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NotAFlyingToy
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Southern motherfuckin' democratic republicans.
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Even if Hansel could've responded, even if he'd not been shot in the face and had bandages wrapped around his head, their stench filling his nostrils and permeating his mouth, he wouldn't have. They were all way past words, now, far beyond guilt trips that added up to nothing more than hot air. Delusions of ever having had the opportunity, the means, the chance of escape did nothing for Hansel but make him feel a small pang of pity for this boy who had apparently believed, this child facing off against him who had at one point been naive enough or dim enough to feel like the power of friendship would see it through.

The rest of him felt anger - not at Zubin's words, but at the idea that he could've come this far, on the eve of the violence ending one way or another, unscathed in body and mind. He stood there unhurt and judgemental while Hansel had been stripped down of his health and beliefs and sense of security. Zubin stood there spewing idealistic bullshit while he was still on the cliff face, still stepping on his classmate's heads to try and reach the top.

So, he cocked back the lever on the Remington and fired repeatedly as he back-pedalled, keeping close to the gazebo, utilizing the limited cover.
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Paradise · Central Park (Endgame)