TASK #02. tw: ataque de pùnico, menção de crise de ansiedade, morte (violenta).
isso nĂŁo vai dar certo.
começar a fazer algo e jĂĄ ter o pessimismo entrelaçado com seus pensamentos nĂŁo era bem o melhor dos caminhos. elĂłi estava na caverna dos deuses sentado em um canto afastado escondido atrĂĄs de uma rocha. o Ășnico barulho no local era da ĂĄgua que sempre apresentava aquele movimento fluĂdo mesmo sem ter vento ou correnteza.
os olhos azuis focavam a folha de louro, o caderno laranja e a caneta. mexia nervosamente com a barra da saia e tentava não ter uma crise de ansiedade antes mesmo de começar a fazer a tarefa. não havia como negar que estava com medo de mexer no passado, havia apenas uma missão na mente que lhe assombrava⊠e o semideus não sabia bem se desejava ter mais um lembrete daquela situação. carregar a maldição jå não era o suficiente? uma conta no pescoço parecia mais uma forma de se punir, mas não era como se pudesse levar a mente para outro local, aquela tinha sido a maior e mais importante missão de sua vida.
alegria, diversĂŁo, determinação⊠desconfiança, surpresa, medo, dor, luto. com pesar, escrevia cada sentimento que recordava de ter sentido naquela noite fatĂdica, sequer precisava pensar muito, jĂĄ era bem recorrente sentir tudo aquilo quando pensava na tal missĂŁo.
mas como assim cinco? sua lembrança lhe mostrava sempre apenas quatro. algo estava errado ou o trauma era tão profundo que isso tinha alterado sua memória?
observando apenas como um espectador, elĂłi encontrava-se paralisado. a cena diante de si era aterrorizante, eles começavam a correr para longe ao verem a clara desvantagem⊠mas nĂŁo havia escape. foram avistados. o medo fazia com que suasse, com que sentisse o estĂŽmago embrulhar. a lutava começava e elas conseguiam separar os semideuses com eficĂĄcia. quatro delas contra trĂȘs deles. onde estava a quinta? olhou assustado ao redor para ver se conseguia encontrĂĄ-la⊠mas nĂŁo, estava fora de vista. por isso nĂŁo lembrava?
restava apenas ele assistindo⊠e sua versão machucada tendo em seguida a cabeça arrancada para fora do corpo. um massacre. um massacre completo. todos mortos.
o cheiro de queimado entrava em suas narinas e elói era trazido de volta para a realidade. uma simples mudança na escolha e todos eles teriam morrido.
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To love is to destroy,
and to be loved
is to be
destroyed.
TradiçÔes nĂŁo eram muito o seu forte jĂĄ que Thorn havia vivido tempo demais para sequer alimentĂĄ-las mais, mas estar de volta ao acampamento meio-sangue depois de trĂȘs anos deixaram o centenĂĄrio um tanto quanto sentimental. O natal naquele ano seria diferente e ele estaria ao lado de seus amigos e famĂlia mais uma vez. Aquilo bastava.Â
Os acontecimentos seguintes foram como um borrĂŁo indistinto. Thorn se viu abandonando Ariel e o grupo de superiores e correndo em direção ao uivo lupino que preencheu sua audição segundos atrĂĄs. O caos que iria encontrar no meio do acampamento, entretanto, definitivamente nĂŁo era o que ele esperava. NĂŁo conseguiu sequer raciocinar, apenas esquivar-se quando um lobo pulou sobre sua cabeça. Ele conjurou um escudo mĂĄgico que se moldou acima de si, e praguejou baixinho quando viu a horda de lobisomens que surgiram subitamente. âNĂŁo lembro do acampamento meio-sangue ter convidado a alcateia para a ceiaâ soltou com uma careta irritada quando um dos lobos se transformou na forma humana e correu para cima dele. JĂĄ havia lutado com lobisomens antes e conhecia alguns dos seus truques, e quando o garoto se transformou em lobo de volta, no momento do pulo, Thorn jogou-se no chĂŁo, deslizando o corpo pela areia e girando a adaga em direção Ă barriga do animal. Sangue respingou em suas mĂŁos e rosto da pele rasgada e ele esquivou-se de lado a fim de evitar o baque do corpo pesado. Seu olhar ergueu-se quando ele ouviu a flecha de Ariel zunindo novamente, mas dessa vez lhe dando cobertura, atingindo o inimigo.Â
Thorn jogou o celular no porta luvas e ligou o carro sem precisar de chave, acelerando duas vezes apenas para sentir a potĂȘncia do veĂculo antes de engatar a primeira marcha e as mĂŁos agarrarem o volante. O cavalo de pau foi certeiro e o carro girou em seu prĂłprio eixo, pegando a estrada de terra que levava para fora dos limites da colina.Â
Seus olhos se encontraram vidrados na estrada a sua frente, incapaz de encarar a irmĂŁ que permanecia desacordada no banco ao lado, e ele fez uma promessa silenciosa de vingança contra o rei lobo.Â
i etch my own face
upon my wicked flesh
i am my own devastating god.
