Murphy feels like that constantly--he thinks the phrase 'this is fucking stupid' is ingrained in his DNA somehow, if it even works like that.He does know he wants Raven. That's something that, while he does think about it quite often, he knows will never happen. He shot the girl--made her a cripple--and now he's sitting there, sharing a room, just staring.
It's just like Murphy to think he's got a chance. It's also just like Murphy to simultaneously squash that thought down, so far to the back of his head that he acts not with tenderness towards her, but with sarcastic quips. Raven hates him anyway, and the only reason they're sharing a spot is because no one will bunk with Murphy--ever the social pariah--and Raven was too tired to give a shit who they stuck her with.
She's asleep but Murphy is up, wide awake, guiltiness never quite letting him close his eyes for long around her. He takes in her hair, the shape of her nose--the dimmest light in the dark hits her just right and Murphy will never admit it, but he smiles.
He wants that. He wants her. John Murphy has fucked up any chance he ever had (not that there was one in the first place) by raining down lead that day in the dropship, and still he finds himself moving to her sleeping form, as quiet as ever, and looks down at her.
Beautiful. She'd be even more gorgeous if Murphy wasn't well aware what he was doing was absolutely fucking creepy. Hs hand has a mind of it's own--slowly, carefully, fingertips brush soft cheek. This is as close to her arms around her as he can get. He'll take it. ]
[ to lose her leg has been a blow. it's been akin to blowing up a bridge, losing that function of being able to cross from point a to point b. raven needs her legs on the ground to not only carry her when she needs to flee, but to support her when she needs to stand. ]
[ these days, she's leaning on something. ]
[ raven's not necessarily a light sleeper, but on the ground she's become one. the smallest movement outside of her tent would wake her up. a sneeze would see her eyes snap wide open, and sometimes she'd fall right back into her dreamless sleep. inside of arkadia, it's become even worse. the pain that's settled in her hip keeps her awake for days at a time, only letting her drift off as she's too tired to keep her eyes open. there's some days where she can sleep deeply and dream, and sometimes she's out in space, floating amongst her starry kin. sometimes she's out on that field with finn, and more often than not, she's walking around arkadia with two good legs, and finds when she awakens that her reality is truly the nightmare. ]
[ tonight she sleeps lightly. when she feels a slight pressure on her face, she remains still. self-preservation kicks in a lot these days, and raven's learned to follow her gut when it tells her not to fire back like a bomb. remaining still, only her eyelashes flutter, and then she waits, trying to figure this out. ]
[ it smells like murphy. she always associates him with smoke, like a phoenix that's chosen to rise from the ashes and try and do good. she's seen it, even if he hasn't, and she hates him for being the only person she feels comfortable enough to be her true unhappy self around. ]
[ she thinks about biting his head off (and quite literally his finger), but she remains still. instead, she decides to hum, and keeps her eyes closed. she's not much of a talker in her sleep, but he has to have been woken numerous times from her own screams. it's believable enough that she'd react, even when "asleep." ]
He learns this lesson watching from a distance as an Azgeda blade sinks into his father's chest, spilling blood like wine. Look out, it's a spy! It's a spy! he's screaming as he runs, but for all his training, all his skill, his legs don't carry him there fast enough.
Fathers die too easily protecting sons who don't notice the danger lurking in the forest until it's too late.
Before that, he'd learned many other lessons growing up as one of the Trikru clan. How to fight, how to hunt, how to skin his own kills, how to fletch his own arrows. How to be strong. How to say goodbye to a mother who succumbs to fever in the night.
But the hardest lesson of them all is watching the last of his family die in his arms and knowing it could have been prevented, knowing scouts from the Ice Nation shouldn't have been in their territory. It teaches him to hate. He pleads his case to the leader, that Trikru must strike back for this, for shedding blood, his blood, but it falls on deaf ears. His father had been considered odd, even by their standards. A quiet, independent man with his own ideas of how things should be done. Not someone worth fanning the flames of war over. The day he learns the Commander hopes to start a Coalition with the plan of bringing all tribes into the fold, even Ice Nation, the last thread holding him to the clan starts to fray.
(A blossom of hate sprouts in his heart for Trikru that day, too, when they agree. It feels like a betrayal. The clan's toward his family, but also his own if he should stay.)
