Author's Note: Sorry for the brief delay in update! Thanks for all the reviews. :)
Next Update: Saturday, July 22nd.
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The Last To Fall
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Five days had passed. The shock of what had happened had rubbed off like a scab, the wound beneath reopening. There was hardly anything for anyone to do but dwell on the events. There were enough tents to hold them, Opalian people were guarding the camp, and supplies were sent to them. No problems were there for them to try and fix but themselves.
People wandered about aimlessly. Some grouped together, others avoided company. Some could not keep themselves together, and others had become numb. The pain wore at them, but they had nothing left to give it.
Fate, God, nature, destiny – whatever guided events, it had taken the lives of their colleagues and friends. Everywhere they turned, every thought that passed through their minds, every glance at someone else, reminded them of their loss. Some wondered what they had left to give.
They did not realize how much they still had.
How much they had yet to lose.
How much they were going to lose.
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The night swallowed the sun quickly. People tried to escape their emotional agony through sleep, but many were tormented by nightmares and others simply could not relax their minds enough to let sleep claim them. The shadows of the strong Opalian guards fell on their tents, and it comforted them to know that some humanity still existed in the world; that these people, nearly strangers, would go to such lengths to aid them.
They had no reason to fear.
Those who saw the shadowy silhouettes descending upon the camp were silenced before they could even scream. The shots were soundless and true to their mark. Corpses littered the ground.
Just like before.
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Simpson supposed the woods were teeming with life, but in the night you couldn't see anything but the thick outlines of the tree trunks. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly in the chill air. Her eyes wandered to the gun strapped to her thigh. Ever since they'd arrived, the weapon had been there.
She'd learned her lesson. In those moments standing in the 'gate room, defenseless while she waited for a weapon to be passed to her, Simpson had promised herself that she would never let herself be that vulnerable again.
Her breath formed a misty cloud as she exhaled. She'd hoped that after time, the hurt inside of her would begin to ebb, but somehow it seemed to multiply. As the hours wore on, more and more thoughts occurred to her. Kavanagh was dead, she'd never see him again, his family would never know his fate…
Simpson imagined what she would say to his parents if she was ever able to return to Earth. She could not call him brave, for he had been a coward. She could not call him friendly because he had been antagonistic.
But she could call him intelligent, hard-working. Maybe caring, in those few moments he let his guard down for just a moment. She wished she'd gotten more time with him. She'd wanted so desperately to see what was beneath that hard shell of his, but now she'd be elated to even see a glimpse of his ponytail.
Crack. The noise of the snapping twig didn't trigger any fighting instinct within her. She turned slowly, expecting to see a friend or one of the guards.
"Hello?" she called cautiously. There was a dark silhouette of a woman in the shadows, but Simpson could not see her face; only the outline of the curls that framed it. "Who – " she began to speak again, but the words died in her throat.
The other woman was holding a gun.
It was aimed at her.
Simpson took a step back, staring at the gun for a long moment. "Who are you?" she whispered frightfully, looking at the assailant.
"Don't you remember me?" the feminine voice cut through the air as the woman stepped forward. The moonlight bathed over her as she cocked the hammer of the gun.
It took Simpson a moment to remember the name of the young woman with the cruel smile and the red curls. "Why are you here?" Simpson's voice shook with fear when she spoke. Her eyes darted from side to side, looking in the distance for a guard.
There was no one there.
"What do you think?" the woman's lips turned upward in a sick smile. "You thought you could treat the Genii like you have and not expect some sort of retaliation?"
"Sora," Simpson took a cautious step forward. "Put the gun down."
The haughty smirk hadn't left Sora's face quite yet. "I've got other plans."
Simpson didn't think to grasp the gun she had holstered at her thigh.
It wasn't in her nature.
She tried to dive; to jump out of the way, but the bullet was faster than her instincts.
It charged through her chest, leaving a burning trail of agony behind. She grasped for the wound, trying to stop the bleeding as she fell to her knees. Sora let her hand fall to her side as she watched Simpson's struggle.
Simpson stared at Sora with widened eyes as blood ran thickly through her fingers. She knew she was dying, knew the bullet had pierced her heart. The agony was crushing. Black spots had already begun to dot her vision. She tried to speak, tried to cry out, but her lips were numb and did not respond. Simpson watched helplessly as Sora slipped back into the shadows.
It occurred to her, in those last precious moments, that she was lucky.
She wouldn't live to see the deaths of the rest of her colleagues.
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