27 JUNE, 1994.Â
TIMESTAMP: 01:24:36.
     the chains rattled, fixed snugly âround a thick column of stone and tightened painfully around the unfortunate fellow snared within. it wasnât a well-planned endeavorâa crime of passion rather than of blueprints and preparationsâbut that had never been ezraâs specialty. it was the finish line, and not the journey, that spurred him forward. and oh, how enticing the finish line was! when he had chiseled through the marble, the filth he had captured, he would serve as an artful example to any fortunate enough to see his message.
     donât stick your hand in the fire unless youâre prepared to be burned.
     and like many before him, ( many after him ) this man hadnât been prepared. he could talk, sure. bark out insults. sneer at those different from himself. but when it came time to measure up, it was clear who was more evolved between the two. who had adapted to the harsh world around them and who would die, insignificant and unworthy.
     âfeeling proud of yourself, are we?â he muttered smugly around his cigarette, drawing the chains tighter around his prisonerâs torso with a simple flex of influence. âthought you were real smart out on the streets, earlier. not so strong without a bit of beer to give you courage.â not so strong without the rest of the world on his side, alone and frightened and at the mercy of a monster even the worst legends couldnât hope to live up to.
     a hand snaked out to grip his jaw, twisting his neck to the side. âthink iâll start here, what do you think about that? sâwhat youâre using against me, and all. only fair.â it was too easy to keep his mouth agape, to shatter the mandible and send shards of bone digging inward. jaw broken, he could take his teeth. a blade in hand, he dug clumsily ( purposefully ) between his gums, dislodging anything in reach. it didnât much matter if the poor bastard swallowed them as long as they were popped from place. if he chose to keep them, he would dig through his insides, later.
     to sensitive ears, the noise alone would have been overwhelming. the prisoner still fought for life, screamed and spat ( tinged a deep, gushing red ) with each movement ezra made. but it mattered littleâhe was weak and human, and his assailant enjoyed the futility of his struggle. he would take more than a pound of flesh before the night was done.
TIMESTAMP: 04:34:12
     his entertainment came at a cost. always did, always would. where once a nearly-normal man stood, now even the average passerby would have clocked as a mutant. there was no hiding the black blood leaking from his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his earsâno hiding the long spines that had torn through his back and through his ragged, stained shirt. transformation was coming, whether he liked it or not... but he reveled in it. he reveled in the gift that indulging his worst pleasures had brought. reveled in the steep descent from human to other.
     the ground beneath his feet had withered under the weight of his influence, given itself over to the majesty of his tainted essence, sending shadows creeping out in every direction. but with it came a clarity unsuspectedâan internal alarm tripped. someone, something, was in the broken bones of the building with him. someone, something, had stepped onto his spiderâs web of dark chaos, sent a ricochet of vibration hurtling toward his firmly planted feet.
     mid-sneer, ezra paused, attention drifting from his prize. whoever it was had snuck up as a silent observer, making no move to interrupt the gruesome scene he had presented. were they human? mutant? friend? foe? whatever their intentions, he would deal with them later. for now... he would enjoy an audience, as he always had. if they wanted to watch, he would give them a hell of a showâa finale worth waiting for.
     his attention shifted, returned to his prisoner. they had stopped begging, stopped spitting, stopped movingâweakened beyond repair, a rattling breath, the weak rise and fall of a battered ribcage was the only sign they still lived. not for long.
     âyouâre lucky, you know,â he spoke, tone distorted and strange; âmost people donât get to bear witness to something so much greater than themselves.â while he faced the slumped body still wrapped in chains, his words called out to something farther. the watcher. the witness. the shadow. âthink of it this way,â his voice lowered, this time meant to address his tortured plaything; âif it hadnât been me, it would have been someone else. and they would have killed you too quickly.â
     a flash of movement and his talons buried themselves deep within his abdomen, excitement twitching along the spines jutting from his back as a wet, gurgling scream tore itself from his victim. no more, it begged, red chasing it out of his prisonerâs mouth; iâm ready to go. and this time, ezra would indulge himâhe was ready to end it, too.
