Kolme stands ahead of Aren, hands clasped politely behind their back. It’s a farce, a mere illusion of tranquil fortitude. He’s noticed their eyes lingering upon the weapon nestled firmly within his palm one too many times to believe otherwise; thus, Aren rolls his arm in his socket as a means of suggestion and {reveal link: 'warning.', text: 'warning: ‘Throw yourself at me, I’ll catch you. Fall backwards, I’ll close the distance and execute you. One of us is [[slated for death->At]], but it is not and it will not yet be me.’'}
Kolme stands ahead of Aren, hands clasped politely behind their back. It’s a farce, a mere illusion of tranquil fortitude. He’s noticed their eyes lingering upon the weapon nestled firmly within his palm one too many times to believe otherwise; thus, Aren rolls his arm in his socket as a means of suggestion and warning: ‘Throw yourself at me, I’ll catch you. Fall backwards, I’ll close the distance and execute you. One of us is slated for death, but it is not and it will not yet be me.’
The others back away from them slowly, yet surely; there’s a virus by the name of death lingering around in the air, and they’d not like to be infected. Steered by the strings of stomach-curdling guilt and considerable fear, each and every one of the onlookers place their hands firmly against their ears, then turn away or shut their eyes to the scene being set before them. Kolme twitches, almost imperceptibly, at the sight; Aren knows why, but cannot empathize with the sentiment. After all, he’d been the one to suggest the affair to everyone—he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he hadn’t thought they’d eagerly leap at the chance to render themselves blind and deaf to the product of their own violence. See no evil, hear no evil; it mattered not that they’d committed the act, only that they wouldn’t have to bear witness to the consequences of the crime.
[after 7.5 seconds]
Kolme, unlike Aren, has [[yet to understand->The]] this.
Kolme stands ahead of Aren, hands clasped politely behind their back. It’s a farce, a mere illusion of tranquil fortitude. He’s noticed their eyes lingering upon the weapon nestled firmly within his palm one too many times to believe otherwise; thus, Aren rolls his arm in his socket as a means of suggestion and warning: ‘Throw yourself at me, I’ll catch you. Fall backwards, I’ll close the distance and execute you. One of us is slated for death, but it is not and it will not yet be me.’
The others back away from them slowly, yet surely; there’s a virus by the name of death lingering around in the air, and they’d not like to be infected. Steered by the strings of stomach-curdling guilt and considerable fear, each and every one of the onlookers place their hands firmly against their ears, then turn away or shut their eyes to the scene being set before them. Kolme twitches, almost imperceptibly, at the sight; Aren knows why, but cannot empathize with the sentiment. After all, he’d been the one to suggest the affair to everyone—he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he hadn’t thought they’d eagerly leap at the chance to render themselves blind and deaf to the product of their own violence. See no evil, hear no evil; it mattered not that they’d committed the act, only that they wouldn’t have to bear witness to the consequences of the crime.
Kolme, unlike Aren, has yet to understand this. It’s almost admirable, their will and desire to go neither quietly nor easily. There is, of course, a scuffle; he hadn’t taken more than a mere step forward before Kolme sprung into action: they become a flurry of limbs, gnashed teeth, embittered screams and cries, cavorting legs and furled fists, and piercing nails all within a matter of seconds. For all the good that it did, they were better off waltzing into the belly of the beast himself, as all that they manage to accomplish is a handful of extra hisses and cries for help before Aren’s hand is pressed against their mouth. No sooner had he slipped his other arm around their torso, than their teeth punctured the skin of his palm; it manages to elicit a wince from him, certainly, yet little else, and even that is minor when compared to the tears of dismay that have begun to cascade down their cheeks and wet his fingers. It’s not an ideal angle for an execution by any means—their back to his front, off-hand higher than his dominant—but it works for his aims, and that’s what matters above all else. If he can’t reach their neck, then he’ll have to settle for tearing at their chest, he decides. Before that, however:
[[‘…I’m sorry.’->Lake]]
Kolme stands ahead of Aren, hands clasped politely behind their back. It’s a farce, a mere illusion of tranquil fortitude. He’s noticed their eyes lingering upon the weapon nestled firmly within his palm one too many times to believe otherwise; thus, Aren rolls his arm in his socket as a means of suggestion and warning: ‘Throw yourself at me, I’ll catch you. Fall backwards, I’ll close the distance and execute you. One of us is slated for death, but it is not and it will not yet be me.’
