[ david staggers to his feet a second time, it's harder this time, and he halfway considers just taking trapper's head and bashing it against the floor until it caves. stomping it instead maybe. but he remembers trapper's cleaver, where he'd dropped it, how he'd thought moments ago it would be a mercy to take it and kill him quick. ]
[ it's slow moving, david dragging himself toward the doorway of the workshop to pick it up. it feels both wrong and yet very right in the moment as he curls his fingers around the cleaver's handle, grip tight. secure. he turns, walks back with careful, deliberate steps to offset the way his body lists to the side, the slight limp. expression set in a hard line, not much anger but more... resolution. should've just done this to begin with instead of being a pussy about it. offering because he didn't want to make the choice himself, what a crock of shit. his father-- ]
You're right. Shoulda just done this without makin' a thing of it.
[ maybe he's stalling a little, but it's not real. not in any way that matters. and like fuck should he feel off about killing some bastard who's killer him how many hundreds of times. he sucks in a breath, and unless evan stops him somehow, david intends to make it quick but by no means painless. swinging down at him-- at his neck, his head. however many blows it takes for him to die finally. ]
[ he watches david pick up his cleaver. his weapon. and then david turns to him, his expression locked into something dark. not gloating, not furious, just ... dead certain, because one of them's about to be dead. and evan knows who it's going to be.
it should make him angrier, but the blood loss means the rage is draining. what's left in its place isn't much. just emptiness. just the realization that he got bested, again, by a fucking survivor, in his own place. and now with his own weapon.
he doesn't say anything. just glares, all the fury left in him clear on his face. there's no way to really stop david, but -
evan tries to block the blade with his good hand, which just means it gets split before the cleaver makes its way to his neck. grabbing the blade doesn't do much good because it's a powerful weapon, designed to kill, and that means even his burned and broken skin isn't immune to it. eventually, there's enough of a slash to bleed him out, and he slowly sinks the rest of the way to the floor to die. or at least come close.
and the anger's still there, clinging to his features, the whole time he goes. ]
[ david doesn't stop hacking until he's sure there's no life left in the man below him. until the spray of blood and crunch of bone and flesh stops even registering to his conscious mind, all just background to this. and when he's sure it's done, david just... stands there for a minute. through the mess, the rage on evan's face is still clear, and something about that makes david huff out a grim, tired breath of a laugh. how many times has he died with a similar look on his own face? especially out here, outside the trials where the fear of death isn't quite so pervasive. ]
[ weird, that. dying doesn't feel so real outside the trials, but apparently killing does. or maybe it's just because he's never done it before. david wonders if it's like this for everyone, the way he feels nauseous and electric at the same time. his hands are shaking, something he only notices when he drops the cleaver in the dirt next to evan's body, and that too makes him want to laugh. ]
[ he sits — falls, almost —against the wall, next to the body. heavy breaths that rattle and wheeze in his chest as he pulls his knees up, rests his elbows on them and puts his head in his hands while he tries to get his shit together before he drags his way back to camp. or maybe he'll just sit here and dissociate for a year. ]
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[ it's slow moving, david dragging himself toward the doorway of the workshop to pick it up. it feels both wrong and yet very right in the moment as he curls his fingers around the cleaver's handle, grip tight. secure. he turns, walks back with careful, deliberate steps to offset the way his body lists to the side, the slight limp. expression set in a hard line, not much anger but more... resolution. should've just done this to begin with instead of being a pussy about it. offering because he didn't want to make the choice himself, what a crock of shit. his father-- ]
You're right. Shoulda just done this without makin' a thing of it.
[ maybe he's stalling a little, but it's not real. not in any way that matters. and like fuck should he feel off about killing some bastard who's killer him how many hundreds of times. he sucks in a breath, and unless evan stops him somehow, david intends to make it quick but by no means painless. swinging down at him-- at his neck, his head. however many blows it takes for him to die finally. ]
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it should make him angrier, but the blood loss means the rage is draining. what's left in its place isn't much. just emptiness. just the realization that he got bested, again, by a fucking survivor, in his own place. and now with his own weapon.
he doesn't say anything. just glares, all the fury left in him clear on his face. there's no way to really stop david, but -
evan tries to block the blade with his good hand, which just means it gets split before the cleaver makes its way to his neck. grabbing the blade doesn't do much good because it's a powerful weapon, designed to kill, and that means even his burned and broken skin isn't immune to it. eventually, there's enough of a slash to bleed him out, and he slowly sinks the rest of the way to the floor to die. or at least come close.
and the anger's still there, clinging to his features, the whole time he goes. ]
no subject
[ weird, that. dying doesn't feel so real outside the trials, but apparently killing does. or maybe it's just because he's never done it before. david wonders if it's like this for everyone, the way he feels nauseous and electric at the same time. his hands are shaking, something he only notices when he drops the cleaver in the dirt next to evan's body, and that too makes him want to laugh. ]
[ he sits — falls, almost —against the wall, next to the body. heavy breaths that rattle and wheeze in his chest as he pulls his knees up, rests his elbows on them and puts his head in his hands while he tries to get his shit together before he drags his way back to camp. or maybe he'll just sit here and dissociate for a year. ]