     drawing back, he pulled himself to his feet. didnât need a knife for this. didnât even need a hand. slowly, his influence crept out to the half-living corpse displayed in front of him, seeping through the paper-thin defenses a human could provide.
     his insidesâdeep, red serpentsâslithered from the hole ezra had left in his belly and up along his chest, coiling tight around his throat. tighter, tighter, tighter... thatâs it. the man shuddered and convulsed, spitting blood and bile over his front as he foughtâbut how could he fight against his own body? his own flesh and blood? the end was inevitable, now... and a memory he would revisit many times in the coming weeks.
     but for the moment, black eyes drifted asideâstaring past his prejudiced victim and toward the abyss. the abyss stared back, holding two others settled hard into their sockets. he could feel them tucked within the shadowâs skull, calling out to him.
     slowly, carefully, he lifted a taloned hand to the eyes shining in the dark.
     i see you.
ACT II
i dream of massacres
i am a garden of black and red agonies.
02 JULY, 1994.Â
TIMESTAMP: 19:52:07.
     first night on the job and already ezra was slacking. a smoke break, unsanctioned by his employer, had been taken out in an alleyway and anyone desperate enough to peer into the windows of his parked cab had been ignored. the night was warm and clear, much nicer than those he had been used to across the pond, and who would he have been to ignore an opportunity?
     a pleasant loiter later, he turned and stepped in the direction he had parked. behind him, the soft thump of light feet against stone caught his attention. turning, he came face to face with someone shrouded in shadow, shining eyes peering up into his own nightly gaze. familiar. instantly so, but his mind had yet to catch up to the ghost of memory.
     âezra shaw?â this time, a voice from behind.
     turning on his heel, two new strangers came into focus, blocking his path out of the crevice he had crawled into. âthatâs my name,â he replied, tension sliding off his shoulders like water from an otterâs coat; âunless youâre police, that is.â
     âweâre not the police.â
     smoke escaped from the gaps in his fangs, eyes skittering along the silhouette of the speaker. not the police, but certainly someone with authority. âwell, not police, itâs been nice.â short. not short enough. âbut iâve got places to be. canât stand around chatting all night. you know how it is.â an attempt to excuse himself, brows lifted in expectation... but the strangers didnât move aside. they stood, still as statues, in his way.
     âweâve been watching you.â the voice from behind spoke again, conjuring forth the context that had been missing in moments previous.
     head turning, he briefly took in the shape of the person still positioned behind, curiosity glittering in his eyes. the watcher. recognition now settled into place, his easy expression gave way to a ( more feral than not ) smirk. âthat so?â his attention drifted back toward the more numerous of the groups, hands tucked deep into his pockets. âlike what you see, then?â
     âyou have potential,â the authoritative one answered, shrugging a shoulder. âpower, drive... and i think youâll find our goals align.â
     âand what goals would that be?â
     âliberation.â the smile they offered was silky and dripping with venom. âdomination.â they were words that ezra was willing to hear out, his faux dedication to work already forgotten. âyou know that weâre better than them and arenât afraid to stand up and prove it. we could use more like you.â
     weight shifting, ezra considered the offer brewing between them. âwhoâs we?â
     âthe brotherhood,â they said, extending a hand. âiâll explain more when we get back to base. if youâre interested, of course...â
     he was.
ACT III
i took my power in my hand
and went against the world.
12 AUGUST, 1994.Â
TIMESTAMP: 23:17:48.
     he was different from some of the others in that there was no pound of flesh that he hadnât already taken. many initiates had been drawn to the cause through the promise of retribution, of eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth. ezra didnât need vengeanceâhis debts had been settled in the old worldâbut he certainly hadnât turned down the opportunity for bloodshed.
     his target was learning that, now. after a lifetime of spewing the same hatred burned into the folds of his brain from others like himself, he had met someone willing to fight back. but to call it a fight implied that both sides had a chanceâincorrect, given his sorry state. strapped ( nailed down, even ) to a metal chair and already having suffered many, many blows to the skull... there was never a question as to who would be winning, tonight.
     it would be him.
     âi have to say, youâre more cooperative than some of the others,â ezra said from his position nearby, lounging on the seat he had grabbed for himself. unique gifts meant he didnât need to get up close and personal with those he meant to do harm. it was entertaining to do so, of courseâsometimes he wanted to be the one holding the knifeâbut it was a special kind of horror to be responsible for your own demise. a special kind of horror fit for someone determined to keep their kind contained and away from the rest of society.
     âyou havenât... given me... mu-mu...much of a choice.â the lawyer stammered, voice weak with agony but unable to resist, unable to be risen to a scream. the knife in his grasp was burrowed in his wrist, crawling along with ribbons of skin nudged against the blade.
