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A History of Bad Decisions
Topic Started: Aug 25 2017, 12:06 PM (487 Views)
Espi
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((Blair Moore continued from Amen))

For the first time since waking up near the bridge a week and a half ago, Blair was feeling something like hope.

Well, hope wasn't the right word. Anything resembling hope was long since dead and desiccated inside. Maybe when she saw Jennifer fall off that bridge, or when she saw Noah the last time before Nancy attacked, or when she shot Rene, or Georgia Lee, or Matt. It didn't really matter, because in itself losing hope meant you didn't really know what you were missing. There was nothing left anymore.

Tentative anticipation was more appropriate. Apparently there were less than a dozen people left including herself. Blair had hardly been an expert on the proceedings of SOTF before her arrival, but she'd seen somewhere on a particularly morbid Tumblr that once there were four or so left, they'd be corralled into one room and made to fight it out.

So tomorrow was likely judgment day, since having everyone in the same building would probably lead to lots of death going around today. What did that mean for Blair? Good question. There had basically been a constant echo of gunfire and at least one very loud explosion. Blair had no idea where someone had gotten a fucking bomb or how they'd had it for so long, but her guess was that it was good news for her. As much as part of her was considering weeding out the competition while so few were left, it was too risky. An ambush was one thing; return fire was easily avoided and she'd taken out at least one person, a killer with multiple takedowns at that. Hunting people down was way less practical, and moving around too much could turn the tables on her if she stumbled into an ambush herself.

So she waited.

Holing up in the staff lounge was surreal. When she'd been here before, Enzo and Coleen and Olivia had been alive, and Alba had been with her. And Blair hadn't shot Georgia Lee dead yet. It was like a dream, something she couldn't quite accept as a reality. Peaceful human interaction was long gone here. Any hope of a triumphant arrival of saviors was dead. If someone did show up, they'd find a hundred dead kids and at least half a dozen murderers. Not much to save anymore.

Blair found herself in one of the chairs facing the door; it was a bit shot up, but there were a few bullet holes in everything in here. The corpse of Ty Yazzie didn't add much appeal, but Blair was honestly out of fucks to give about that. There was probably a dead body in every goddamn room of this place, and she'd seen so many by now that it just didn't bother her.

That was probably bad. She'd not spent much time thinking about her parents, her sisters, her online friends, not for a long time. It wasn't conscious avoidance, per say, but she couldn't help but feel like there was a little fear there. Blair had done bad things, like objectively bad. Rene was one thing, she doubted people could blame her for that. Georgia Lee was a reckless accident, but that was a rough excuse for murder. She'd killed Matt in cold blood, and Nate could well be dead too as a result. She was pretty sure the previous survivors who'd killed people had been pardoned. If - when - she got home, legal action wasn't going to be a problem.

Murdering classmates was a good way to commit social suicide, though. Her parents loved her, but they were good people, and Cynthia was in the same boat. Miley might not be so happy, but Blair could never tell what Miley thought, so who knew? Her chat room/forum/social media friends didn't have as much attachment, though. Would they still want to talk to her, knowing what she'd done? Plus, the other part of her social circle consisted of her now dead classmates, it didn't look like she'd be winning any popularity contests.

It was a sad state, but manageable. She'd decided, unconsciously over time, that she valued what remained of her life too much to let it slip from her grasp. She might not be able to live as she had before, but she'd never really wanted to stay in Kingman forever anyway. When she got out, she could still leave that town, travel, see things, do things, make the most of her life. Hell, that was probably the best way for the winner to live her life. If over a hundred people died so you could live, then wasting that extra time was making all that death in vain.

A loud cough echoed through the room, followed by a continued series of hacking and wheezing, which lasted several seconds before she recovered and caught her breath. A grim reminder, on cue no less, that she had only so much time. She was going home, she was sure of it; making it to tomorrow was a no-brainer, and all it took after that was one well-placed strafe of bullets and she'd be done. Done with the violence and death and awfulness that had become so normal that it barely registered by now.

Blair set the submachine gun on the floor and began rummaging through her bag, which lay at her feet. There was one bottle of water and a couple pieces of bread left, for tomorrow. The map and compass were not worthless of course, and the gun that Rene once held was nestled within. Sawlaska was stuffed in too, the ends pushing into the corners of the bag it barely fit into even with so little else to take up room. Blair picked up the contraption, carefully resetting the sawblade firmly into the sling. It was a truly bizarre device, a hillbilly invention if there ever was one. It had been Noah's, and now she held it long after his passing. That was kind of nice. It was funny that all that time ago, Blair had stuck with Noah partly as a preservation tactic, thinking he'd keep her safe. Then they became friends. Noah was a good guy, and losing him had been hard, especially since it was the same day Rene died.

Hard, but inevitable. Of course it was preferable if all them got to go home, along with everyone else here, but it hadn't panned out. Blair and Sandra and Rene and Noah; only she was here still. None of them lived to see her make it this far, fight this long. Maybe that was for the best. She could remember them as they'd been when she was their friend, and not witness them seeing her at this state.

The slinger on her lap, Blair yawned. It was risky to nap, but the door was closed, and she had multiple weapons in arm's reach. She was a light enough sleeper that if anyone came in she'd hear them and wake up. Sleep deprivation would get her killed for sure. Better to rest now and keep herself strong.

Blair closed her eyes, her brow furrowed.
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She'd been just seconds away from dozing off. The anxiety and fear and tension that had become a mainstay of every waking moment of Blair's existence fell away as she relaxed and rested. She hadn't even been awoken by the sound of the door, creaking as motion was forced into it. The slight change in lighting from the door had made her eyes open unconsciously.