So he leaves. Packs his bag and slips out in the dead of night. He'd been taught well--well enough to survive on his own. If word of murdered Azgeda along the border lands start to pass from mouth to mouth, he's long gone before anyone thinks to look for him. When the Sky People arrive, one rogue warrior becomes the least of Trikru's worries, besides.
They crash to the ground with strange weapons, these Sky People. Like the Mountain Men, they attack with fire and explosions and sleek black guns that sometimes rattle gunfire in the distance like melodic growls of thunder.
He stays out of the fighting. The clan's Ice Nation allies are his enemies. He has no reason to make the clan's enemies his, too.
It's happenstance that he'd retreated into the familiar, deep Trikru forests surrounding Mount Weather (he's gotten faster the last couple of years, but still not fast enough to prevent an arrow from lodging itself in his flank, an injury that taken weeks to heal up from) just as Anya and Tristan send three hundred warriors to their deaths. The black sky lights up with hellish reds and ugly oranges. The air around the Sky People's camp gets so hot that sap boils and bubbles in the trees, popping like gunshots.
And then in a matter of hours, it's over. Flecks of ash float in the wind, carrying the scent of death. By morning, the silence in the forest is almost deafening.
Those who'd known him back before--when he still had a home and clan affiliation and went by his old name--would have said curiosity was one of his faults. He never could stay away when something teased his attention, and though he knows it's dangerous beyond measure, his feet take him toward the battleground out of a sense of need to tend to the dead and look for the living.
What living? Even before he reaches the camp's perimeter, he sees black. Black smoke. Black bones. Black earth. His stomach goes cold at the quiet desolation. Nothing could survive this, he thinks.
That's when he hears it. A rustling in the bush.
Trikru survivor, he thinks next, and leaves his knives sheathed assuming friend, not foe. He couldn't be more wrong.]
Edited (oops, c/ped the wrong version of this the first time, shhhh) 2016-11-24 05:08 (UTC)
[ It's not that he's had it, per se, but--he's had it. All of that rage and bitterness and resentment had festered--had burned until it bubbled out in more than a fiery explosion. It had been revenge.
Petty or not, Murphy had wanted to see him suffer. Had wanted Bellamy to be seen as how he really was--but it, like so many things in Murphy's life, had gone wrong. Wrong in the sense that he couldn't blame anyone as much as he wanted to blame everyone. Even the voice in the back of his head whispering that it was his fault was wrong.
The universe just likes to completely fuck with him.
The universe gives him Raven--and Murphy shoots Raven, even if he didn't know it at the time--and all he wants to do is burn. Burn himself or the girl, he's not sure. But instead, his desperate need to survive kicks in. His need to survive, and maybe--just maybe--the need for a friend. Murphy's alone. Murphy's always been alone but he doesn't want to crawl under the metaphorical porch and die alone like a dog. If he does go, he's not going alone.
He just had pictured that staunch statement to go closer to 'I'm going to stab you' rather than bonding. But it had happened, even if Murphy's not even sure how--he's never sure of how he ends up in situations like this, he just adapts as quickly as fucking possible. It's as simple as that.
Then the Mountain men come. Whatever the fuck they are--Murphy doesn't know, he just runs. He runs as fast as he possibly can and he runs until he nearly trips over something and even then, he winds up sliding, fitting himself behind a tree perfectly even if the trip was ungraceful. He clutches his assault rifle tightly, closes his eyes, counts to three, and runs again.
He doesn't do this out of tripping, but he does move to a bush. It'll be easier ,he thinks, if he waits for the cover. Easier to avoid the grounders and who knows what. Easier, he thinks, to survive. So he waits.
He's not waiting long--he notices something, there, out of the corner of his eye-- and stands up in the bush, gun pointed, ready to fight. He's battered and bruised and in pain, he's in so much goddamn pain now that the adrenaline is swearing off--but he'll be damned if he's not going down without a fight. It's just him and this--whatever this guy is. Grounder kid. ]
[He's hunted game in these forests as long as he could walk, using all of his senses to decipher the language of bird calls and tell apart the distinct crinkle of one set of paws in the underbrush from another. Someone's nearby--he can tell that from the sound alone. Two-footed, moving quickly.
And heavily. Boots crunch on pine needles. Branches catch against a body. The steps stutter, stumble, and then resume again, off-kilter in what must be a limp.