     âno, i havenât,â ezra remarked, watching dreamily as his target continued to flay himself. how long could he keep it up consciously? the muscles could be controlled even after the brain, the body, failed... but it was always more gratifying for them to realize what they were doing. âbut itâs only fair, isn'tâ it? i mean, when has your sorry arse ever given one of us a good choice?â
     âch-christ...â a long strip of flesh spills toward the ground, chased by a steady drip of red. âis... is that what...?â struggling for breath, he would require his tormentor to finish his question.
     âis that what this is about?â he sneered, fangs bared. âi sâpose itâs too much to ask that youâre clever and willing, isnât it? you really thought it wouldnât catch up with you?â
     ragged, pained, breathing was his only response... but ezra knew the answer. knew the excuses. of course he had never imagined retributionâhe had been upholding the law! taking the dangerous dregs that society had to offer and placing them where they couldnât hurt another. but however fair law claimed to be, it wasnât so. they both knew what happened when the world stood against those prosecuted.
     and if it hadnât been him, it would have been someone elseâas sure as the knife forced into his grasp, the lawyer had been the orchestrator of his own demise.
TIMESTAMP: 01:37:17.
     in the end, his target had held up beyond his expectations. his consciousness had waned in places, but a few good smacks had set him right. he had removed the skin from both arms, his torso, and much of his face before blood loss and shock had finally rendered him unresponsive. but not dead. no, that was a pleasure that ezra had taken for himself. for all the lawyerâs hard work, it was only right that he finish the job. it would have been a waste, otherwise.
     coated in red and black, the spines that had ripped from his forearms quivered with the last gasps of his excitement. there was only one task left, now. it hadnât been of his own volition, of his own mind, to target someone as he had hereâit had been an instruction that ( for once in his life ) he had been eager to follow. a binding to a purpose that rose ( albeit, not far ) higher than the haphazard bloodshed he had worked on, himself.
     camera procured and pose readied, he prepared for his conclusion. click. flash. hiss. the photograph ejected, the finale complete, he had only to report his success to the agent waiting nearby. no doubt having watched the whole thing, even as they pretended otherwise. supervision was for children, but ezra had let it slideâwho wouldnât have wanted to witness some of the best that he had to offer?
     pushing through the doorway, he found himself face to face with the agent in question. terrible eyes shining. âshowâs over,â he said, holding out the polaroid with a clawed hand.
     this time, they offered curiosity. âi noticed. whatâs this?â flipped over, the tagline read: ENTROPY. AUGUST 1994.
a query for you.
if you had to choose a side between the xavier institute and the brotherhood, which side would you choose and why?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: hello joseph. i want to pick your brain.
[ several turns ensue. the speaker is unable to be found. ]
JOSEPH: where am i? who are you? what are you?
DV: thereâs no reason for alarm. youâre at home. youâre dreaming.
JOSEPH: ...dreaming?
[ a hush falls over the visible of the two speakers, the familiar landscape bringing pain to his expression, a sting to his heart. home. itâs been a long time since heâs been home. ]
JOSEPH: why would i want to dream about going home?
DV: isnât that what we all want? a place to call home? to feel safe in? you dream of it often.
JOSEPH: i donât... remember dreaming about it.
DV: the mind protects itself.
JOSEPH: can i... can i go somewhere else?
DV: itâs painful for you to be here, isnât it? knowing that in a perfect world you would never have left at all. that your parents wouldnât have failed you.
JOSEPH: they did their best.
DV: and they still failed you.
[ silence is a noose around the neck, catching on the lump in their throat. ]
JOSEPH: what do you want from me?
DV: i told you. i want to pick your brain.
[ the scene shifts, just slightly. the house grows warmer, inviting. two figures, one man and one woman, stand in the doorway, mirrors of their own soft, welcoming, expressions. older than the last time he had seen them, but instantly recognizableâhis parents. ]
JOSEPH: what does this have to... why are you showing me this?
DV: in a perfect world, you would be here. they would welcome you. they would love you.
JOSEPH: okay, so the world isnât... perfect. what does this matter?
DV: if you could show them to coexist, would you?
JOSEPH: i donât... i donât know what to say.
DV: think about it.
[ the scene shifts, this time to a place more recently familiarâthe xavier institute. uncharacteristically empty, pristine, an image more than a reality. ]
DV: you know this place.
JOSEPH: of course i do, itâs... iâve been trying to...
DV: you want to join them? theyâve abandoned you before.
JOSEPH: they didnât... they can help me... what choice do i have?
DV: more of a choice than you think.
JOSEPH: why are you so... cryptic about everything?
