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Now you may be wondering, who was wearing the bolo tie? Me or the shark? Answer: YES!
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Brave and proud and whatever else you might want to be, there were limits to what a person's body could endure. And Steve was fast approaching them. The game, he had to admit, wasn't so much resisting it all as making her think he was. And even that was skating on dangerously thin ice. His resolve wavered each time the spearpoint locked another target, sent a fresh wave of primal what-ifs roaring through his mind. Enough to to produce full-body shivers like a giggling child recoiling from a tickling finger before it even hit home. Just... different.

He wanted to give it up. Just start crying and begging and pleading for help or mercy or his mom or his brother or something other than this. But the fact he knew, that nothing of the sort was coming, only made resisting the pleas that much more difficult. He was traveling that road by himself, he couldn't even pretend otherwise. And it was costing him so much of his last strength. So much effort, so much pain.

The only reason he didn't turn aside was because that would have made things so much harder.

He reaped his reward, a blade searing through his abdomen. Tearing, crushing, burning, all of them together or something new entirely. To inflict that level of agony had to mean that she really did hit whatever she was aiming for, though it registered to him only as shock that anything could hurt so badly. He shuddered as the blade hit sunk through to the ground beneath him, loosed a choked gasp as it twisted through the intricately-layered tissue of his body.

She gave him a laugh that would have curdled his blood had he not been so preoccupied with dying. Asked if he had anything to say.

"Mhm," he said and nodded, though it would have been easy to mistake the effort for a simple gasp and a spasm. But she was hooked, waiting for his witty retort, for the grand magnum opus of the final scene of his life.

And, well, so did he.

He had nothing, assuming he could even get his lungs to cooperate. The most eloquent half-constructions assembled in his mind and crumbled over their lack of foundation. So he seized on that.

"Unoriginal," he forced out weakly.

She slid the halberd out of his gut at that and began brewing the most vile, biting storm she could. A storm of words, grown and and polished and hurled like hailstones. Completely absorbed in in her own delusional grandeur. Completely oblivious to the fact that her sticks and stones had already broken his bones.


He rolled his shoulders, bucked his hips, did whatever he could to jerk his weight away from the ground for just one moment. In that moment he was beyond pain as adrenaline spiked through chest and through his legs and he kicked out with everything he had. His bent and broken limbs absorbed the better part of the impulse collapsing in on themselves, but what little made it through was enough. He didn't need all that much distance. Stretching his arm out to the maximum, his fingertips just barely hooked the strap on his bag. And then he pulled, pulled with his last might, ripped the cord across his collar like he was starting the world's most stubborn lawnmower. His bag followed without resistance, unstaking from the soil and pulling the embedded sickle along with it. rushing toward him like an oncoming train.

He almost smiled as he bared his throat to the rushing blade.



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TFW you will never find out what's in the basement · Helipad