continued from here! [X]
@chalnsawed
It had been an instinctive, almost an accident. Most killers didn’t take kindly to words like “please” and other polite mannerisms used in begging. Some enjoyed them, found them funny, others acted like they didn’t hear a thing. Vulgar expletives rarely differed either.
Death wasn’t feared here, not as much as it should be, as it used to be. It happens so often that the fear had shifted from that of death and to that of pain, of humiliation. The chainsaws were the most terrifying monsters in that regard. The creatures wielding them--a pulsating extension of that fear.
So Quentin feared it. The hungry roar of the teeth, cycling and gnashing and spraying blood. It mowed down his friends with ease, tearing them open and devouring their guts. The screaming was painful to listen to, even when he was on the other side of the map. The fear made him desperate. That was usually never a good thing.
On his back, kicking at the loose soil, trying to pull himself away, he’d choked them out: “Please don’t.” Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t, I’m sorry, please don’t.
And it’d worked.
The Cannibal was in pain, he thinks. No, maybe not in pain, just aching. Sore? It was something. Quentin almost wanted to ask him about it, but he remembered their circumstance, and so he didn’t. His arms were still braced, shoulders tensed, he was half-expecting the chainsaw to be picked back up and for the work to be continued. Quentin flinched at the Cannibal’s movement.
A hand, held out, dirty, bloody, big. Quentin doesn’t understand its purpose at first, and just stares at it for a few seconds. They felt too long to be just seconds.
He makes a decision. He accepts the hand.
As he does, he swallows back the apprehension, the suspicion that this will still turn into his bloodbath, and asks quietly, “A-are you okay?”