DV: the institute has relied on the shadows of anonymity for a long time. their front as a school, prestigious and well-respected, has given them much. but that respect has been challenged by xavierâs recent decision to expose its true purpose.
JOSEPH: i know, i... i know this already.
DV: charles xavier is optimistic. he believes that humanity can coexist with those more evolved than themselves. that we can come together, man and mutant, and build a better future for ourselves. that we can drive out hate if we allow love in our hearts, even for those who hold nothing but contempt for us.
JOSEPH: why are you telling me all of this?
DV: i want you to make a choice. i want you to be informed.
[ the institute shimmers, fading out into another scene. a crowd. a riot. screaming echoes all around, rife with hatred. with fear. with pain. an animal, large and out of place, hones in on a young woman that had moments before been a friend. ]
DV: but this is what they drive you to. this is the result of your efforts to coexist. you harm the people closest to you because humanity has drilled it into your skull that you are dangerous.
JOSEPH: theyâre not... not everyone is like that. the ones that are, theyâre just scared. iâm scared.
DV: of yourself. of what youâre capable of.
JOSEPH: youâre just telling me things i already know.
DV: itâs your dream, joseph. itâs your mind.
JOSEPH: youâre not making any sense!
DV: there are others that could help you. those that see you not as a burden, but as an asset. those that would allow you to exist as you were meant to.
JOSEPH: you mean the brotherhood? theyâre...
DV: theyâre what? dangerous? is that what the people around you say?
JOSEPH: they hurt people.
DV: so you do.
JOSEPH: itâsâ
DV: different? how?
JOSEPH: i donât want to hurt anyone! i donât!
DV: then why do you?
JOSEPH: itâs not me! itâs not!
DV: it is you. with the instincts of something greater than yourself, perhaps, but you nonetheless.
JOSEPH: i donât... i donât want to hurt anyone.
DV: you say a lot about what you donât want. what about what you do?
JOSEPH: i want... i just want to live my life. i want to be normal.
DV: you want to coexist.
JOSEPH: i want to coexist.
[ the entire dream shimmers like rippling water, a light almost blinding just beneath the surface. when it clears, theyâre different. larger. powerful. people linger below, small and breakable things. tempting. no! not tempting. the instinct abates, slipping through the cracks of his mind like sand through fingers. ]
DV: this is the future you want?
[ the people donât scream, donât shout, donât flee. theyâre comfortable in his presence, despite the monster whoâs skin heâs wearing. ]
JOSEPH: ...more than anything.
[ behind, a voice calls, familiar. the womanâthe friendâfrom before, this time accompanied by several others. friends, all of them. his friends. none cowering in terror at the beast that has broken through to the present. ]
DV: then youâve made your choice. you would prefer to live among them, to even the playing field. you donât want to believe that you could be greater than another.
[ they remain silent, distant, soaking in the moment like rays from the sun. this is a dream, but one they donât want to end. could reality ever live up to this? could the world ever be as perfect? they have to believe that, for their sake. for everyoneâs sake. ]
DV: youâve seen a taste of what the future can hold. are you ready to share what it is you truly want?
JOSEPH: iâ
DV: living your life, being normal... these are things that others would want of you. embracing yourself is the path to success, whatever you choose. you want more than that.
JOSEPH: i want... to help people. i donât want them to get hurt.
[ the massive head he wears turns, gaze resting on a dark-haired woman in the center. she smiles softly, knowingly, droplets of water reaching up from the grass to meet her fingertips. ]
JOSEPH: i want to make a difference.
DV: you want to be a hero. but first, you need an identity.
JOSEPH: a name...
DV: a name. and what is your name? your real name?
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The interview was a good idea. Jesse knew that with at least some certainty. It was a way to at least know who they needed to keep an eye on, to try and weed out anyone with bad intentions before they even stepped foot into the town. It wasnât flawless by any means, but maybe it would do them better in the future than just welcoming anyone off the streets...They didnât need another Kit in their midst, after all.Â
But that didnât mean he wasnât dreading it. It was, in essence, a job interview. And sure, he was already slotted in to take on the role in the newly formed council and had been part of making this whole interview a reality, but that didnât make it feel any less like a means of proving his worth to be here. That he was here for a purpose and here to stay - hopefully, anyway.Â
He cleared his throat as he sat down across from the interviewer and recorder, faces and names blurring just a bit as he instead focused on the questions being asked.Â
Where do you come from?
âOriginally from Chicago,â he answered simply, shoulders lifting in a bit of a shrug. There wasnât that much more to it.
How would you describe yourself as a person?
