#onexecution

At first, when she wakes up, she's unfamiliar with her surroundings. She's on the side of a tall incline in the middle of a forest. Slowly, as she adjusts, though, it becomes clearer. It's not just any forest they've thrown her into- this is her forest, this is the forest she'd gone to every day after school to hone her craft. She was closer to home than she'd been in what felt like forever. It seemed to be the dead of winter, and there was a middling but persistent snowstorm. It was hard to get a hold of her surroundings, but soon she spotted another familiar sight just in front of her.

The facility. The one that held the weapon she'd tasked herself to destroy. As slim as it was, there's still a chance she can finish the job. Maybe she could... take out some of it... dispose of it, somehow... There could still be time... Couldn't there? She... could reach it. If she just moved forward she could reach it. In a survival situation you had to keep moving. So she does. It starts off as a trudge as she gets her footing on the slope, but quickly picks up. She doesn't know what she expects to do, she just knows she has to do something.

There's a low rumble.

Maybe something shook up the snow on the mountain behind her. Maybe it was always going to do that- this was supposed to end in her death, right? All she knows is that the terrain behind her has been kicked up, and is now sliding down on a beeline right towards her. It's not just snow - the entire side of the mountain has begun to crumble. Trees, dirt, and rocks were all quickly accumulating and plowing a warpath towards her. All she could do was run, and run she does. Even with her superhuman speed, though, the cloud of debris quickly catches up to her, and before long she's invisible through the blanketing mass.

It takes a while before the dust and snow finally settles and Kerry can see in front of her again- But try as she might, she can't move. It quickly becomes apparent why- She hasn't come out of the landslide unscathed. She's downed, and a massive boulder has pinned her whole left side to the ground. It took a moment for the pain to set in. The bones of her arm and leg had been obliterated, but the earth underneath had just enough give that they were still attached. All this... It was familiar too.

This was how she found her father just before his death.

She struggles at first, writhing under the boulder trying to free herself, but it's no good. The only way she would get out was without her arm and her leg. Maybe she could try to cut them off, but... what good would she be, then? There was... nothing she could do. She was helpless. Slowly but surely, the resistance faded from her, and she felt a chill sink into her skin. Her body had been on fire for weeks on end, but finally it was growing colder. In any other situation, the sensation might feel painful, but to Kerry it feels like a reprieve.

Gradually, the snow begins to pick up and accumulate over the debris of the landslide, with Kerry included. Her breaths glow slower, her movements weaker and less frequent as the frosty sting changes to blunt numbness. Even the pain of her crushed limbs subsides. Help wasn't coming. She realizes this. It was a punishment, after all. The same punishment the rest had gotten. Why would hers be any different?

Slowly, quietly, Kerry drifts to sleep. She always heard the last sleep when you're freezing was a peaceful one. But with her mission just barely out of her reach, could she really call this peaceful? ...Well. Not like she'd never get a chance to dispute that.

Karina Razumovsky Is Dead

Florian Gray is still smiling as the floor opens up under his feet, both he and the desk plummeting instantly into a murky and dark unknown before the ground seals up. In the room filled with children still, the lights flicker briefly before a projector clicks to life and illuminates the distaff wall; on it, an image clarifies.

A tranquil forest. Birds are flitting from branch to branch singing, deer are grazing, and sunlight falls through the foliage to gently dapple the ground. A second later, the idyllic scene is broken as both Florian and the writing desk fall from the sky with a resounded crash and crumple down into a small, flowered clearing. When he struggles to his feet shakily and pushes away the splintered remains of the desk, he seems unsteady. Florian sways from side to side, putting a hand out to steady himself -- and slams his palm into completely transparent glass next to him.

The next few seconds are something out of a mime’s skit, the bewildered florist moving his hands along the borders of his prison to quickly ascertain he’s trapped in an invisible glass box about six by six feet. As far as he can tell, there’s no roof -- however, when Florian looks up he’s greeted with the sight of rapidly coalescing storm clouds. The sky visibly darkens under their ponderous might, heavily bloated with rain. The birds stop singing.

And then it rains.

But it’s not water; instead, the liquid is a deep burgundy that stains where it touches and smells acrid. He recognizes the taste instantly: wine. The slanting drops provide a sketchy outline of the box Florian is trapped in, flooding down from above and swirling around his feet. Outside of the box, the intensity of the weather beats flowers down and rips leaves off of trees. Inside, the level of the wine rises at an alarming rate; in a few seconds, it’s already at Florian’s knees. Despite panicking, a small smile quirks at the florist’s lips -- he can just swim out the top of this once it fills enough. Right?

The ground outside is getting so waterlogged the features of the landscape appear to be slowly melting into a dark red blur. When the wine reaches waist height, swirling violently with dirt around Florian’s legs, the ground below him buckles with a sucking sound and traps him. Like quicksand, he quickly sinks into the boggy square of land and no matter how much he writhes he can’t free himself. Finally, after the entire murder affair, his amicable smile cracks. Panic shows.

His mouth opens into a scream that’s quickly overwhelmed into a splutter as raining wine chokes him. Throwing all the weight he can against one of the glass walls, he smashes his shoulder and fists repeatedly at it -- hairline fractures appear, but not enough and not fast enough. One final punch allows a crack to spiderweb through the glass wall, cutting Florian’s fist; the blood, when it drips out to mix with the wine, is oddly an opaque white color. Florian only cradles his lacerated hand for a second before winding up for another hit -- this one is too late. His hand slips off the slicked glass and he stumbles, giving the liquid time enough to rise to his shoulders before he can regain scant footing.

The leverage to try and break the glass is completely gone and it’s all Florian can do to keep his head above the level of the water, kicking desperately to try and free his feet. One foot comes out of its shoe as the wine closes over his head and he’s able to break the surface and take another gasping breath. Then, under.

His struggles only serve to exert him, bubbles escaping his mouth in silent screams and rising to the top. His form through the moving liquid is nothing more than a dark blur thrashing with the occasional hand grasping futilely at the glass walls. Slowly, as the glass cage fills almost to the brim, he stops struggling. One last stream of bubbles trickles to the surface.

Mercifully, ironically, after he’s still stopped moving, the glass breaks. Wine floods out in a wave across the already wet grass but it's too late; he’s breathed his last. As Florian lies motionless, peacefully, in the meadow of now blood-red flowers, the clouds clear and the sun resumes shining as before. A bird begins to sing.