James knew perfectly well who it was, knew the face behind the voice that had said about him - all you've done is slide your way into a crevice while everyone else is running past you, hoping you'd linger long enough in the depths of your own mediocrity 'til you've waited everyone else out.
The Hawk called for violence, he called for desperation - this was the mood with which he placed the context of his letter in, especially as he carried on and watched the video attached with it. A hammer. A crushed arm. Terrible violence, a testament that this suffering had strengthened and built the base upon which friendship was formed. What could he be looking for except this?
(And yet it didn’t matter now, did it?)
A second video followed. James was already familiar with the material, but he rewatched it anyway, letting the words settle into the depths of his chest - one line in particular, over and over again, raced repeatedly through his mind from that moment onwards, through the night, the sleep he pretended to have, through the sound of Pearl slipping back into bed, the cue that it was his turn soon, through to the entire walk to the library. The woman’s words were burned into his mind.
When his time came, and he opened the door, his gaze flew first to the man in the wooden chair. He was well concealed, no patch of skin in sight. Only his eyes, but even those were obscured by the mask and the darkness.
A deep breath. There was an assortment of items on the table, and James needed to think, needed to consider each and every one carefully, but a greater issue called to him - the hunch of the figure, the blood on the mask - and as he approached closer, he assessed the extent of the damage that had been done. He didn’t know how many hands had come before him and how many hands were yet left, but that there was damage was clear. The bandage was soaked with blood. The other leg wasn’t, but it was very clearly wet.
“Can I touch - “ he started, swearing under his breath, remembering that there would be no responses. He pressed his fingers to the wet spot, pulling his hand away and swearing under his breath as he confirmed that it was blood. There was the hunch around his abdomen, and James took in a deep breath, slipping his fingers underneath his hoodie and pushing it upwards, trying to examine the cause of the seeming pain. When he saw the bruises, he swore under his breath. The bleeding on the leg could be be put pressure onto with dressing, though the amount that had already bled out was worrying, but this? “Are you fucking - “ James couldn’t fix fucking internal bleeding. He wished he had his phone, wished he could pull up information to figure out what he could do, to determine how serious this was. He swore, again, and pulled away from Jamie.
The line played in his head once more. A breath.
(It didn’t matter. He was only here to lay down one final hand, to use the power he had been given so generously.)
He approached the table. He would need to assess the objects first before he could deliberate on his options. James was - neutral. Perhaps he wouldn’t help out a stranger without needing to, but neither would he hurt someone without cause. The objects were neutral, too. There was no object on the table that carried an inherit tendency towards good or evil. It was only the user and his actions that ascribed morality to it. He let his mind run wild -
Rose thorns, push pins, needles - these could be pierced through skin, but they would be nothing in comparison to the lacerations already on Jamie’s thigh. Liquids - the water, the wine, the olive oil, the ethanol, the vodka, the blood, even the paint - could be forced down one’s throat or used to suffocate. The ethanol or the vodka could be used to deliver pain to the existing injuries, though this was useful sort of pain. Anything with glass, the bottles of previously mentioned liquids, the compact mirror, could be broken and used to cut even worse through skin than the scalpel already discarded had. The feather boa could be used to strangle, with enough force the pen to stab, the scissors to make cuts, the metal bar to deliver blunt force. The whip was obvious, the chain could deliver harsh blows that would bruise and cut and restrain, the pistol, the fucking pistol - Jamie wasn’t stupid. It couldn’t be loaded. It couldn’t be. James didn’t know how to work his way around a gun, and if he did he would have went to check - but instead he had to trust the thought that Jamie wouldn’t be fucking stupid enough to do it.
Amongst all these items, one stood out the most.
The hammer. Whilst the metal bar could do the same, it was a bulkier swing. The hammer’s long handle allowed the user the capacity to deliver stronger, leveraged blows, and it’s claw end could be used for more creative purposes. There was a second factor - the video inspired. It was a precedent, an expectation-setter, and it was exactly this video that called to him, exactly this video that weighed heavily in his chest, in his guts. A hammer crashing down, a blood-curdling scream.
One line had weighed so heavily in his mind, the words from the woman’s lips:
One of them put the gun to my head, another pulled it away.
Power was the ability to put a gun to someone’s head.
Power was the ability to take it away.
Oh, how very terribly James wanted to seize the hammer, to chuck it angrily into the pile in the corner and prove a point.
Yet what did future harm matter if Jamie bled out in front of him now?
(Yet what use was power if it did not protect those he cared about?)
The bandages had been used fully, and Jamie had no shirt under his hoodie. If it were up to him, he would have taken the shirt off his own back - but that was against the rules. There was no other fabric in the room. The fabric of Jamie’s hoodie was too thick, and its removal would expose the very distinctive tattoos to all others who would come after him. Even Jamie’s calves were tattooed, removing the already terrible option of using his jeans. It was more easily obscured in the darkness than others, and the fabric wasn't the best for pressure dressing. Damn it, god fucking damn it.
Both. Both, and none of the above. A fuck you, loud and clear. A choice that grew increasingly more attractive as his thoughts grew more desperate. Jamie was bleeding. Jamie was bleeding and he was going to continue being hurt. How deeply did he truly care about the cage? What did it matter to him? He had thought the cage the key to the future he wished to seize, the ultimate goal with which none compared. Everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever worked for - but the events of the previous week had proved him otherwise. Holding hands, walking together, was that it? It was lukewarm, it was tasteless, and it angered him that this had wasted his time. James had worked hard for the knowledge he had discovered, but what use was it when in the end it was they themselves who had exposed themselves to him? A better opportunity had come. And what was he, right, if nothing but an opportunist? As his thoughts blazed into thick, seething anger, to rise into all-consuming flames, it was clear to him that his decision was already made.
Fuck this entire thing. He removed his coat, pulled away the designer scarf around his neck. "I'm highly fucking aware this is against the rules," he said, as he went on his knees and lifted Jamie’s leg, straightening it and propping it over his shoulder. "But you're fucked if you think I'll let you bleed out." He tried to let coldness wash over the him. It was always more conducive to efficiency, but rage coursed through anyway. “I imagine you’re capable of assessing your own fucking limits - but you’re bleeding both externally and internally. I can’t assess how severe it is internally and there’s fucking nothing I can do about it right now. I don’t know how much longer you’ve yet to stay here and what you’ve still to bear - “ But the table still full of items was rather telling, wasn’t it? “But if you’re here for hours more and continue to bleed, you’ll bleed to fucking death, and I swear to god - “ There was nothing, really, that James could continue this threat with, tying the scarf neatly, checking briefly whether it was tight enough to stop bleeding, but not so tight that it would cut off circulation. When he was satisfied - or as satisfied as he could be, anyway - he let his leg down and stood. God, he hoped it was enough. “Don’t fucking die, you asshole.”
James would take the gun away. It was him. He was the gun.
He moved towards the table, glancing at the time projected against the wall. Twenty seconds or so left. He grabbed the hammer and tossed it to the pile on the corner, his gaze firm on Jamie as the hammer crashed in a loud thud against the floor. “I’ve broken the rules. I've failed this task.” He took the empty seat, crossing his arms. Steely-eyed, he moved his gaze away from Jamie, staring a camera down. “I accept the consequences of my actions. I want out of the process.”
