"Leave," I'm bitter, but I lack the capacity for other emotions. My voice cracks, while I stare that the digits before my demeanor. Thoughts fail me, only vengeance and the malfeasance of Kellogg matters. My silence, is enough. I hear the ricochet of footsteps reverberating against the concrete. They leave with no signs of rhetoric - composed with a certain amount of understanding. I want to do this, but I did not desire for others to witness with trepidation. It is the worst of me.
Silence is captivating; filtering through nuances of Fort Hagen. I will not say it's invigorating but it's enough to seize rational thought. Sight leaves my fingers, laying in wake towards the incapacitated. I don't know if fortune smiles upon me, or it was simply a bitter irony: how this man should die.
"We have similar taste," the conjecture isn't lost on me, beyond the .44 Pistols we happened to carry. My expression bares no compassion, a guise filtered with stoic means. Kellogg's attempting interrogation, slipping in condescending remarks. I do not wish to hear him speak. I want nothing more than answers; answers I doubt earn.
This won't solve anything, but it'll make me feel better — will it? I am not the advocate of Justice, I had been. The Commonwealth gave me insight to how flawed this world is. The Law is incapable of saving everyone. To me, the act of murder is Justice; not condemning them to a lifelong sentence. What is, is nothing compared to what had been. I realize this.
My fingers fidget, evaluating the bullet that's left between their grasp. I've become numb, focusing on slipping the cartridge into its revolver's cylinder. I am not through but thorough, fingers gliding across the rotating object as it flies into a circular movement. I am unaware where the bullet lands; hopefully to his fortune, it's the first one. I'm nowhere near done with this man.
Thoughts elude my purpose, my eyes to stare at the barrel of this revolver. A slim finger caresses the trigger, and I press. Nothing. "I don't want to hear it." I stanch Kellogg's laughter. I hanker, embellishing the thought of slipping the barrel between his teeth - but I want to prolong his suffering. The realization of atonement for him, is long gone.
We both know how this ends. My lips restrict audible laughter. Skepticism amuses me, for I doubt he thought that I'd be victorious. I am the one looming over his visage, finger pressing into the trigger that will eventually be his reckoning. I deny him the bittersweet embrace of death; I deny him, what he gave to Nate - to so many others.
"Where is the Institute?" He denies me, a smile eliciting his bloody lip. I watch and his mouth begins to move. He speaks on my incapability - to my fortune, the trigger relinquishes its bullet. The searing pain burrowing into his shoulder. Kellogg reciprocated with an anguished glare.
The Rules have been established: if the cylinder is empty, Kellogg's earned the right to speak. However, by right I am allowed to repetitively pull the trigger if I do not condone his lecture. I reload during the respite, spinning the barrel. My legs give in, now eye to eye with the man that has taken everything from me. He spits, his saliva tainting my right cheek. The snarl on my lips is unsightly, but my fingers do away with his imprint. I retaliate, searching for his newly acquired wound, sinking digits into the laceration. I earn a hearty groan, silencing Kellogg with the pistol against his chin.
He acknowledges, or at least I think, the lifelessness that has come to fill my eyes. I am devoid of reason, and he yearns to push me over the precipice. I pull the trigger, reveling in his breaking psyche. Death just isn't ready for him. Kellogg indulges in his hysteria, ranting on the nonsense I've already heard. I've grown weary of his repetitive accusations, decrees, and all other debauchery that filters out of his mouth. My finger squeezes yet again, the barrel to his skull.
There's a ringing filtering through my ears, eyes bearing down on the corpse that once brimmed with life. My resolve is steel but my demeanor shakes from the relief that overloads senses. I am back to square one. If there's truth to Kellogg's words the Institute will come to me. I detach myself from the revolver, acknowledging that silence that ran throughout the fort. I head for the exit, where my comrade is likely waiting.
"You've made a habit, of failing to get the point across." I whisper to myself, unaware of who it was truly meant for.
Author's Note: It has been a while, since I've done anything like this. Strangely, yet in an invigorating manner, has this video game made me yearn to write again. It may be a bit sloppy, but I did make sure to catch errors, but as prior mentioned in my profile: Grammar is not my forte, and I'm left with how I've written for years.