Poised in place, his eyes track the movement of the sounds his ears pick up on. That's no Trikru survivor, he realizes; there's no way a warrior would be crashing through the trees that loudly and obviously, even on his or her last legs. There's time to hide. The person is practically screaming their position out to him, letting him know exactly where they are and what direction they're moving; there are about a dozen places he could conceal himself while waiting for them to stumble past. He could watch. He could assess. He could attack, if need be, a calculated strike to end the life of any wounded animal.
But he doesn't, for the same reason he'd hiked to the site of the battle. The smell of blood is sharp and coppery in the air--they're probably injured, whomever this is, and probably in no state to fight.
Probably.
As he watches the spot where the noises have gone silent, a dark shape rises from the foliage. It resolves itself into a disheveled figure, liberally streaked with dirt and gore. A boy. Around his age, he'd guess, though the layer of grime and the angry red cuts streaking crimson tracks down the boy's face makes it difficult to gauge. Pain ages everyone. It's the distinguishing jacket that seals the identity of the stranger--he's heard talk of those unusual uniforms from others who've seen the camp up close. Midnight blue, like the color of the sky in late evening.
Skaikru.
Blue eyes meet blue eyes, different from the Skaikru uniform, the other boy's the shade of grey storms, his own flecked with brown like the earth he'd been born on. He observes the other unblinkingly, the lower half of his face concealed behind the scarf he'd pulled over his mouth and nose to protect against smoke. He wears no mask, but then he'd never favored bone or leather. No war paint, either, beyond an unremarkable dusting of dirt. At first glance, he's reserved the paint for his hair, smudged a striking and deliberate coal-black.
The most he moves is to drop his gaze to the business end of the rifle, the bloody finger on the trigger, then back up. Calculating.
He'd be within his rights to pull a knife and send it home in the other's heart in the time it'd take to pull that trigger--expected to, really. This is a Sky boy, beyond any doubt. This is one of the intruders who'd likely just helped turn the forest into a graveyard populated with the corpses of Tree people, people he might have known, might have spoken to. No doubted he'd be lauded for killing one right here and now, and he'd have no trouble claiming it was self-defense when staring down a gun. It'd be what the Sky People call Grounder justice.
But that trigger finger keeps pulling his gaze back. Specifically, to the healing fingernail bed he can see even from here. That's not an injury earned from fighting. It's older. Precise.
He knows exactly what it is, having seen it, having been shown how to administer it. It's what's going to happen to this Sky boy when reinforcements arrive and capture him. There'll be no swift, clean deaths for anyone responsible for this devastation. Just interrogation and the most hellish, unimaginable pain the Commander and leaders can devise.
(Look at all this death already. Are you going to be responsible for more?)
His knotted stomach gives a kick, something uncomfortable in the thought. His knife remains sheathed.
Carefully, he reaches up to tug the scarf away, exposing the rest of his face to view.]
I don't want to hurt you.
[The voice of the clan in his head says he should, but his own voice says more blood isn't about to clean up the blood already spilled.]
Edited (tralala don't mind me) 2016-12-02 06:26 (UTC)
[ He thinks, for a moment, that this boy is ordinary. Murphy is fucking sure, for a brief second, that this is just a kid from the arc. It's the lack of a mask, or the weird shit the others smear on their fact that does it. He looks like someone he probably would have been an asshole to back in the day.
Then again, Murphy would be an asshole to everyone. He still us. Case in point, he's got a gun in this guy's face--because he's not one of them, and even if he doesn't give a shit about the camp they're a little higher on his 'don't kill list.'
He's not from the camp, though--he's definitely a grounder. One who asses him so quickly it gives Murphy chills just as much as it enrages him. Murphy's rage is the quiet kind, at least when he's exhausted and beat down like this, and, ultimately, it doesn't matter. Murphy holds the power.
Literally--Murphy has the gun. ]
Bull. Shit.
[ Simple. Rough. Coarse, and Murphy's at his wits' end as his gaze sweeps over the other boy. He knows the grounder can small weakness. It's the one thing they and murphy have in common: exploiting it. ]
Five seconds or I shoot. [ The mercy is because he's his age, nothing more, he tells himself. He's not soft. ] Five. Four.
[It's been a while since he's spoken out loud to another. It's been a while since he's been around another person, period. The Gonsaleng language he has to use to communicate with the Sky boy feels rough and foreign on his tongue, like an atrophied muscle he has to put effort in to use.
