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[Originally posted by Pippin]

He didn’t care.

He really couldn’t care less about Becca’s death, could he? He did what he had to do? What sort of fucking bullshit was that? Nobody had forced him to pull the trigger; from the sound of it, he hadn’t even attempted some other way of dealing with the situation. He’d chosen to shoot Becca for some asinine reason, and the worst part was, he didn’t even sound like he regretted it. All he did was try and excuse himself.

Himself. That was the only thing Max cared about, just like she’d said. He’d never cared about Amy, only her body. She’d had that gut feeling a couple of times whilst they were dating, but it had only been in hindsight that she’d truly seen it. Even now, even after everything that had happened, how distraught she clearly was, his attention had been on her body, not how she was feeling.

Everything was building up, everything about Max; his arrogance, his care for no-one but himself, the gun he was holding and the murder he’d committed, because no matter what he said, it had been murder, no questions asked. Amy was still shaking, but with anger now mixed with the fear. Max just needed to leave, right now.

And it seemed like everything was going to turn out okay. He was leaving. He nodded, said a few words, turned away.

Raised the gun.

Instinct took over. Fear, anger, hatred, all rolled into one drove Amy forwards. He’d never been planning on leaving, he’d just been planning a repeat performance of what had happened to Becca. Amy ran straight at Max, hoping against hope she’d catch him off guard. The gun was the most important thing, and Amy swung the blackjack in a wild arc, as hard as she could, straight onto Max’s hand. At the same time, she lashed out with her leg, her other arm, kicking and flailing.

Anything she could do to drive Max away.
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