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Tactic Static; a film by David Cronenberg
Topic Started: Feb 9 2011, 06:26 AM (1,769 Views)
nope
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throw that pussy like i'm famous
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((Michael Moretti and Violet Druce continued from Cool Ranch.))

Mike let a palmful of sand fall through his fingers onto the lid of his guitar case. The early sun reflected off the black pockmarked hardshell and burned into his eyes. His headaches were getting worse. Dehydration, probably. He wasn’t about to dig into the water. They were dangerously low as it was, and besides, his lips were welded together from a day’s worth of silence and he could hardly conjure the energy to pry them back apart. Violet sat across from him, head down towards the piece of stale bread she was intently tearing to crumbs. The black roots in her part were clearly visible. A crack in the veneer. They were both cracked. Hilary was dead and Leila was a killer and it was all Violet’s fault. Ilario was a killer. That was all Mike’s fault. They were no closer to Liz. They were farther than ever from escape. Good morning. He thought longingly of the plant in his guitar. Fuck, his head hurt.

The bags were piled up between the pair. The morning star’s handle rested against Vi’s bag. Her blowtorch was thrown haphazardly to the side. It looked abandoned, even with its owner inches away. Her head still hadn’t lifted. Her bread was beginning to look like the sand. He was glad for the bags between them. He had a mad urge to touch her shoulder or her hand. He couldn’t comfort her, he knew. His own guilt was just as heavy on both of them. Besides, she was strong. She would realize soon enough that what had happened was out of her hands. She could only live for herself, and she would. It was why he chose to follow her. He wished he was as lucky. He thought again of the despoiled eye and the grief-frenzied boy who had become an unwitting (unwilling?) murderer.

He really wished his head would just stop hurting.
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nope
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
His aching head dully registered Sarah Atwell as a killer. He’d heard her name a few scattered times over the past days. Background noise as he listened for Ilario. But his eyes could not make sense of the frantic disheveled little girl as a murderer. It wasn't until he saw Violet’s eyes and the fear in them filled his own that he scrambled to his feet.

For a few fractions of a second he considered reaching for the morning star but then he saw Alice reaching for what only could have been a gun, because that’s exactly how you look when you reach for a gun, and he froze. One was a murderer and the other had a gun. The morning star would do nothing. Maybe make her shoot him faster. A little nag in the back of his head (behind the pain and adrenaline and more pain) began to chant. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to fucking die. You’re both going to fucking die.

Both of them. Violet, too.

She was already talking as he stumbled up beside her. She had barely finished when he forced himself in front of her, palms splayed outward in a display of entirely false goodwill. It could buy her some time. He hoped to God it would buy her a little time. Maybe the one with the gun (no names anymore, they didn’t mean the same things anyway) would empty the clip into him and Violet would get away. He wondered what getting shot would be like. He felt insanely, nauseatingly vulnerable. His hands were closer to his chest now, a delusional attempt at protection. He took a shaky breath and tried to ignore the regret he already had for putting himself in front of her. He tried to ignore how scared he was. He spoke.

“Just keep moving, alright? Leave us the hell alone.”

He tried to breathe again. It didn’t matter how scared he was. He had to protect Violet.
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
You think I’m a killer.

He felt something boil at his temples and rise in his chest. No, he thought. Not only a killer. A coward. She wasn’t giving Violet tapes. She was giving her responsibility. Rage had him trembling in a way fear couldn’t have. His right hand twitched where he now wished it was gripping the morning star. He and Violet were just trying to survive. They were stretching their leashes at far as they could, keeping themselves away from the game and keeping up the thin hope that maybe the leash would snap. But Sarah. Weak, fucked-up little Sarah. Too weak to pull at her leash, to do anything but let herself be walked. A sad piece of shit that thought she could somehow undo being a murderer. Give someone else the consequences. Wash her hands of it. Make someone else the killer, some other thing. Not poor little Sarah. She was a victim. He wanted to destroy her. He wanted to take all of the desperation and grief that had made him and Violet sick for days and crush her under it. For the few brief moments before Violet clutched his hand, he understood a little of that urge to murder for himself.

Mike tried to hold on to Violet’s hand a little longer. She pulled away.
This wasn’t right.
He felt her stride in front of him.
This wasn’t fair.
She splayed her arms out as she spoke, obscuring him where he stood. His brief flash of false bravery had been worthless. Something in his chest and shoulders collapsed. He felt ill, ashamed. He was weak in his own ways.
He forced the boiling down. Something he was used to.
He watched Violet’s hand as it closed over the first tape.
Maybe she was the only one of them with any real strength. Maybe without her he’d be another Sarah.
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Mike kept a steady stare on the spot where Sarah and her keeper had been as they walked past him. Vi stared at him. She saw the girls jog along he beach in the edges of her vision, shrinking behind Mike’s left shoulder. He never brought his eyes to hers. Not just statuesque but gargoylesque. Carved to give the illusion of life. Tense and angry and eerily still. It frightened her. She wished he would just fucking look at her. Moments stretched on. The girls disappeared from view. She wanted to speak but how could she? So instead she hoped, willed for something to break it. She was desperate to be unglued.

She was shocked to find herself still once Mike suddenly, furiously turned towards his luggage and began to gather it up in a frenzy.

She watched him. He kicked up sand as he threw up his bag and the morning star. He was more careful with the guitar but there was still fury in the grab. He struggled to adjust his bag with his overburdened hands and settled for erratically shifting his shoulders. She finally decided to chance saying something.

“Why did you tell them that?” They hadn’t seen Maxwell. They’d been nowhere near the tunnels. She knew the answer, of course. But she needed him to speak. She needed him to say something.

He continued to fight against the bag as he spoke. “You really thought they’d just let us walk?” She didn’t have an answer. It didn’t matter, though. Not with how he said it. Full of accusation. It hurt. It made her angry and made her feel stupid. Something began to shoot up her chest and throat. The words were out before she could think to stop them.

“At least I didn’t throw myself in front of a gun like a goddamn idiot.”

They both froze. His back tensed. Regret seized her completely. She wished she would see his face, read what was going on under there. She barely managed to squeak out more words.

“Shit. Mike, I-”

He probably would have ran of he could. Instead he stomped, kicking up a small sandstorm behind him. She hastily grabbed at her belongings.

“Mike, what the- hey! Wait up!”

She jogged after him.

“Mike!”

((Violet Druce & Michael Moretti continued in Throw It On a Fire))
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