SOMETIMES, Bellamy Blake is haunted by the ghosts of those he’s lost since the first day on the ground. Their numbers are VAST, and he feels each death he’s caused deeply – they weigh upon his able shoulders and drag him down, as if the demons’ fingers are trying their hardest to pull him back down to H E L L – where he BELONGS.
As he creeps through the dense woods, their lost voices are all he hears. Each mistake he made on the ground to get them to this point is a prominent, bright star in the map of his sky, and he loathes himself all the more for not being able to SAVE them all. He wants to scream, to rip at his lungs and find his SOUL so he can be sure of it’s grotesque color, but he knows that if he makes too much of a sound he is as good as DEAD.
So instead Bellamy continues his PATROL and simply listens. He listens as the voices tell him what a horrible human he is ; he listens to Wells’ warnings he’d never heeded and Charlotte’s pleas for help. And yet one voice will ALWAYS stand out above the ruckus of the crowd.
Bellamy doesn’t know where to begin or where to END with Murphy. The boy had been a close friend, a confidant, an ALLY ( most nights even a LOVER ) – but because of Bellamy’s own weakness as a leader, he’d been the one leading Murphy to the gallows. Christ – he can still hear the desperation, the begging, the swears of crimes uncommitted fresh upon Murphy’s tongue – and he still regrets ever being the one to tie the noose around the poor boy’s neck.
Now he is GONE. Now, Bellamy will never get the chance to tell Murphy just how SORRY he is.
The assault comes with no sound – one second he’s standing with gun in hand, brain idled by sleep and sorrow, and the next he’s PINNED to the hard, cold ground with an iron vice grip around his neck. The memories are all too real as they flood back – standing in the drop ship with red nylon tight and constricting around his windpipe – and warm fingers are ALMOST more welcome than the cold harshness of raw material. Eyes bulge as his air supply runs thin, and he gasps as desperate fingers tug at those offering no reprieve around his neck.
In a move of absolute desperation – but Bellamy kicks his legs, freeing his range of movement, and desperately rolls them both onto their side in HOPES of catching his assailant off guard. For a moment he struggles, trying to get more AIR into his desperate lungs…
It’s only after his head has stopped spinning that Bellamy thinks to L O O K at who has attacked him. Dark eyes meet voidless, aggressive orbs, and immediately his heart stops.
For a moment, the end of his MISSION is in sight ——
then he hears that N A M E
MURPHY
murphymurphymurphymurphymurphyno!
Pushed onto his side from the position switch, a gasp STUTTERS from his mouth & his wide dark eyes only show a FLASH of confusion, the name burrowing under damaged skin and memories that aren’t his anymore. He sees flashes of tanned skin & sharp features together, then his second gasp drags the machine BACK into his body & his M I S S I O N resumes.
The TARGET is trouble —— he must be ELIMINATED.
A F E R A L snarl leaves his lips & the asset grapples to
his feet, using the target’s moment of distraction to
send a harsh K I C K straight into his stomach. His boot
sinks into the flesh and the asset lunges down, one
gloved hand sealing around the target’s neck again, thumbs
pressing into the bottom of his WINDPIPE.
The flash through his head HURTS & the asset loses himself for a moment, before his features lose their composure and the glint of a knife comes pressed into his hands, then slashes TOWARDS the target’s NECK.
who the hell is m u r p h y.
baratheonpilled
janainaart
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