He licks his lips, a nervous tic, more on account of being outside his comfort zone speaking to a stranger--a Skaikru invader--than because of the gun ready to rip holes into him. He's not afraid of facing one of Skaikru's automatic weapons, even if he should be. It's nature for cornered animals to fight back; the other boy is just safeguarding his life. He understands that. He'd think about shooting him, too, if he were in the other boy's injured, exhausted shoes, and the thought strikes him with sudden sadness and an unexpected amount of empathy.
This is Skaikru and he shouldn't want to help one of them. It's also a person in pain, in potentially mortal danger, and he finds he does want to help that person in a way that's blind to affiliations.
("I can always trust you to do the right thing.")
With the contradiction pulling him in opposing directions and a father's last words echoing in his ears, he shakes his head slowly in response, falling back on silence again. He'd been taught to exploit weakness, yes--but on the battlefield. This isn't that. The open palms he holds up say as much. I won't attack.]
You should go. [Another gesture with his head--this time a nod to the side, in the direction opposite the one patrols will approach from.] They'll be coming. They'll kill you if they find you.
[("You're a good boy.")
He can't do it. He can't stare into the eyes of someone wounded and in need of help and do nothing. His utter silence would essentially be the same thing as sending the boy to his death if he let him wander into Trikru's waiting hands.]
[ Something's off. He's just not sure if that something is this strange guy wanting to kill him or eyeing him like a piece of meat or what. Murphy can't figure it out, how he licks his lips, how he's unafraid of the gun. They look the same age, and Murphy is used to seeing older Grounders. The other licks his lips, and it's decidedly human in nature.
Murphy hates things he can't figure out. If he can't figure things you the can't push buttons, he can't have some of that control he craves, at least when it comes to controlling what others see about him. It's unnerving. What's even more unnerving is that all it takes is a lick of the lips for Murphy to feel like he's unravelling.
He's tired. He's exhausted. He's hungry, too. That's what it is, he tells himself. If he can convince himself it has to be the truth. He keeps the gun level, keeps his hands from shaking. It's impressive.
The other spreads his palms. A sign of surrender, no matter your tribe. And then those words, in a strangely accented English, and Murphy feels himself shiver. This is it--this is what's off. The other is trying to help him. The grounder is giving him a hand. ]
And you decided to tell me this from the kindness in the bottom of your heart?
There's no time. [ If he's right, he needs to go. And yet he sneers and doesn't move.
If he's honest with himself, it's because he's not sure he can take a single step without collapsing. ]
[Everybody kills. Azgeda, Trikru, Skaikru. Every clan is guilty, every hand is bloody. Even his--he's killed, too. Maybe this boy is the exception and hasn't had to take a life to save his own before, though he doubts it from the unapologetic point of the muzzle, but one thing he does know for certain is that he's a killer like all the rest. Different reasons, same end.
So no, it's not kindness from an innocent soul or some angel of mercy.]
I wasn't with the army that attacked you.
[That's closer to the mark. A neutral party staying a neutral party. He's still a moment, still enough that he imagines he can hear leaves shifting in the trees and the other's fingers making the gun's plastic creak, then makes the same gesture. Another nod in the direction of escape.]
There's time.
[And with 10K letting him walk free, he has a chance to make it count. If he can't... Well. Reluctance to be the direct cause of this boy's death is as far as 10K's plan had gotten.]
[ Murphy has done a lot. He has yet to atone for his sins, washed in sickness and plague, forced to kill even more and purposely choosing to kill for revenge. He doesn't regret it, either.
He's a piece of shit, he might as well own up to it. Murphy has pieces of a coward, but this is one thing he'll wear: Murphy survives. No matter the cost. ]
Bullshit.
[ And yet, while it's still said with flakes of brusqueness, there's a part of him that wants to believe. It's a part Murphy squashes down immediately: he doesn't need this, he doesn't need shit. He needs to keep going, he needs to survive.
There's time, the other says, and Murphy spends half a second taking in all possible outcomes. He weighs them as quickly as most would blink, lips parted, breath ragged, and decides to do what he does best. Live. ]
You better not be fucking me over. [ And, after another split second of a calculation: ]
You come, too. [ The gun is still pointed at him, after all. He has leverage, and if he doesn't have leverage, he hopefully has a guide. ]
[He doesn't say anything to the adamant denial. There's no time to plead his case even if he felt like it. This boy made an enemy of Trikru and they aren't known for treating their enemies gently, as demonstrated last night. Doubtful he'd appreciate the difference between a soldier and a nomad with the smell of charred bodies still thick in the air.
