Yagmur kept on pulling the trigger.
For too long, when he already knew it was futile. Fruitless. The aim had already been achieved. Corin had been struck. A lethal blow, hopefully. Sadly. But hopefully. Clicking more just sent a sound, a repetitive droning noise, through the eerily tranquil casino, otherwise punctuated only by his breaths and Corin's tumble. He kept clicking. It was foolish. Madness, really. But it felt good. Cathartic. Like he was doing something.
The gun kept on clicking until he hurt. The stubs where his fingers had once been were sore from the friction, feeling a vexing abrasion that threatened to feel more corrosive, more intense, if he were to stop clicking. And so he kept going, a more languid and irregular pace, enough to allow the occasional shuffle for comfort, the pause to acclimatise his senses. Infrequent enough pauses to get some energy back. Yet not so infrequent that he lost that surge of adrenaline, that kick of macho bravado, that surge of bittersweet accomplishment, that had accompanied felling the final hurdle. He paused again, slightly longer, realising slightly too late that it was a good pause. Combined with the creaking of the tilted machine behind him, it might have been mistaken for reloading.
It was ultimately a more brittle and fresh wound that brought a pause to this profitless cycle. The cut on his good hand, still sore, still probably a breeding ground for all manner of grisly infections. He'd been relying on his good hand, by sheer necessity. A nasty cut, no matter how deep or visceral, on the back of the hand still allowed more versatility than some missing fingers and some mostly healed over, yet still tender, scar tissue on the over fingers. But he'd been placing too much of a burden on it.
He threw his head back, blinking a few times, letting out one anguished exhale as a concession to the pain. It wasn't bleeding, but it was throbbing. Skin had been stretched, or thrown about, or whacked hard by the recoil, or something. Strained by the repetitive clicking, maybe. He wouldn't know. He was no doctor. He'd always viewed doctor's visits with suspicion. Well, not suspicion. Apathy. Irritation. Mild insult. He was young. Quite healthy. Could swallow a stiff drink and man through most things. But god, he looked forward to them this time. Would probably be aired on TV. Shame, but he could probably get in a few good quotes at the questioning. That'd be good.
Still, for now he had to man up. Using his bad hand - the one lacking fingers - as a kind of support, he pushed himself up to his feet. Groaned a few times as his joints ached. His legs, they'd enjoyed that sedentary period. Probably been the most ardent advocates for continuing the sit on the ground plan. And his bad hand, hell, it couldn't do fine motor tasks, but it was pretty adapt at taking weight. He held his other hand up, still having to hold the gun in it out of necessity, but letting the muscles relax.
Now stood up, he scratched his stubble with the index finger on his bad hand. It was a rather sharp and unkempt nail at the best of times. A few days unwavering neglect had made it jagged and rough. Perfect for scratching.
He checked his pockets, running his hands gently over them. Made contact with something that could only be a magazine in one of his pockets. Slightly pressed down on the fabric, nodding when he determined, to his own satisfaction, that it was a magazine in that pocket, and not a forgotten snack bar or some piece of shrapnel or a prank on the parts of the producers or something.
And then Corin yelled. Yagmur scowled. Not out of anger for Corin, he had nothing personal against the guy. Now that he had won, there was no point in letting blind rage cloud his judgement. He wouldn't draw out his suffering. Wouldn't let him bleed out, or extend his suffering unnecessarily. It was the best any of them could have realistically hoped for, at the start of this whole mess.
Nobody else had had a quick or tidy death, but a lucky few had had those final moments cut blissfully short. Some names came to mind, as he ruminated on their deaths. He wasn't sure why those names sprung to mind, above all others. Maybe he'd just seen the consequences the most. But the question was was how they died. Did they receive a quick ending? A curt and blunt full stop to end their suffering?
The whole mess with the eye back in the ballpit? Gabriel and Davis, he thought he could recall their names being. Yes, they had not had a kind final day. Was pretty certain they hadn't received a swift coup de grace to end their torment. Lisa, he highly doubted she hadn't suffered. Vahka, he hoped not. Bastard deserved his fate. Gene, unlikely. He too probably went painfully. Paisley, too. Bella had not been a kind cause of death. Regina and Michael, maybe. He wasn't sure what their demise had felt like. Anzu, she had. Yes, she'd been able to end her life with a certain definitive punch, but she had had the strength to deliver her own quick out. Bella, no, Yagmur had let her bleed out painfully.
Sometimes a final bullet was the most peaceful way out. He supposed it made him a better man, to give Corin that act of definitive closure. To remove all doubt of those watching at home who had actually died. And that was what he would do. He strode over to Corin. Man looked like a pathetic sight.
Reached into his pocket to pull out the magazine, left hand sliding into his pocket. But the cut must have caught on something, for it tore open, and Yagmur screamed in pain, and fell to his knees.