murkoffceo:
It was honestly a miracle how put together the executive still looked, after running around nonstop, being chased around by patients, and by his own staff. The white of his dress shirt was still as pristine as ever, not a drop of blood on it. His hair was a bit disheveled from constantly running his hands through it.
He jerked, blood running cold like liquid nitrogen through his body at the sound of the familiar voice.
“Rick?” He whipped around, nearly losing his balance in a puddle of blood, shoe sole leaving a wide smear across the tile.
The man took a few steps back; it didn’t look like Rick, no, not at all, but, it sure as hell sounded like him, spoke like him too. Blaire didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to stomach the thoughts that this is what happened to him, this is what the other man had been reduced to.
“Been too long,” he admitted, he should have done something, he knew he should have, Rick didn’t truly belong with them, with the other patients, in the program, he was a business man. But, in the end, business was business, and it had to be done, especially after the stunt with Pauline, he wasn’t there, but, he heard plenty about it, watching as they wheeled Rick away, strapped down, wrapped up.
“Not to see rude, but, I’d rather reschedule that appointment Doc, feeling just fine to be quite honest with you,” he added, another step back.
What’s done is done. There is nothing that can rectify what was done to him, but cutting his former boss into pieces was definitely a step in the right direction as far as Rick was concerned. Wouldn’t even give him the pleasure of dedication, of slow, painful, suffering. Only a person he had familiar ties with was rewarded with long tortures. Blaire, for as quickly as he back-stabbed Rick, was going to be destroyed just as quickly.
For each step Blaire took backwards, Trager took two steps forward, brandishing his weapon. “ No, no. Not so fast ! “ Without flinching, Trager drove the pointed blade of the shears closed up through Blaire’s abdomen, skewering him to his weapon. The variant pressed onward, his blade all slick with guts and blood spilling forth. “ Ohhh… Hnn… Lots of blood. You’re a real bleeder, boss. I’m impressssed…. Hahahaha…! “ Lifting Blaire off the ground, up into the air by his impaled guts, Trager studies the pain in his face. Basking in it. If Trager were able to, he’d feel himself erect seeing his former boss in such great pain.
Black shoes shuffled against the ground, trying his best to gain some sort of distance between him and his former co-worker. The other variants were fairly slow, and could quickly be outsmarted, but, Rick, Rick was clever, and quick. He was cunning and smart, just like he had been before.
His vision blurred almost immediately, pain flooding throughout his entire body, nearly doubling over, trying his best to cope with the pain; trying to get away, trying to be free.
“R-Rick, c’mon... please,” he pleaded, begged, how quickly the tables had turned, how the food chain was quickly being rearranged. How quickly Jeremy Blaire had just tumbled down a peg; Richard Trager taking place as the new top leader.
Hands frantically tried, moving quickly, trying to stop the bleeding; the once blinding white dress shirt now soaked a dark crimson, hands coated with blood.
“Buddy... Rick...” he panted, body throwing itself into overdrive, trying to desperately save itself. Non-essential organs were quickly shutting down, either on their own, or, at the force of the trauma they were suffering from the shears that were now a part of him. “Please...” he pleaded yet again, eyes full of nothing but suffering and pain, he had never been on the receiving end, never the one on the other end of the stick. He was the one fucking people over, not the other way around.
He didn’t want to go like this, on this damn mountain, during a damn riot. He’d rather go in a car accident; his fancy car losing traction on the road, or something else. Anything but this, at the hands of Richard Trager.