It's a bit... problematic for him, though. He'd rather not start trouble over the misconception he'd played a part in this.
But if this is an inconvenience for him, it's a thousand times that for the Skaikru boy--which is why he's almost a little surprised the other doesn't give into fear and adrenaline and put the last pound of pressure on that trigger. He's ready for it, muscles in his legs tenses, but the gunshot doesn't come.
Go.
He might have to revisit his earlier assessment. Forcing him to come along as the lead but keeping him at enough of a distance that he can't make a move for the gun is a tactical move. Panicked animals are dangerous--but the one thing more dangerous is a person with a clear enough head to think through their moves.
His brows inch closer together, a sliver of hesitation at this plan, but seeing that agreeing for now is his best move, he nods and turns on his heel without another word. Fine. For now, he'll guide.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
let's trash this
slams into this
Murphy feels like that constantly--he thinks the phrase 'this is fucking stupid' is ingrained in his DNA somehow, if it even works like that.He does know he wants Raven. That's something that, while he does think about it quite often, he knows will never happen. He shot the girl--made her a cripple--and now he's sitting there, sharing a room, just staring.
It's just like Murphy to think he's got a chance. It's also just like Murphy to simultaneously squash that thought down, so far to the back of his head that he acts not with tenderness towards her, but with sarcastic quips. Raven hates him anyway, and the only reason they're sharing a spot is because no one will bunk with Murphy--ever the social pariah--and Raven was too tired to give a shit who they stuck her with.
She's asleep but Murphy is up, wide awake, guiltiness never quite letting him close his eyes for long around her. He takes in her hair, the shape of her nose--the dimmest light in the dark hits her just right and Murphy will never admit it, but he smiles.
He wants that. He wants her. John Murphy has fucked up any chance he ever had (not that there was one in the first place) by raining down lead that day in the dropship, and still he finds himself moving to her sleeping form, as quiet as ever, and looks down at her.
Beautiful. She'd be even more gorgeous if Murphy wasn't well aware what he was doing was absolutely fucking creepy. Hs hand has a mind of it's own--slowly, carefully, fingertips brush soft cheek. This is as close to her arms around her as he can get. He'll take it. ]
no subject
[ to lose her leg has been a blow. it's been akin to blowing up a bridge, losing that function of being able to cross from point a to point b. raven needs her legs on the ground to not only carry her when she needs to flee, but to support her when she needs to stand. ]
[ these days, she's leaning on something. ]
[ raven's not necessarily a light sleeper, but on the ground she's become one. the smallest movement outside of her tent would wake her up. a sneeze would see her eyes snap wide open, and sometimes she'd fall right back into her dreamless sleep. inside of arkadia, it's become even worse. the pain that's settled in her hip keeps her awake for days at a time, only letting her drift off as she's too tired to keep her eyes open. there's some days where she can sleep deeply and dream, and sometimes she's out in space, floating amongst her starry kin. sometimes she's out on that field with finn, and more often than not, she's walking around arkadia with two good legs, and finds when she awakens that her reality is truly the nightmare. ]
[ tonight she sleeps lightly. when she feels a slight pressure on her face, she remains still. self-preservation kicks in a lot these days, and raven's learned to follow her gut when it tells her not to fire back like a bomb. remaining still, only her eyelashes flutter, and then she waits, trying to figure this out. ]
[ it smells like murphy. she always associates him with smoke, like a phoenix that's chosen to rise from the ashes and try and do good. she's seen it, even if he hasn't, and she hates him for being the only person she feels comfortable enough to be her true unhappy self around. ]
[ she thinks about biting his head off (and quite literally his finger), but she remains still. instead, she decides to hum, and keeps her eyes closed. she's not much of a talker in her sleep, but he has to have been woken numerous times from her own screams. it's believable enough that she'd react, even when "asleep." ]
[ she murmurs, ] That feels nice.
Grounder AU, set post-1.13?
He learns this lesson watching from a distance as an Azgeda blade sinks into his father's chest, spilling blood like wine. Look out, it's a spy! It's a spy! he's screaming as he runs, but for all his training, all his skill, his legs don't carry him there fast enough.
