End Game [Harvey Slate's Death]

"You can't hurt anyone else."

Death finally catches up to him in the form of a bullet and steel.

Gunpowder and smoke; alcohol and games; a broken boy and his stone heart; a king and a pawn. Harvey Slate stares with eyes wide and the world spinning in front of him. Blood dripping from the hole in his body, slumping backwards to the ground, where he slams with a thud into the carpet of the bar. A pool of his life mixing with the expensive carpet, surely staining what was left of Harvey Slate. Two kings drowning in a red pool of lives and sins, barely able to think over everything. Shock setting in with a bright flash of red and the fire of a gun, burning against his torso with all the steel cold fire of Adrien Nox's belief in him being the one, the kingpin behind all of this.

How wrong had he been.

Harvey Slate wasn't a killer. Not like Malcolm had been. Not like the others who hadn't come in from the way he can hear Fiora's words heavy in the air, filled with something harsher than he could imagine. Did she really care? Was it all a ploy? No. Fiora was more than this game of death; he'd seen the way she had tried to clue the pieces together like he had done. It's quiet when she leaves him there, with Adrien whose eyes don't quite look right to him. THe world doesn't feel quite as warm anymore, but had it ever been warm for him. Piece by piece, the puzzle fades away, ripping apart with a flurry of pain and steel. Bitter and broken; his heart beats once, twice, thrice.

Malcolm was the killer here. Not him. Harvey had been in a fight or two, but never had enough guts to do anything more than that. Fights were hopeless and desperate attempts at getting emotions out when words failed, but Harvey was a planner. Always the slowest to start up, taking in every chance in order to find the path he always wanted. The freedom he desired so much, but no one knew why someone like him would end up there. End up in the game of death where everyone loses. He's always had his reasons to be there, whether anyone knew them was up to Adrien and Malcolm.

When death knocks, fear bubbles into the hearts of those around them. Harvey had been so young back then. Young, stupid, and fearful boys do the stupidest of things in order to survive. Harvey Slate had played chess a couple of times against the one and only Malcolm Nox in the park; piece by piece, Harvey kept up with Malcolm's own wit. Winning a game or two by the end, but when it came down to it. Everything came down to a single game of life or death. Harvey's seen it all too well before. A mother who was dying from a curable illness and a man with more wealth than he would ever know what to do with. It should have been simple. One cure and one simple payment, but nothing was ever simple.

Death always wins the game of chance.

Malcolm Nox versus Harvey Slate. One game. One life. Every piece of Harvey Slate's heart on the line, but it always comes down to the last piece. The last moment where Harvey banks it all on a quickfire attack, almost like a bullet to the head, but he lost. Lost hard and ended up with nothing. Nothing, but death in his corner. A mother being sentenced to death by the one and only Malcolm Nox; a man who had more than enough wealth to afford it. Tears of a young broken boy leading to the worst thing he could ever say. The worst thing that lead to this game of death and a bullet of steel.

"I'll kill you, Nox! I'll kill you for taking my mother away from me!"

They had dragged him out kicking and screaming back then, but now he's just bleeding with Fiora's jacket on him, trying to keep the blood in his body. Biting down the bitterness of Adrien Nox being the one to kill him, to blame him, to assume his words were what he wanted. Part of him wanted to be that. He wanted to be the only one to know how truly awful Malcolm Nox had been. Except, he wouldn't be. Adrien Nox had suffered enough by his own father's hands than Harvey Slate had. His mother wouldn't smile down at him from this point, but she would have soothed him; call him brave for putting his heart on the line.

Harvey Slate wasn't a killer.

He was just a boy who wanted to get back at Malcolm Nox for everything he did. Whatever it takes to get this company and make it disappear from the history books. Leave the Nox name to disappear into a distant memory where Malcolm Nox wouldn't be remembered as anything, but a man with a hubris that would lead to his undoing, except games were made, pieces were set, and guns were fired. One by one like a game of russian roulette, until it landed on him. Landed on Harvey Slate where gunpowder and steel would end up as the end game for him. Blood stained carpets and a boy with a heart of stone, melting away into nothingness. Forgotten unlike Malcolm Nox; forever broken by the pieces he holds in his hands. There was only one answer from here. Indigo having appear and Fiora coming back, he wasn't alone.

Not anymore.

He wouldn't be alone ever.

Even if they didn't trust him, none of them would leave him for good. Four bodies, only three would make it out from this bar. It's with a heavy laugh that leads to a weak cough when he decides to speak up knowing Fiora wasn't going to find what she needed. The game was over for him; just another rook to fall by a queen's play. Reliable, most used, and the piece to be taken away for the final moves. Eyes glancing up to the other three who hold different looks upon their faces, ones he'll never be able to read or understand, especially not while he's bleeding out on the floor of the bar. Two kings and a single bishop; huddled around a rook waiting for his last breath to come. Voice weak, but as loud as he can make it to Indigo.

"The g-game isn't over. I-I'm not the killer. T-though I think Fiora and you already knew that."

A broken smile, and a weak hand to hold the jacket tighter to his torso.

"After all, you're supposed to be the smart one here, Indi."

Piece by piece, the puzzle was already almost complete. Harvey's figured there's been more than just one single player in this game ever since the courtyard. Fingertips on the edge of the jacket, building up his strength, but weakening himself slowly. Gunpowder, two kings, and a game of puzzles. Pieces that didn't quite fit together; a stone heart to be swallowed down. A hand never shown to anyone else. Was it time to lay it all out there? On his dying breath, would he solve the whole thing? He didn't know. He would never know. For a moment, he glances back to the three, tears not in his eyes, but the sorrow was there still. Burning away at the stone cold chill that he always felt, but he's there and breath for now. Dying in a slow way that'll lead to peacekeepers asking what happened to him.

"W-While I might have threatened Malcolm in my youth because he put my mother's life on a game of chess, I wouldn't have killed him. I-I'm not a killer... But, if I were, I wouldn't stay with others... E-Easier to kill when no one else is around...."

The words bleed into the air, harsh, cold, and reliable, even if he was a dying man.

"Who's not here?"

Whatever it takes.

The others didn't deserve to play this game of death.

"Beryl."

Holding the jacket tighter to his torso, Harvey moves forward, pulling his hand out to grab for Fiora, hoping she'll come closer. Tears in his eyes because he's dying. Dying with his heart out in the open and the only person he wants to know what he knows is the only person he trusts. Space by space, the pieces on the board move. The sun rising and setting upon the glass of a room where time seems to slow and he can feel himself relax for once in his life. Those moments would be the sunlight he holds onto until he breathes his last death. The days spent under the glow of the sun with a book or a game of cards with Fiora while the months pass.

Death's finally caught up to him.

He won't let them get away with it.

Words barely a whisper, just from Fiora.

"Don't let them get away...."

The last word breaks as a boy who grew up on the streets falls. The clattering of a king swirling in the red pool of blood, until it stands upright with a drop of red sliding down the wooden piece. Eyes that were once bright, dimming in the soft light of a bar; leaving nothing but a pain none of them would understand behind. A mother cries in the background, while the feeling of a stone cold graveyard takes the room by storm. A chill that will never quite leave the room. Blood stained carpets, empty eyes, two kings, and a group of friends torn apart with only a game of death to their names.

Harvey Slate dies in that room where the smell of gunpowder resides; a last game of chess is played; and a memory of a broken family dies.

In the end, Harvey knew she was.

A smile so bright staring them down; a mother proud of her son.

This is how the game always ends;
with a new game and a different player.