Blair sat upright as if she were spring-loaded. All that stuff about tension and fear? Yeah, welcome back. In a split second between the door opening and whoever stood beyond it revealing themselves, Blair's mind went through all manner of plans and deductions.

Who was it?

Did it matter? Not this far along in the game.

Were they armed? Probably.

Did they know she was here? Probably not.

Talking was out. Run, hide, fight? No other exits. Door was taken of course. Room was full of stuff, but she already had surprise and hiding solve nothing.

Her gun was off to the side, picking it up would delay her action just a little too much. Blair stood up and in one motion, the image of Noah messing around with the stupid thing, swung Sawlaska like a lacrosse stick. The heft of it's movement made her slightly off-balance, but she watched as the sawblade disk whirled down the track and leaped into the air towards the figure across the room.
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Blair had a moment to experience a brief and ugly moment of satisfaction at her direct hit. It lasted just long enough for her to lose focus until Bryony moved with unexpected swiftness towards her, brandishing some kind of wooden stick. Her carelessness would cost her; she was startled and dropped her weapon to bend over and pick up the gun.

Bad call. She hadn't expected her opponent to aim low, and just as her fingers wrapped around the machine pistol's grip, she felt the strike, like the physical sensation of a thump, slam against her forehead. Blair's vision briefly flashed white, and as soon as the panic and disorientation ended she realized she was falling.

Her balance was off, and attempting to right herself only caused her to stumble further. She landed hard on her side onto the hard floor, the gun sliding just out of her grasp and landing an agonizingly short distance away, measurable in inches, but just out of her reach.

For the first time since Nancy at the beach almost a week ago, Blair was truly scared for her life. She had no smart remarks, no snide commentary, no way to fall back to familiarity. Just adrenaline and dull pain.

In a motion more reminiscent of aimless flailing than a deliberate strike, Blair swung her legs in the general direction of Bryony's shins, her arms raised to cover her face.
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Kicking Bryony in the leg hurt Blair almost as much as it might've hurt her opponent; her shin had struck Bryony's foot rather than the inverse, and the sudden bruising pain balanced out the feeling of success in her strike.

Rolled onto her back, Blair fumbled awkwardly at the gun, still just out of reach by some marginal distance, millimeters even. Her fingers could touch the barrel, but she couldn't pull it forward. Her hands were sweaty and she couldn't get enough grip to even slide it closer.

Her head arched back just to see the damn thing, Blair had only a moment to conceive of Bryony's shout before the most horrible pain in her life.

Horrible, yet all too familiar. Because of her CF, Blair had a long and painful history with respiratory malaise. She'd had pneumonia several times, and chest pain was a recurring concern.

This was worse.

For a split second after the initial wound, Blair had thought it might not be so bad. Then she tried to breath after screaming and she realize just how fucked she was. She felt like she was sucking air through a straw, and the stab wound suddenly felt like it'd had a ton of bricks dropped into it. She couldn't breath, and she had blood on her shirt and it was leaking into her lung and it was hot and worse than any pneumonia.

Flailing like a pinned animal, Blair's knee almost incidentally struck against the sawblade still lodged in Bryony's body. Blair barely noticed for all her thrashing. The strangling feeling was bad enough but the fucking whore was lying on top of her.

Oh no.
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So this was it.

Stabbed in the lung and again in the heart.

Hurt worse than hell, if hell was hot; Blair could handle burns. Sucking chest wounds? Pass.

Thrashing around on the floor like a pathetic animal wasn't making much headway, but it was a little hard to make decisions with a chunk of metal stuck in her, right? Her hand trembled like a, well, it trembled like crazy as she tried to pull the wooden chunk out of her body. No dice, and it made it hurt even worse so great decision there.

Well shit. Blair couldn't really bring herself to move too much after that. She lay flat on her back, whimpering and squinting through the tear-stained world. Fuck that, man. If this was it, she could at least have some goddamn dignity. And if she lived through it somehow, well no use getting so worked up over it.

She tried to reach up and wipe her eyes. Her hand made it about three inches and then fell back into place, the combination of renewed suffering and drained strength shutting her show of defiance down real quick. Fuck's sake.

What else could she do now? She'd come so far, tried so hard, made it nearly to the end. She'd been so sure of herself, done so much right. Done some stuff wrong too, but it seemed pretty pointless to beat herself up over that. Bryony took care of that part. She wasn't going to apologize for herself, wasn't going to beg for forgiveness to the families, for Georgia Lee or Matt, maybe for Bryony too if that wound was fatal.

Not like she could bear to make a sound anymore. She could barely move at all, let alone give a heartfelt speech to an empty room. Her body was all wet and sticky with hot blood, and her hands and feet were freezing cold. Wonderful.

What now? She was dying. All there was to it. Anything she did now would be pointless. She wasn't going to heroically recover or anything. She was going to lay here in a pool of blood and croak, and who knew what happened after that? The terrorists would dispose of her body or something, and any concept of an afterlife was pretty nebulous to her, especially with the whole murdered multiple people. Fuck.

The only thing she could think to do was give some kind of last words. What was there to say? Who knew. Blair took a shaky, painful breath, and tried to say something, anything, just to scream into the emptiness of the universe or whatever. No great secrets, no powerful revelations, nothing. Nothing else, just something at all.

"G-guh..."

God fucking damn it.

G033: Blair Moore
DECEASED
4 Students Remaining
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