Fathers die too easily protecting sons who don't notice the danger lurking in the forest until it's too late.
Before that, he'd learned many other lessons growing up as one of the Trikru clan. How to fight, how to hunt, how to skin his own kills, how to fletch his own arrows. How to be strong. How to say goodbye to a mother who succumbs to fever in the night.
But the hardest lesson of them all is watching the last of his family die in his arms and knowing it could have been prevented, knowing scouts from the Ice Nation shouldn't have been in their territory. It teaches him to hate. He pleads his case to the leader, that Trikru must strike back for this, for shedding blood, his blood, but it falls on deaf ears. His father had been considered odd, even by their standards. A quiet, independent man with his own ideas of how things should be done. Not someone worth fanning the flames of war over. The day he learns the Commander hopes to start a Coalition with the plan of bringing all tribes into the fold, even Ice Nation, the last thread holding him to the clan starts to fray.
(A blossom of hate sprouts in his heart for Trikru that day, too, when they agree. It feels like a betrayal. The clan's toward his family, but also his own if he should stay.)
So he leaves. Packs his bag and slips out in the dead of night. He'd been taught well--well enough to survive on his own. If word of murdered Azgeda along the border lands start to pass from mouth to mouth, he's long gone before anyone thinks to look for him. When the Sky People arrive, one rogue warrior becomes the least of Trikru's worries, besides.
They crash to the ground with strange weapons, these Sky People. Like the Mountain Men, they attack with fire and explosions and sleek black guns that sometimes rattle gunfire in the distance like melodic growls of thunder.
He stays out of the fighting. The clan's Ice Nation allies are his enemies. He has no reason to make the clan's enemies his, too.
It's happenstance that he'd retreated into the familiar, deep Trikru forests surrounding Mount Weather (he's gotten faster the last couple of years, but still not fast enough to prevent an arrow from lodging itself in his flank, an injury that taken weeks to heal up from) just as Anya and Tristan send three hundred warriors to their deaths. The black sky lights up with hellish reds and ugly oranges. The air around the Sky People's camp gets so hot that sap boils and bubbles in the trees, popping like gunshots.
And then in a matter of hours, it's over. Flecks of ash float in the wind, carrying the scent of death. By morning, the silence in the forest is almost deafening.
Those who'd known him back before--when he still had a home and clan affiliation and went by his old name--would have said curiosity was one of his faults. He never could stay away when something teased his attention, and though he knows it's dangerous beyond measure, his feet take him toward the battleground out of a sense of need to tend to the dead and look for the living.
What living? Even before he reaches the camp's perimeter, he sees black. Black smoke. Black bones. Black earth. His stomach goes cold at the quiet desolation. Nothing could survive this, he thinks.
That's when he hears it. A rustling in the bush.
Trikru survivor, he thinks next, and leaves his knives sheathed assuming friend, not foe. He couldn't be more wrong.]
no subject
Petty or not, Murphy had wanted to see him suffer. Had wanted Bellamy to be seen as how he really was--but it, like so many things in Murphy's life, had gone wrong. Wrong in the sense that he couldn't blame anyone as much as he wanted to blame everyone. Even the voice in the back of his head whispering that it was his fault was wrong.
The universe just likes to completely fuck with him.
The universe gives him Raven--and Murphy shoots Raven, even if he didn't know it at the time--and all he wants to do is burn. Burn himself or the girl, he's not sure. But instead, his desperate need to survive kicks in. His need to survive, and maybe--just maybe--the need for a friend. Murphy's alone. Murphy's always been alone but he doesn't want to crawl under the metaphorical porch and die alone like a dog. If he does go, he's not going alone.
He just had pictured that staunch statement to go closer to 'I'm going to stab you' rather than bonding. But it had happened, even if Murphy's not even sure how--he's never sure of how he ends up in situations like this, he just adapts as quickly as fucking possible. It's as simple as that.
Then the Mountain men come. Whatever the fuck they are--Murphy doesn't know, he just runs. He runs as fast as he possibly can and he runs until he nearly trips over something and even then, he winds up sliding, fitting himself behind a tree perfectly even if the trip was ungraceful. He clutches his assault rifle tightly, closes his eyes, counts to three, and runs again.
He doesn't do this out of tripping, but he does move to a bush. It'll be easier ,he thinks, if he waits for the cover. Easier to avoid the grounders and who knows what. Easier, he thinks, to survive. So he waits.
