no need for prisoners. acid trap, post bb.
Mar 1, 2022 17:45:41 GMT -5
Post by gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽♂️kaitlin. on Mar 1, 2022 17:45:41 GMT -5
Blood on your hands, you search for Pope first.
You don't care about the body of the girl that you've left behind. Orders are orders, and you had only been following what had been requested of you, playing the game that the odds saw fit to throw you into. You saw the look in Pope's eyes when you grabbed at Celeste and shoved her spine into that corrugated hull until it came out the other side of her abdomen, the shock at your intention, the simultaneous lack of surprise, the part of him that snapped when he realized that he would be doing the same if he had any chance at going home. You've seen similar looks on people you've known through the years, the look of someone giving up, the look of someone quitting on themself, and it makes you want to scream having seen it on Pope.
You don't know what it was, but you saw better in him.
That's your own fucking fault though.
That makes you grind your teeth, the self flagellation, makes you want to find him even more. You are not someone who doubts herself or her capabilities, are not a girl who has ever wanted to doubt her decisions. But you doubt Pope, doubt why you trusted him in the first place, and it's not that you want to prove yourself right so much as you want to fucking kill him for proving you wrong.
He ran. Like a pathetic little rat skittering away from stomping boots, he ran.
Unforgivable.
"Where the fuck did Pope go," you spit towards Wes, marching your way towards the decaying metal doors, the Scrapyard sign above them barely hanging on by a thread. The awful sound of enamel scraping together echoes in your ears, the tension giving you a headache.
You go to hell for the things that you don't do, too, not just the things that you do.
And you'll condemn this boy for not fighting. You'll condemn him for running. You'll condemn him for it all.
"Come out, come out wherever you are, Pope!" you shout at the array of bullet holes. As you go, you rummage around in the rubble, scour the yard for anything you can use. You'll kill him properly for this, blade to his throat. A part of you wants to let him rejoin the group, let him go to sleep thinking you have his back and then put a knife in it during the night, but you haven't decided yet. A bigger part of you wants to look in his eyes while you do it, let him see you. You look back at Wes, hold his eyes a long second. You adjust the goggles on top of your head, look away. "I just want to talk."
You wonder if either will believe you.
They shouldn't.
You don't care about the body of the girl that you've left behind. Orders are orders, and you had only been following what had been requested of you, playing the game that the odds saw fit to throw you into. You saw the look in Pope's eyes when you grabbed at Celeste and shoved her spine into that corrugated hull until it came out the other side of her abdomen, the shock at your intention, the simultaneous lack of surprise, the part of him that snapped when he realized that he would be doing the same if he had any chance at going home. You've seen similar looks on people you've known through the years, the look of someone giving up, the look of someone quitting on themself, and it makes you want to scream having seen it on Pope.
You don't know what it was, but you saw better in him.
That's your own fucking fault though.
That makes you grind your teeth, the self flagellation, makes you want to find him even more. You are not someone who doubts herself or her capabilities, are not a girl who has ever wanted to doubt her decisions. But you doubt Pope, doubt why you trusted him in the first place, and it's not that you want to prove yourself right so much as you want to fucking kill him for proving you wrong.
He ran. Like a pathetic little rat skittering away from stomping boots, he ran.
Unforgivable.
"Where the fuck did Pope go," you spit towards Wes, marching your way towards the decaying metal doors, the Scrapyard sign above them barely hanging on by a thread. The awful sound of enamel scraping together echoes in your ears, the tension giving you a headache.
You go to hell for the things that you don't do, too, not just the things that you do.
And you'll condemn this boy for not fighting. You'll condemn him for running. You'll condemn him for it all.
"Come out, come out wherever you are, Pope!" you shout at the array of bullet holes. As you go, you rummage around in the rubble, scour the yard for anything you can use. You'll kill him properly for this, blade to his throat. A part of you wants to let him rejoin the group, let him go to sleep thinking you have his back and then put a knife in it during the night, but you haven't decided yet. A bigger part of you wants to look in his eyes while you do it, let him see you. You look back at Wes, hold his eyes a long second. You adjust the goggles on top of your head, look away. "I just want to talk."
You wonder if either will believe you.
They shouldn't.
parker collects sponsorship bits & scrapyard bits.
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