âUh-â he hesitates a minute, considering the question. How would he describe himself as a person? Heâd never had to really think about it before. âI donât know, really. I guess loyal, driven, a leader. At least, I aspire to be, anyway.â He hated talking about himself. It was easier to concern himself with others and not deal with himself.Â
How many walkers have you killed?
Itâs an interesting question, truly. The number of walkers a person killed spoke to their experience out there in the apocalypse, how they were able to handle themselves in this hellish world. It also took a special kind of person to keep track of that.Â
In the beginning Jesse could remember avoiding it at all costs. They didnât know anything about this âvirusâ or these people - were they still people? Were they alive? Was it possible to get them back? But when it was life or death, Jesse chose life and chose his family, time and time again.Â
âI donât know, honestly. Avoided it for a while, but when it was necessary it was necessarily.â
How many people have you killed? Why did you kill them?
He knows that this question is meant to be since the outbreak, he knows even to anticipate it. Yet he canât help thinking back to the war, to those he had killed without all that much thought. Sure, another example of kill or be killed, another example of doing what needed to be done. And yet...
But even without considering before the answer doesnât really come easily. Because he remembers all the blood on his hands, what heâs had to do to survive. When months had gone by and walkers became common creatures they all knew had to die and werenât going to be coming back - well, the lines blurred between the living and the dead. He didnât like to admit it, wanted to pretend that sentiment wasnât true...but in that period before heâd stumbled upon Fairvale and had a little sense and hope knocked back into him --
âJesse?âÂ
His name pulls him back to reality a little and he looks up at the interviewer, clearing his throat. âUhm, 8 people. I think. Wait - 7, I guess...â He folds his hands together tightly, certain that it wasnât the answer they were expecting or looking for. Itâs written firmly in their expressions even as they try to compose themselves. A killer as part of their council? Had they just opened themselves up to another Kit?Â
He tries to tell himself it had to be done, every death at his hands were for a reason. First because of a bite that had been hidden away, one that transformed the former companion into one of those things. There hadnât been any consideration in that one, even if they had become something of a friend. They didnât really count, either - technically they were no longer a person when Jesse pulled them off the boy and slid a blade into their temple. It was the kid that was truly his first, one that had reminded him so much of Liam, that heâd come to want to protect just as much as his own baby brother.
Bitten on the forearm, terrified of what was going to happen to him, the group stood around him with solemn expressions. Perhaps because they all knew what needed to be done but none of them was willing to step forward and do it. In part also because the boyâs older brother had fallen to his knees beside the younger, clinging to him for dear life with seemingly no intention of letting anyone else get close.Â
âWe - You have to help him.â He still remembers the look of desperation in Liamâs eyes as he pleads for Jesse to save him, to keep their friend from dying at the hands of this - disease. But Jesseâs no doctor. All he knows is a bite means death and becoming one of those monsters. But if the disease canât spread then maybe thereâs a chance? The idea of removing the infected limb turns even his stomach, brings back flashes of memories that heâd buried down deep - so similar the situation and yet so incredibly different.Â
But living with one arm less than before was better than dying.
âHold him still -âÂ
In the end, it didnât even matter. While it didnât seem that the disease would take him, it was the blood loss and infection that did. And that blood was now on his hands, seeping into his skin, burned into his memory.Â
But what came next was worse, a grief stricken older brother to the boy that lay dead on the operating table (though realistically it was nothing more than an old bar top, with supplies that never shouldâve been considered for the task at hand). When theyâd pulled Liam towards him with a hand around his chin, ready to snap his neck at any moment. You took everything from me, now Iâll do the same to you.Â
If the roles were reversed, Jesse wasnât sure how he wouldâve reacted. But somehow a life for a life didnât make sense. He tried to plead with him, talk him down...but eventually there wasnât any choice left. If he wanted to keep Liam alive (and heâd rather die than let anything happen to him) then pulling the trigger and putting a bullet in the brain of someone heâd begin to consider a friend was all he could do...
That story was still fresh in his mind, one that replayed in a loop with different (sometimes better, usually far worse) outcomes if he closed his eyes for too long. But heâd be lying if he said it hadnât gotten easier after that. To say heâd killed a person, a human, living person - but heâd done it because it meant surviving. Keeping himself or his family alive.Â
Are you searching for anybody?
âYes.â He may have stopped in Fairvale to hang his hat and to have somewhere to call âhomeâ, at least to some extent, but he wasnât going to give up on his family. Heâd just needed to refuel, recuperate, make a plan...