He's not waiting long--he notices something, there, out of the corner of his eye-- and stands up in the bush, gun pointed, ready to fight. He's battered and bruised and in pain, he's in so much goddamn pain now that the adrenaline is swearing off--but he'll be damned if he's not going down without a fight. It's just him and this--whatever this guy is. Grounder kid. ]
no subject
And heavily. Boots crunch on pine needles. Branches catch against a body. The steps stutter, stumble, and then resume again, off-kilter in what must be a limp.
Poised in place, his eyes track the movement of the sounds his ears pick up on. That's no Trikru survivor, he realizes; there's no way a warrior would be crashing through the trees that loudly and obviously, even on his or her last legs. There's time to hide. The person is practically screaming their position out to him, letting him know exactly where they are and what direction they're moving; there are about a dozen places he could conceal himself while waiting for them to stumble past. He could watch. He could assess. He could attack, if need be, a calculated strike to end the life of any wounded animal.
But he doesn't, for the same reason he'd hiked to the site of the battle. The smell of blood is sharp and coppery in the air--they're probably injured, whomever this is, and probably in no state to fight.
Probably.
As he watches the spot where the noises have gone silent, a dark shape rises from the foliage. It resolves itself into a disheveled figure, liberally streaked with dirt and gore. A boy. Around his age, he'd guess, though the layer of grime and the angry red cuts streaking crimson tracks down the boy's face makes it difficult to gauge. Pain ages everyone. It's the distinguishing jacket that seals the identity of the stranger--he's heard talk of those unusual uniforms from others who've seen the camp up close. Midnight blue, like the color of the sky in late evening.
Skaikru.
Blue eyes meet blue eyes, different from the Skaikru uniform, the other boy's the shade of grey storms, his own flecked with brown like the earth he'd been born on. He observes the other unblinkingly, the lower half of his face concealed behind the scarf he'd pulled over his mouth and nose to protect against smoke. He wears no mask, but then he'd never favored bone or leather. No war paint, either, beyond an unremarkable dusting of dirt. At first glance, he's reserved the paint for his hair, smudged a striking and deliberate coal-black.
The most he moves is to drop his gaze to the business end of the rifle, the bloody finger on the trigger, then back up. Calculating.
He'd be within his rights to pull a knife and send it home in the other's heart in the time it'd take to pull that trigger--expected to, really. This is a Sky boy, beyond any doubt. This is one of the intruders who'd likely just helped turn the forest into a graveyard populated with the corpses of Tree people, people he might have known, might have spoken to. No doubted he'd be lauded for killing one right here and now, and he'd have no trouble claiming it was self-defense when staring down a gun. It'd be what the Sky People call Grounder justice.
But that trigger finger keeps pulling his gaze back. Specifically, to the healing fingernail bed he can see even from here. That's not an injury earned from fighting. It's older. Precise.
He knows exactly what it is, having seen it, having been shown how to administer it. It's what's going to happen to this Sky boy when reinforcements arrive and capture him. There'll be no swift, clean deaths for anyone responsible for this devastation. Just interrogation and the most hellish, unimaginable pain the Commander and leaders can devise.
(Look at all this death already. Are you going to be responsible for more?)
His knotted stomach gives a kick, something uncomfortable in the thought. His knife remains sheathed.
Carefully, he reaches up to tug the scarf away, exposing the rest of his face to view.]
I don't want to hurt you.
[The voice of the clan in his head says he should, but his own voice says more blood isn't about to clean up the blood already spilled.]
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Then again, Murphy would be an asshole to everyone. He still us. Case in point, he's got a gun in this guy's face--because he's not one of them, and even if he doesn't give a shit about the camp they're a little higher on his 'don't kill list.'
He's not from the camp, though--he's definitely a grounder. One who asses him so quickly it gives Murphy chills just as much as it enrages him. Murphy's rage is the quiet kind, at least when he's exhausted and beat down like this, and, ultimately, it doesn't matter. Murphy holds the power.
Literally--Murphy has the gun. ]
Bull. Shit.
[ Simple. Rough. Coarse, and Murphy's at his wits' end as his gaze sweeps over the other boy. He knows the grounder can small weakness. It's the one thing they and murphy have in common: exploiting it. ]
Five seconds or I shoot. [ The mercy is because he's his age, nothing more, he tells himself. He's not soft. ] Five. Four.
