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Grim Wolf
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Oblivion.

Sweet, rose-colored, heartening oblivion. Complete absence of thought. He pulled her closer without thinking. She was salty and spectacular; she tasted like fear and desperation and everything poignant in life, and for the infinite space they kissed he wasn't thinking about survival, about morality, about Simon or God or duty or what had brought him here. He wasn't thinking about his brother, about his father, about the meaning of death and murder. He was thinking only of the lips of Mizore Soryu.

No wonder people are so afraid of lust. So much fucking better than alcohol.

She broke off and immediately looked away. Raidon felt something hot and heavy and guilty and anguished race up from the bit of his stomach and clench around his throat; he was choking on his own need. "We should go upstairs," she said, distant and stiff and why are you distant, Soryu, I'm not sure I can take- "If you could help me. I should put my knee up. Drain the swelling."

Raidon cleared his throat, trying not to speak or yell or cry or...or whatever it was his body so wanted to do right now. He forced a nod and draped her arm around his shoulders, serving as a crutch while they made their way to the stairs.

In order to do it, he had to step over Victoria's feet. He tried not to look at her.

"Hang on," he mumbled, stepping away to grab the gun from where he'd let it fall--from where Soryu had offered it to him, telling him to kill her. A flash of anger broke the anxiety that racked him, and his grip tightened on the handle. Who the fuck did she think she was, telling him what to do, judging him?

He got to his feet, the gun still in his hands. He'd never made any pretensions about what he was, about the immorality of what he was doing, and he wasn't going to be lectured at by a...

A...

A beautiful woman willing to die for what she believes in and who has every right to hate a murderer like me.

All the energy, all the violence, all the anxiety went away. There was no certainty, no gladness, not even sadness; only emptiness. He was resolved to whatever was coming, and he was going to take care of this girl as best as he could in the time she allowed him to stay around.

He turned, gave her a soft smile, and put the gun in his pocket. "You may not like it," he said, to the mute judgment in her eyes. "But if someone comes after us, you don't get to die." He shrugged. "You can do that by yourself."

He walked up to her before she had time to say anything and backed up into her, so that her arms went around his shoulder and her legs went around his waist--he didn't think he was strong enough to carry her up the stairs using only his arms. He took her up and into the master bedroom he remembered--the one where she'd first pulled off his shirt.

Seemed an awfully long time ago, now that he was here again.

"Here," he said, setting her down with her back on the headboard. He grabbed some of the pillows from behind her and positioned them under her leg.

And it him all at once.

He was tired. He hadn't slept properly since he'd gotten to this damn island, and he hadn't slept at all last night; he'd been too wracked with doubt and guilt. He'd killed two more people within a matter of minutes; he'd ended lives.

Christ. He was tired.

You can't sleep yet. You have to be ready.

Right. Right.

"H-hold on," he slurred. "I'll...I'll be back." He pushed himself away from the bed and set about the house, gathering everything together. He went to the bathroom and turned off the shower he'd left running, hanging his clothes to dry (he fished the broken inhaler from the pocket of his pants and slipped it into the pants he was wearing, trying not to dwell on how he'd gotten it). He grabbed Scott's bloodstained hat from where he'd left it by the sink and grabbed his bag from by the door before heading down the stairs, stopping only long enough to grab his gun from where he'd dropped it in his hurry. Ignoring the bodies of the people he'd killed, he quietly reloaded.

He was running out of bullets. He'd have to hope Victoria had brought some with her.

One quick look at Victoria Logan. He stepped over her and to her bag, fishing through its contents. His mouth dropped a little when he saw what she'd brought with here. Were those...were those grenades?

Hmm. According to the manual, stuffed deeper in the bag (underneath some clothes which she'd never wear again, God, what had he don't think about it.), they were flashbangs.

Interesting. He could use those. But he was not so lucky on the bullet front; there was no sign of any bullets in Vic's bag.

He moved over to Jacob next. No such luck with him--just some food, along with the hat. Raidon stared at the hat, his fingers alighting upon the one he was wearing (the hand he used to reach for it was the one with the cross tied around his wrist; it fluttered against his skin).

He already had the one hat. He didn't need two.

With a shrug, he stood up. He'd transferred as much food and water as they'd had left to his bag, and the flashbangs were safely stowed near the top for easy access. He'd read how to use them when he had time; for now, it was all he could do to stay on his feet.

Nonetheless, he took a moment when he got back to the stairs to take care of his exposed finger. It didn't look to be getting infected, thank God, but it still hurt from his catching Soryu earlier, and he couldn't let himself be incapacitated. He'd need to be in the best shape possible if he was going to make it through this.

After he finished sanitizing the wound and dressing it as best he knew how, he got to his feet and turned back to Victoria and Jacob. "I'm sorry," he whispered to Victoria's body. Sorry I drove you to this, sorry I hurt the girl you loved, sorry I threatened you. Doesn't matter if I wasn't going to hurt you, not really, you...you... "You deserved better." His eyes hardened when he faced Jacob's. "You didn't." He turned and went up the stairs. Mentally he added, I'll remember you.

He hesitated at the door to the bedroom. He had all his stuff back together; he was ready to go. But what if she was still...could he blame her for hating her? He had violated everything she stood for, knowing full well the consequences of his actions. She was right; he wasn't acting out of panic or out of some sense of moral righteousness. He was acting knowing exactly how immoral his actions were. He was acting monstrously, and he could not demand she love a monster.

But he could make sure she was okay.

He swallowed, letting the emptiness take him again. He stepped back into the room. "Hey."
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