âMy parents, my little brother, Liam. We got separated when a horde of âem came through. I told them to run while I drew the walkers away...â There had to have been a better solution - he thought that over and over since that day. They shouldâve stuck together. But in the heat of the moment it seemed like the best option, and heâd assumed theyâd circle back and find each other again without issue. Theyâd done it again and again. Told him to hide, told him to stay there - and heâd always managed to find him again.Â
But not this time. By the time heâd circled back to where heâd last seen them there was no sign of them. And he searched. And he tried not to think of what it meant that he couldnât find them, that they werenât here, that this wasnât as easy as it had been before.
He stumbled upon other groups of survivors, pockets of people who had their own agendas and ended up on the wrong side of his gun in the desperate search for his family. But Fairvale had been the first place that actually sparked a little bit of hope in him. Maybe theyâd found it already - no, that hadnât been the case - but maybe they would find it, too. Just as he had.
Why are you here?
Itâs a question heâd asked himself a few times since heâd arrived just a few weeks prior. Why are you here? Why wasnât he still out there looking - not that he wasnât taking every opportunity to continue the search. âBecause Iâm no good to them dead. Because I can do something here. Because chasing a moving target is impossible.â He can only hope that thatâs been the problem, that with both of them constantly on the move the odds of them finding each other decreased with every passing day. If he stayed in one place - or at least had a place to go back to - then maybe that increased their odds of finding each other again.
Would you consider yourself a team player?
âSure, yeah. Iâve always operated best on a team, I think.âÂ
Are you the type of person who will try to make the best out of a bad situation?
The best out of a bad situation. Like trying to survive when the world was burning around them? âIâm not sure any of us would be here if we didnât at least have some sense of that.â
What skills do you have that will benefit the community and your fellow survivors?
âI was in the marines, a few years back. Iâve been told Iâm a good leader. I try to keep the best interest of the people around me at heart. And Iâm not a bad shot.âÂ
Can you handle yourself in a crisis?
The answer, again, felt pretty obvious. âI think Iâve proven that already, but given weâre all still standing here i think for the most part the answer to that has to be yes for all of us.â They were living in a crisis - for over six months now. If they couldnât handle themselves in a crisis then they were either extremely lucky to still be alive or already dead.
What are you willing to do to protect the people and things you care about?
âI -â Heâd already killed to protect Liam. Heâd more quickly step into the line of fire than let anything happen to those he cared about, if he knew it would keep them safe. âAnything.â
Do you have any pre-existing medical conditions our medical staff should be informed about?
This was another question he wasnât looking forward to. His disability was often hidden from others, behind a pant leg he looked no different unless you knew to pay attention to the slight hitch in his gait. For the most part it didnât hinder his abilities - running wasnât as easy as it had once been and he couldnât be on his feet for lengthy periods of time without discomfort, but he imagined almost everyone suffered those ailments if only in a very distinctly different way.Â
He just didnât want people looking at him like he was broken. At least not in that way. Heâd seen the pitying gazes all through his recovery. This, as much as he hated to say it, could be a fresh start.Â
But he also wasnât stupid. He couldnât do all of this own his own. Sometimes, heâd need a little extra help.Â
Pulling up the leg of his pant to reveal a hint of the prosthetic beneath, his shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. âIâd prefer to keep it discreet, if possible.â
Gaoth se assistia voltar Ă quela casa como se assistisse a um filme. Via-se do alto entrar minĂșsculo por uma das janelas, aproximar-se da cama do homem que vitimaria, acordĂĄ-lo com o som de um vidro de veneno se estilhaçando no chĂŁo. Observou o homem acordar aterrorizado, e correr para longe do fae tĂŁo rĂĄpido quanto pĂŽde, mas nĂŁo rĂĄpido o suficiente. Pretendia descer a escada, alcançar um telefone ou qualquer outra coisa, desesperado para salvar a vida. O rapaz continuava a persegui-lo, sem certezas. JĂĄ hesitara uma vez, poderia tĂȘ-lo alcançado e destruĂdo num instante, apenas, porque nĂŁo o fizera?
O jovem assassino, sonhando, se assistiu afastar-se aquelas coisas da cabeça e fazer menção de seguir sua presa, que jĂĄ disparava pelos primeiros degraus quando aquele senhor olhou-o mais uma vez. A expressĂŁo que carregava no semblante ficou gravada na mente do fae. Talvez porque fosse triste demais, um animal caçado, morto antes de morrer, e talvez porque tenha sido a Ășltima que o homem foi capaz de sustentar antes de tropeçar e rolar escada abaixo. Gaoth arrependeu-se. NĂŁo queria fazer aquilo, nĂŁo queria matĂĄ-lo e, uma vez que o tinha percebido, nunca mais poderia negĂĄ-lo.
