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Nadir
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Cannon Fodder
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Steven had guessed correctly when he supposed the boy was associated with Polanski. It had been an educated guess, something that had clicked on his mind. Too bad he was not going to end up meeting the islandīs resident revolutionary leader, he would have liked to cheer her on. Oh, whatever...

Brendan was apologizing, profusely. That wasnīt gonna heal his leg in any way, but at least it was good to know that the boy was sorry and that everything had been an accident.

I-I-I-I-I'm sorry, I-I di-didn't mean to, I-I-I thou-though you were w-

Steven looked at the boyīs face, it was full of shock and regret. He actually pitied the poor guy. He didnīt know him at all in school (well, basically, he didnīt know anyone that well on his grade...). He made himself the promise that if, somehow, he got out of the shit he was in, he would dedicate every remaining second on his life to try and develop some social skills. Actually, talking to people wouldnīt be that bad at all.

"Itīs alright, Brendan..." Steven said, his voice sounding strangely calm despite the fact he had lost an incredible amount of blood at all. "Itīs alright, you didnīt mean it, you just said it... accidents happens, sometimes..."

Then Brendan told him he didnīt know where Liz was. Oh, damn it! He was so close to find her... he would have liked to just shake her hand. She probably was dead by now... the only person who had managed to beat this bloody game without killing anyone and then she had just managed to get herself killed. It wasnīt fair. Not for him, not for her, and certainly not for Brendan.

And then Brendan had started to shout for help. If Steven hadnīt been so weak himself, he would have chided the boy for his naivette. Didnīt he know that it was better to abandon him? With him, Brendan was in danger. Anyone else could come across and finish them off just with a single breath. Things happened so fast in that island. Specially when you were dying...

Fuck, his vision was getting progresively cloudy and hazy. He could barely hear the footsteps of Peter as the new arrival inmediately crouched down to examine his wound. Where the hell did the other boy come from...?

He was telling him to talk, about back home, about the island, about whatever, while he tended to his wounds. Well, Steven could do that just fine. It was actually the only thing he could do.

"Well... there is not much to tell, actually. I spent this last six days on this bloody hole running around trying to avoid everyone... and just a few hours ago I happened upon a very nice group of people..." he wondered if the other boys could notice the sarcams on his voice "I bet you havenīt met Miss Kimberly Nguyen, have you? She is a real lady, for what I can tell... I told her I was gonna give her my weapons if she let me stay with her. And then when I gave her Ericīs knife, the bitch just takes me hostage and ends up stabbing Aislyn... and then Will makes it all better by threatening to shoot me out of the docks... really nice people, actually..."

He groaned a brief moment when Peter adjusted the bandage, feeling a sting of pain, although actually less than he would have imagined. He gave Peter a brief look, and then smiled, a weak, fading smile, everything that he could muster for.

"Thanks, Peter... I think Im feeling better... a little bit better", he said, his head falling to his side. He was actually feeling better than he had felt on his whole life. He couldnīt know that dying was so peaceful...

With the last of his strenght, he turned to look and Brendan, and then, he did something that neither he nor the other boy expected at all. He grabbed Brendanīs hand and held him while his vision got progressively misty every second.

"Itīs alright, Brendan...", he said, his voice getting lower and lower "Everythingīs alright..."

He closed his eyes, for just a couple of seconds. And when he opened them back, he was not at the cave.

He was lying in a wooden floor. He quicly got up and looked around him. How the hell had he got there? How the hell had he escaped the cave? Had it all been a dream? How the hell he could walk? He looked at his leg. No trace of the gunshot wound, no blood, no shrapnel, no hole. Actually, his pants were cleaner than they had been the whole last week, his whole set of clothes was, it was just like he had never stepped his foot on the island. But... where was he now? He heard a couple of whispers behind him, and then turned around, nervously, praying that it wasnīt another threat coming back to bite him in the ass.

And then he just stared at what he saw, completely amazed.

He was on the stage of a theater, the biggest theatre Steven could have ever seen. The lights were flooding the wooden planks that were the floor of the stage, all centered on him, like he was the star of some sort of play that just had come into scene. There were people, sitting at the theatre. Dozens of them, actually. He could recognize some of them. He saw his grandfather waving at him, a proud smile on the old manīs face. And then he saw his classmates. Eric Lorenz and Alex Rasputin, sitting side by side, applauding him, both of them with bright smiles on their faces, as if nothing amiss had ever happened between them. And then he saw Brock, winking at him and giving him a thumbs-up, the worried look that he had seen in his face on their first day of the island gone a long time ago. He saw Aislyn, who was standing up while cheering him on, and blew her a kiss. She answered by blowing him one back. He snickered at it. She seemed at peace, like there was no a care in the world. He saw Lillian, and Will, and the girl he had seen at the river (Janet, he remembered, the name thundering like a storm on his mind, her name was Janet). He saw Daniel, Tony... everyone was there. Everyone was cheering him on, smiling, proud of him.

He felt he could do nothing more than oblige them. He just bowed to them and then stood back up.

"Goodnight, folks..."

B033.Steven Hunt-Deceased


In another part of the world, Jacob Hunt felt the tears forming in his eyes as he saw his cousin drew his last breath on television. With every inch of his soul being torn apart on that moment by some invisible demons, he turned to look at the rest of the Hunt clan, congregated on the living room, who had suddenly come silent. His aunt Meredith was crying unconsolably over his husband shoulder. Eric, on the other hand, was staring wide-eyed at the TV screen, as if he couldnīt believe that his son had just being shot and then bled to death, all in ten minutes. No, it couldnīt be true. No, it couldnīt happen. This just had to be some sort of sick joke. Everything had to be some sort of sick joke.

But Jacob knew better. His cousin was dead. He was not getting back home. And as painful as it was, he was begginning to accept it. He looked around the room, trying to find the one person who he knew would be feeling most pain at having seen Steven die, apart from his parents and himself. His eyes began to scan the room until spotting him. His father. Stevenīs uncle. Charles. The main reason he and his cousin had stopped talking to each other, because the guy feared the teenager would be a bad influence on his son.

Jacob slowly made his way to the couch his father was sitting on, his eyes still fixed on the screen. Jacob was shocked, to say the least, when he saw tears forming in his fatherīs eyes. His father actually didnīt seem to notice him until many minutes had passed, when the feeling of shock had left the room, and was being replaced by one of sadness and grief. Charles just looked at his son, tears streaming down on his face.

"He forgave him..." he trailed off "He forgave that boy. He knew what was going to happen, and he wasnīt angry at him. He forgave him..."

Jacob couldnīt know what to say. He just nodded, and put a hand on his fatherīs shoulder.

"I... I donīt think anybody could have been a better Christian than your cousin..." he said, looking at the floor, and then looking at his brother and his sister-in-law, crying in each otherīs arms.

Jacob didnīt wait. He just hugged his father. And then closed his eyes and thought of a time were things were more simple, and families were not angry at each other just because someome was born liking something else than the rest.







Edited by Nadir, Mar 15 2011, 07:06 PM.
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