed to sling his limp form over her shoulder. Kris stumbled slightly as she gained her footing. Etain was heavy, too heavy for this to really be practical. It didn't matter.
She turned and, labouring under the weight, staggering off into the swamp.
((Kris continued in Corpsewalker))
-
ifnotwinter*
- Posts: 295
- Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2018 5:22 am
He missed. He fucking - he fucking missed. Profanity ran through Ily's head like a newscaster's reel, blurring his thoughts. She'd stood still, just for a moment, he could have and he should have and he should have but he hadn't. He had missed.
She wasn't wasting any time, either. As he watched, dumbfounded, she hoisted the body over her shoulder and took off, bent under the weight, feet splashing through the damp swamp ground. Blood followed her in a long trail, gravity yanking it from the ruins of Etain's throat. Ily's breath was sped up, jerking roughly through his lungs. He'd missed and he'd messed up. She was still alive. She would kill again. She would kill again, and it would be all his fault.
He wasn't sure when his knees buckled. He was only partially aware of the slime soaking through the knees of his once-pristine slacks, his world reduced to the throbbing ache at his shoulder from the recall and the desperate thoughts flooding through his head. Apologies formed in his mouth and blew away on the faint breeze, torn before ever being voiced. He'd fucked up. Oh, he'd fucked up bad. He'd been given this gift for one reason, Jackson had been sacrificed for this and he'd just thrown it away?
No.
No.
He wouldn't let that happen. Independent of his body, his hands fumbled at his pockets, pulling out the small plastic bottles. The childproof cap yielded under his desperate fingers and spilled white and blue capsules into his palm. He dry-swallowed them, choking slightly as they stuck to the back of his dry mouth, and scrabbled at the few that tumbled into the dirt. They were sticky against his skin, but he put them back in the containers regardless. He was already relaxing. The world was coming back into focus. Too early for the drugs to work, he knew, but...somehow. His nerves were relaxing.
He knew what to do, now.
The trail of blood was irregular, but it was there. The occasional large splash was highlighted against a leaf, and her footprints, indentations already filling with water, were scattered here and there. Wouldn't be so hard to follow, no. She was weighed down. He could follow her. Before she could desecrate the body, or kill another.
Yes. He would follow her.
His lips pulled back. It would be hard to call it a smile, bloodless skin framing teeth with blood speckling them from the tongue-bite of the recoil. But they arched upwards regardless, as he flicked the safety on and slung the gun over his back.
He'd follow her.
He wouldn't miss again.
[[Ilario Fiametta III continued in Slow Cheetah.]]
She wasn't wasting any time, either. As he watched, dumbfounded, she hoisted the body over her shoulder and took off, bent under the weight, feet splashing through the damp swamp ground. Blood followed her in a long trail, gravity yanking it from the ruins of Etain's throat. Ily's breath was sped up, jerking roughly through his lungs. He'd missed and he'd messed up. She was still alive. She would kill again. She would kill again, and it would be all his fault.
He wasn't sure when his knees buckled. He was only partially aware of the slime soaking through the knees of his once-pristine slacks, his world reduced to the throbbing ache at his shoulder from the recall and the desperate thoughts flooding through his head. Apologies formed in his mouth and blew away on the faint breeze, torn before ever being voiced. He'd fucked up. Oh, he'd fucked up bad. He'd been given this gift for one reason, Jackson had been sacrificed for this and he'd just thrown it away?
No.
No.
He wouldn't let that happen. Independent of his body, his hands fumbled at his pockets, pulling out the small plastic bottles. The childproof cap yielded under his desperate fingers and spilled white and blue capsules into his palm. He dry-swallowed them, choking slightly as they stuck to the back of his dry mouth, and scrabbled at the few that tumbled into the dirt. They were sticky against his skin, but he put them back in the containers regardless. He was already relaxing. The world was coming back into focus. Too early for the drugs to work, he knew, but...somehow. His nerves were relaxing.
He knew what to do, now.
The trail of blood was irregular, but it was there. The occasional large splash was highlighted against a leaf, and her footprints, indentations already filling with water, were scattered here and there. Wouldn't be so hard to follow, no. She was weighed down. He could follow her. Before she could desecrate the body, or kill another.
Yes. He would follow her.
His lips pulled back. It would be hard to call it a smile, bloodless skin framing teeth with blood speckling them from the tongue-bite of the recoil. But they arched upwards regardless, as he flicked the safety on and slung the gun over his back.
He'd follow her.
He wouldn't miss again.
[[Ilario Fiametta III continued in Slow Cheetah.]]