Virava-se na direção da janela, pronto para encolher e partir como havia feito em suas lembranças quando deixou de assistir ao seu feito e começou a vivĂȘ-lo mais uma vez. Mas com um desfecho diferente. Escutou uma risada - uma risada de mulher - e voltou-se, assombrado, para o corpo. O velho ria, orgulhoso, contente, sublime. E, num segundo, nĂŁo era mais um velho, mas uma general poderosa, impĂĄvida e irascĂvel. Sua mĂŁe.
Contra a sua vontade, Gaoth olhou-o e sorriu. Um sorriso frio, lĂąminas de aço. Cumprimentou o servo e professor com a cabeça, e voou com ele para baixo, na direção da matança. Participaria dela, a estrelaria, ele sentiu. Dentro da prĂłpria cabeça, Gaoth gritava, esperneava e sentia o controle que tinha sobre o corpo e a voz se desfazer em fumaça.Â
Fechou os olhos e tentou voltar a dormir, sem sucesso. Ainda que nĂŁo se lembrasse de nada, Gaoth sabia que, o que quer que tivesse visto em quanto dormia, havida sido horrĂvel. E ele nunca mais seria o mesmo. Esperava com tudo o que tinha dentro de si que tivesse sido apenas um sonho.
Era um passo difĂcil. O mais difĂcil e o mais ousado que a moça jĂĄ intentara. Por isso os treinos noturnos, por isso tanta dedicação, trabalho e suor. Tinha que ser nada menos do que perfeita. O queixo erguido, o sorriso de atriz, o corpo ereto e a postura de uma boneca de caixinha de mĂșsica, uma bailarina completa. Foi uma dor sĂșbita na coxa direita que a desmontou. Bethany, antes gloriosa como uma fada, caiu como um trapo pesado, produzindo um ruĂdo oco no chĂŁo.
O corte sangrava, e a dor era insuportĂĄvel. Beth urrou mais uma vez, de frustração e sofrimento. Olhava para o seu joelho completamente ensanguentado com nojo e aflição, e gritava para que Marcus a ajudasse, jĂĄ nĂŁo conseguia se levantar. O rapaz, entretanto, nĂŁo se movĂa. Encarava-a sem vĂȘ-la, como se estivesse tonto. E os berros de Bethany ecoavam pela quadra, ricocheteando inĂșteis nas paredes de pedra.
A próxima coisa que Bethany notou foi o corpo do namorado sobre o dela. Teria gostado daquilo numa outra situação, mas o olhar assassino, desejoso no rosto dele levou-a ao pùnico absoluto no lugar de dar-lhe prazer. Não teve, entretanto, sequer um instante para temer por sua vida. Enquanto ao longe ela escutava o relógio bater doze horas, sentiu facas afiadas cravando-lhe o pescoço, e depois não sentiu mais nada...
Ao despertar, Bethany nĂŁo se lembraria das sensaçÔes torturantes de seu estranho pesadelo. NĂŁo se recordarĂa dos tons vermelhos, cor de sangue, e nem do cheiro de desespero que pairava no ar. O gosto amargo nos lĂĄbios, entretanto, nĂŁo a abandonaria nunca mais. Sentiu uma agonia infinita, pincelada por pontadas violentas na perna que a traĂra no chĂŁo da quadra. E, sĂł entĂŁo, teve a preocupação de olhar em volta.
Chorou em desespero. Chorou todas as lĂĄgrimas que pĂŽde, e a ĂĄgua salgada embaçou sua visĂŁo, protegendo-a das cenas violentas que se desenrrolavam naquele estranho cenĂĄrio onĂrico. NĂŁo viu quando uma fada de asas douradas e vermelhas cortou uma cabeça e riu. NĂŁo viu quando um lobo abriu o tĂłrax de um homem com as mĂŁos e comeu-lhe as entranhas. NĂŁo viu os vampiros drenando o sangue de crianças apavoradas. E nĂŁo viu os esforços inĂșteis de Harry, que jamais iria alcançå-los.
Apenas chorou e gritou, esperneou eternamente no chĂŁo, levando uma das mĂŁos ao pescoço por instinto, por reflexo e pela dor. Sequer reparou nos furos que agora decoravam sua pele, marcas de uma transformação que nĂŁo pedira, e de uma condição que levaria consigo pela eternidade, quisesse ou nĂŁo. Passaram-se minutos, dias ou horas. Bethany nĂŁo saberia precisar. O mundo continuava sufocando-a em seu vermelho febril, abafando as sĂșplicas arroucadas e sua famĂlia, enevoando o desespero de seu irmĂŁo e recebendo no ar salgado e azedo as vidas que se esvaiam.