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A Delicate Machine
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Harold had messed up. Plain and simple.

He'd let his guard down. Hadn't thought that any of them were in real danger, had been treating this as more of a practice run at being the hero than anything else. Hadn't thought anything could have really happened to him, not while he was with Clarice. Hadn't stopped to consider Conrad's feelings, hadn't considered that he might somehow be intimidated by the 6'3'' wrestleman that had been confidently walking up to him.

Harold blankly stared down at the sword that was now piercing his chest, held by Conrad's trembling hands. Opened and closed his mouth, trying to figure out how to process this information. Settled on a stunned "...Huh?"

He stumbled backwards. The sword popped free with a sickening squelching noise, and the blood it had been stemming suddenly flowed free, staining his Deadpool t-shirt even redder. Harold would have found it entertainingly characteristic in any other circumstance.

"Why did you... I-I wasn't gonna hurt you-" Harold stammered, sweating. He didn't want to look down again, didn't want to think about the pain that was growing more and more overwhelming as each second passed by to twist the knife a centimeter deeper.

He suddenly felt faint, would have dumbly toppled over backwards like so many Goliaths past if someone hadn't suddenly grabbed ahold of him, keeping him upright. Harold sank against them, unable to muster the energy to even turn his head, simply staring at Conrad and the now-bloodstained sword he held in his hands.
a tribute for the dead and dying

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By the time you hear the next pop, the funk shall be within you · Solitary Confinement