The others back away from them slowly, yet surely; there’s a virus by the name of death lingering around in the air, and they’d not like to be infected. Steered by the strings of stomach-curdling guilt and considerable fear, each and every one of the onlookers place their hands firmly against their ears, then turn away or shut their eyes to the scene being set before them. Kolme twitches, almost imperceptibly, at the sight; Aren knows why, but cannot empathize with the sentiment. After all, he’d been the one to suggest the affair to everyone—he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he hadn’t thought they’d eagerly leap at the chance to render themselves blind and deaf to the product of their own violence. See no evil, hear no evil; it mattered not that they’d committed the act, only that they wouldn’t have to bear witness to the consequences of the crime.
Kolme, unlike Aren, has yet to understand this. It’s almost admirable, their will and desire to go neither quietly nor easily. There is, of course, a scuffle; he hadn’t taken more than a mere step forward before Kolme sprung into action: they become a flurry of limbs, gnashed teeth, embittered screams and cries, cavorting legs and furled fists, and piercing nails all within a matter of seconds. For all the good that it did, they were better off waltzing into the belly of the beast himself, as all that they manage to accomplish is a handful of extra hisses and cries for help before Aren’s hand is pressed against their mouth. No sooner had he slipped his other arm around their torso, than their teeth punctured the skin of his palm; it manages to elicit a wince from him, certainly, yet little else, and even that is minor when compared to the tears of dismay that have begun to cascade down their cheeks and wet his fingers. It’s not an ideal angle for an execution by any means—their back to his front, off-hand higher than his dominant—but it works for his aims, and that’s what matters above all else. If he can’t reach their neck, then he’ll have to settle for tearing at their chest, he decides. Before that, however:
‘…I’m sorry.’ At this, the strength of Kolme’s bite heightens, as though they could manage to regain the endurance being drained by their collar by consuming the beads of his blood stirred to action by the harm they inflict. He returns the favor by turning the sickle in his hand, tilting it downward so that the very tip of it rests just barely against the flesh beneath their false rib. Satisfied by the bout of shivering this slight movement induces, he continues on in a whisper: ‘It must be scary, being the first to die. You could be wondering if you’re the *least* liked, denied the right to live because there are others who deserve it more. It’s also possible to see yourself as the most desirable—in that case, this is a mercy, being spared the unforeseen horrors of the future. If it wasn’t for me, you’d have been able to ask everyone… satisfy yourself with the truth of what cemented this fate. So, I’m apologizing for that, because I should be sorry. But, if you can forgive me, I *am* curious…’
Now, they’re using his palm to stifle their sobs, panting shallowly as he sinks the blade into their skin. If he was predisposed towards poetry, he’d liken the laceration being made to a surgeon’s incision or a score marked to divide a choice slab of meat. For better or worse, he isn’t so inclined, and thus his mind is narrowly focused on all that he’d like to [[open the victim’s eyes->Around]] to in their dying moments.
{reveal link: '‘I had to know…’', text: '‘I had to know… I wanted to know what you’d find below rock bottom. Molten lava, perhaps? The heated center at the heart of the world? What could possibly be worse than sorrow and resignation?’ He pauses, dropping the sickle. Kolme’s grown heavier, weaker in the knees. ‘The answer is simple: learning that what you’ve resolved yourself to is only the penultimate tragedy, or so I believe. To succumb to one pain, then discover that there’s worse still. Maybe, just maybe, you were alright with dying. One sacrifice towards a greater good. But could you accept *this*? To be axed, watch everyone retreat from the area, and be the tree that falls silently? If you knew it was coming, could you have maintained composure upon being made to [[fade->Ten]]… without a trace?’'}
‘I had to know… I wanted to know what you’d find below rock bottom. Molten lava, perhaps? The heated center at the heart of the world? What could possibly be worse than sorrow and resignation?’ He pauses, dropping the sickle. Kolme’s grown heavier, weaker in the knees. ‘The answer is simple: learning that what you’ve resolved yourself to is only the penultimate tragedy, or so I believe. To succumb to one pain, then discover that there’s worse still. Maybe, just maybe, you were alright with dying. One sacrifice towards a greater good. But could you accept *this*? To be axed, watch everyone retreat from the area, and be the tree that falls silently? If you knew it was coming, could you have maintained composure upon being made to fade… without a trace?’
{reveal link: 'Silence.', text: 'Silence. Aren releases Kolme’s body, sighing shakily as they fall to the floor with a dull thud. [[Their death is slow and agonizing->?]]; in this state, there is nothing they can do to prevent or expedite its progress. He doesn’t mind the wait.'}‘It seems we’ll never know now.’
[after 1 second]
~~Somewhere, a school bell rings; a hypothesis has taken shape.~~