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He licks his lips, a nervous tic, more on account of being outside his comfort zone speaking to a stranger--a Skaikru invader--than because of the gun ready to rip holes into him. He's not afraid of facing one of Skaikru's automatic weapons, even if he should be. It's nature for cornered animals to fight back; the other boy is just safeguarding his life. He understands that. He'd think about shooting him, too, if he were in the other boy's injured, exhausted shoes, and the thought strikes him with sudden sadness and an unexpected amount of empathy.
This is Skaikru and he shouldn't want to help one of them. It's also a person in pain, in potentially mortal danger, and he finds he does want to help that person in a way that's blind to affiliations.
("I can always trust you to do the right thing.")
With the contradiction pulling him in opposing directions and a father's last words echoing in his ears, he shakes his head slowly in response, falling back on silence again. He'd been taught to exploit weakness, yes--but on the battlefield. This isn't that. The open palms he holds up say as much. I won't attack.]
You should go. [Another gesture with his head--this time a nod to the side, in the direction opposite the one patrols will approach from.] They'll be coming. They'll kill you if they find you.
[("You're a good boy.")
He can't do it. He can't stare into the eyes of someone wounded and in need of help and do nothing. His utter silence would essentially be the same thing as sending the boy to his death if he let him wander into Trikru's waiting hands.]
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Murphy hates things he can't figure out. If he can't figure things you the can't push buttons, he can't have some of that control he craves, at least when it comes to controlling what others see about him. It's unnerving. What's even more unnerving is that all it takes is a lick of the lips for Murphy to feel like he's unravelling.
He's tired. He's exhausted. He's hungry, too. That's what it is, he tells himself. If he can convince himself it has to be the truth. He keeps the gun level, keeps his hands from shaking. It's impressive.
The other spreads his palms. A sign of surrender, no matter your tribe. And then those words, in a strangely accented English, and Murphy feels himself shiver. This is it--this is what's off. The other is trying to help him. The grounder is giving him a hand. ]
And you decided to tell me this from the kindness in the bottom of your heart?
There's no time. [ If he's right, he needs to go. And yet he sneers and doesn't move.
If he's honest with himself, it's because he's not sure he can take a single step without collapsing. ]
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So no, it's not kindness from an innocent soul or some angel of mercy.]
I wasn't with the army that attacked you.
[That's closer to the mark. A neutral party staying a neutral party. He's still a moment, still enough that he imagines he can hear leaves shifting in the trees and the other's fingers making the gun's plastic creak, then makes the same gesture. Another nod in the direction of escape.]
There's time.
[And with 10K letting him walk free, he has a chance to make it count. If he can't... Well. Reluctance to be the direct cause of this boy's death is as far as 10K's plan had gotten.]
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He's a piece of shit, he might as well own up to it. Murphy has pieces of a coward, but this is one thing he'll wear: Murphy survives. No matter the cost. ]
Bullshit.
[ And yet, while it's still said with flakes of brusqueness, there's a part of him that wants to believe. It's a part Murphy squashes down immediately: he doesn't need this, he doesn't need shit. He needs to keep going, he needs to survive.
There's time, the other says, and Murphy spends half a second taking in all possible outcomes. He weighs them as quickly as most would blink, lips parted, breath ragged, and decides to do what he does best. Live. ]
You better not be fucking me over. [ And, after another split second of a calculation: ]
You come, too. [ The gun is still pointed at him, after all. He has leverage, and if he doesn't have leverage, he hopefully has a guide. ]
Go.
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It's a bit... problematic for him, though. He'd rather not start trouble over the misconception he'd played a part in this.
But if this is an inconvenience for him, it's a thousand times that for the Skaikru boy--which is why he's almost a little surprised the other doesn't give into fear and adrenaline and put the last pound of pressure on that trigger. He's ready for it, muscles in his legs tenses, but the gunshot doesn't come.
Go.
He might have to revisit his earlier assessment. Forcing him to come along as the lead but keeping him at enough of a distance that he can't make a move for the gun is a tactical move. Panicked animals are dangerous--but the one thing more dangerous is a person with a clear enough head to think through their moves.
His brows inch closer together, a sliver of hesitation at this plan, but seeing that agreeing for now is his best move, he nods and turns on his heel without another word. Fine. For now, he'll guide.]