I know that wasn't exactly the most badass thing I've ever done, but it would have been nice to at least get some, like, pathetic "You tried!" medal! - Michael Mitchellson

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Solitair
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Where modesty's ill manners, 'tis but fit that impudence and malice pass for wit.
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((Roland Hayes START))

As Sarah, Dutchy, and Jason were getting their bearings, familiarizing themselves with their situation, and meeting up, Roland was sitting on the beach, legs folded, sitting almost completely motionless. His daypack sat by his right side, his goddamn fucking tennis racket by his left, and the ocean in front of him, lapping quietly and making the soothing, natural sounds that were put on those stupid fucking CDs that people buy and listen to while sacked out on their couches because they're too fucking lazy to go to a real beach.

But it didn't soothe Roland! Roland wasn't even paying attention to the goddamn beach or his goddamn daypack or the goddamn people on the horizon. No, Roland was captivated and stupified by the blood splatter on his left shoe. It wasn't a yellow shoe, wasn't a smiley face shoe, but it had about the same effect.

She died, and he did nothing.

He couldn't do anything. He was so packed to bursting with anger and hatred that if it overcame his fear even slightly he would explode, ceasing to exist, maybe even taking a few innocents with him. Just like on the beach, he was concentrating so much on his thousand-yard stare that he didn't look at anyone. Sarah Xu was sitting three seats away from him in the front fucking row and he never fucking noticed. He didn't know where the fuck Lily was; he couldn't bear to see her face. The poor girl was probably crying her eyes out, then and now, and if he saw that he would fucking snap. He didn't even pay attention to the damn briefing, because he'd seen this shit before. He knew how it worked. He'd just pick up version-specific shit from the shit in his daypack if he needed to.

The knockout gas did nothing to diminish his state of mind. Sure, his fear was gone, since nothing he could do was important enough for those assholes to blow his collar, but he didn't need to explode just yet. His rage was merely building anew.

He opened his mouth. His vocal cords were choked up, and he couldn't speak above a whisper. "She just had a baby," he stammered, eyes wide open and unblinking, as if the bloodstain would consume him the instant he took his eyes off it.

An expression finally lit up his face, the corners of his mouth jerking up as a chuckle slipped past his lips. "Made my essay on Naked Lunch, y'know. Didn't think she'd be into it that much. We had a... we had a good conversation." He talked in a higher pitch, tinged with the kind of crazy that people get when they can't believe where the fuck their life just took them.

"Always voted Democrat. She knew her stuff! She loooved talking to me about that shit." He laughed nervously for a few seconds, stopping because his voice cracked. "I hope she likes her memorial. Hope we all like our memorials. Not that it matters. Won't fucking help us in any goddamn way!"

Now he acknowledged the tennis racket; his hand gripped its handle so hard that his skin was bound to turn white eventually. His breathing quickened, his jaw clenched, and he leaned forward to get up from his seat. "None of you chucklefucks ever did anything about this. Not one. It was too hard for you. You wanted the comforting lie, you wanted to keep to yourselves, you wanted things easy. Well, you got it."

On his feet now, he started pacing on the beach, waving his racket back and forth. "You know what? When those planes slammed into the World Trade Center, you all noticed. You all flipped your shit. You were hungry for blood, ready to make damn well sure it never happened again! And it didn't! Because instead of one huge attention-gathering massacre, we now have four huge, publicized, televised ABDUCTIONS OF HUNDREDS OF HUMAN BEINGS!"

His vocal chords were working now! Anyone with ears could hear what that the collars picked up, especially with a voice raised like Roland's! "Where's your fucking outrage, people? Where are the fucking protests and the fucking riots and the fucking manhuntss? Are you just that fucking desperate to think that it's not real? You've seen Auschwitz! You've seen Darfur! You've seen Khmer Rouge and Rwanda and Yugoslavia AND YOU WON'T FUCKING SEE THIS FOR WHAT IT IS!"

Roland turned around and flung the racket a good fifty feet, where half of the head buried itself in the sand. By now Roland was so angry he couldn't make coherent sentences. "HIGH SCHOOL! KIDNAPPING! TV! FOUR FUCKING TIMES!

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

That last scream was fueled by all the air in Roland's lungs and the maximum volume his voice would allow. He could feel his throat strain from the effort, but he didn't care anymore. He collapsed onto his knees and let the scream give way to uncontrollable sobbing. Tears and snot ran down his face, making him cover himself up with the sleeves of his hoodie. Everyone on the beach could hear him, and when they investigated, they'd find him supine on the beach, still weeping.
WickedIcon: i just launched a baby wearing a denim jacket and a bowler hat across a hospital, through a window, killing several patients, destroying thousands of dollars of equipment, and finally coming to rest on the body of a presumably dead clown
WickedIcon: this is the best dollar i've spent in several years

chitoryu12I have yet to find gay sex that involves the men punching each other. I must not be on the internet enough

Turning Pages: Read some books along with me, why don't you?

V4:
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V5:
Arthur Wells: The Artist ... ... ... ... ?
Rose Matheson: The Sprinter ... ?
Ilya Volkov: The Wrestler ... ... ... ... !
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