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Cicada Days
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keep running yoshi
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((Ben Fields continued from See The Needy Greedy Me We Bleed To Feed So Easily))

Toby, Irene... What almost pried the teeth from the gnawing of humiliation and regret that he still hadn't done enough, still hadn't come through with his promises... was that the name he'd been closest to was Darius. Fucking Darius was the standout death of the day. If Ben had still had anything left of his lips following their erosion into crags by way of gentle sea breeze he would have maybe laughed. But he hadn't laughed, of course, he'd hurt. Better of the two options, he was sure. Penelope had also been beat up pretty bad. But she'd put on the march, soldiered on. Ben had thus done the same.

Not like he knew what to say on behalf of the dead anyhow. He'd let them have whatever peace they could scrounge up without an ass-looking abnormally short dude trying to sputter on their behalf.

Nate and Matt, at least, were still alive. Good on them. They'd made it count, the still throbbing mess of pasty red hues Ben called an arm. Jerry on the other hand... well. Add that to the thrashing worm pit of Ben's regrets.

But it didn't matter in the end. This plan, this new plan that Ben believed in as if it had come from his own sagging brain matter and not that of a far superior specimen, that was what mattered. They'd all be dead anyways. Dead with honor, pride, dignity. Ben would devote what was left of the man named Ben Fields to the cause. It was true righteousness, true solidarity. Fuck it, even if it wasn't. It was a hell of a better sight and sound than a man without a plan, a rebel without a cause.

They climbed the stairs of the helipad in silence. The bloody orange dying embers in yesterday's twilight hours had summoned them. Reminded him of the bell on the first day, only this time Ben was marching towards his death instead of away from it. Marching with a steadily regulated breath, and a smooth cannonball of a rock held in his dominant fist. He'd scooped it up when they'd started walking from the asylum. He figured he had enough juice- spoiled, rotten, so on- in the tank left for one good throw. Cochise Coyotes might have lost Cristobal, might have lost Irene, might have lost Jerry, but Ben could still make their last play.

Only if he had to. Only in self defense. He had his mandate. Thou shalt not...



"Raina! Raina! Raina!"

Definitely wasn't his conversation. He hung back, let the pretty ones talk it out. Maybe schmoozed a bit with the burnt husk of human on the pile of charred scrap. About as engaging a conversation partner as he himself was.

V6 - Like you imagined when you... were young...
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Hemochromatosis · Helipad