Finally, Kimiko snapped.
How this bitch remained alive - had outlived Abby, for fucks sake - was a mystery to him. She was weak, emotionally. A crybaby. Couldnt deal with opposition, and so attacked it in the bluntest way possible. Bradley, in that split second when it was apparent where the spear was going, just thought of her as pathetic.
And then Kimiko disappeared from his mind.
Bradley could have sworn that the sensations did not fade immediately. That he could feel the trauma in the parts of his body that had been decimated with an eery acuteness of feeling. A surprising amount of meat and flesh was moved through his body, torn away, shoved to the side and out of his back, by the force of Kimiko's spear. Connected only by the thinnest bridges of visceral matter. And he felt it. He felt the nerves and vessels stretch. He felt the parts of his gut, impaled on the spear, as they were forced out of his back, with only the metal holding them up.
It was cold. It felt exposed.
And then came the pain. That pain, it was for a second indescribable. But then his senses fully got to grips with it, all the ways his insides had been torn, all the ways his guts were irreparably mangled. And then too many descriptions, all rushing through, one after the after, as the sensations shot up his nerves. A throbbing ache along his spine. Felt only for a second before more acute feelings overwhelmed. There was a torturous turbulence within his gut. A searing pain cutting across his muscles. A harrowing loss of feeling where parts of his body had once been.
He crumpled onto his knees, the spear embedded in his gut. It had not forced through his back on first blow, he was pretty sure of that. But his body shook and quaked and quivered, and there was definitely now a hole there too. His hands gripped around the implement of death. It was the only comfort he could get at this point. Gave him some stability, stopped him from falling forward too much.
The far tip of the spear landed on the ground, and it pushed the blade forward an inch, and Bradley yelled. Fuck, shit might have been the intended exclamation, but it came out more garbled, more panicked, more strained.
Nobody could blame him for that.
Alba had rushed over. That was good. He dropped his gun, unaware he had been clinging to it so tightly. Hopefully shed take it. Make something good with it. But she wasnt doing that now. She seemed intent on helping him. Taking control of the room in a way that he hadnt been able to. There wasnt that stark reality of where they were before he got stabbed, that must have been it. Someone else had screamed. Multiple people? Bradley didnt know. Didnt much care. Screaming never really helped anyone, he wanted to say. Probably best that he couldnt.
Floyds...we die as we live
It was not a lucid or unblurred statement, but the sentiment was obvious. Darius...Brady
They were in danger too, he realised. Not too late to save them. Hopefully Alba would pick up the message. Was Brady here? Maybe. Bradley could not quite remember. Should have kept better watch on them. Should have thought about them more. That guy who always hung around Brady, Enzo. They were probably on the trip. Bradley wished them luck too. But Darius, shit, his lovably weird cousin. He was tiny. Hopefully he could prank his way out of this. Maybe a pranking alliance with Isaac? Thatd be funny. Was Isaac on the island? Bradley couldnt remember. Hopefully not. Hopefully he remembered Darius being on the trip wrong. Hopefully he remembered Abby being on the announcements wrong. Alba. That was close to Abby. Something about A names had to make people more caring.
God, Bradley wished hed done one of those gay sentimental talk to the camera moments now.
But the few words that he did say were right. At least both of the Floyds had died as themselves. This shit hadnt changed them. Hopefully thatd be a source of pride. A source of consolation. Something for the family to stick with, build on. Bradley had never become evil, never gave up on who he was. He could take pride in that, on a personal level. Kimikos parents, fuck. They couldnt cling to that. Their daughter had changed.
He forced his head up, but she had already gone. His neck gave way, and he looked down again.
The pain was clearing. Well, he was getting used to it. Not used to it, that was the wrong word. It was less shocking. The fact it meant he was dying soon, hed accepted that, refused to grapple with it, forced it to the back of his mind. As long as he hurt, he was still alive. He tried heavy breaths, to try and steady his concentration, to salvage some last coherent thoughts. His chest heaving up and down just moved against the spear, agitated it more, cut against more skin, made it harder for him to remain calm. Collected.
Heh. Collected. Unlike his blood. That was meant to be collected within the body.
He snarled at that internal joke, the closest thing to a smile he could manage.
Bradley had always hoped to die with gallows humour. A reference, maybe. Dying with a Futurama quote leaving his lips, that was the ideal. Cursing Zoidberg, or quoting Zoidberg. Failing that, a growled fatality would do in a pinch. Enough to show to the world that he was as relaxed and impertinent as ever, as good-humoured about himself as he was about others. But no witty jests left his lips. In the moments where the pain subsided, some kind of coherent thought was possible, he failed to capitalise upon it.
In part, it was because when his thoughts were clear, he wanted to prioritise. The lofty shit, the important shit, the sort of thing dying people were meant to ponder. Think about others, if nothing else. He couldn't do anything for them, but he had friends and family. Innocent people. They deserved his thoughts, at least.
But it was still on his mind. Clouding his mind, really. It was one thing he could do, and he was quite preoccupied with it. One final parting gift to the world, become one of those protagonists of an anecdote about a stoic and deadpan maestro of comedy. But it was hard. Too many good ideas, too many references. A sharp retort from Kimiko, he could say, or he couldnt stomach this, or some more general dark humour, or whatever. All very unoriginal and surface-level ideas. There were too many options to narrow down and refine one.
The opportunity was slipping away. Wasnt too bad he wouldnt get some jocular and facetious final words. Hed already, in casual and serious conversation alike, made many a suggestion for what could be falsely attributed to him, or at least put on his epigraph. Was it an epigraph? Or an epitaph? Fuck. Hed die with that bugging him.
He stopped himself continuing. Thatd be shit.
Endearingly shit. He carried on.
Is it an epigraph or an epitaph they write on tombstones? Those words out of his lips, the thought left his mind, and if he received an answer, he did not process it. He went back to grinding his teeth, clenching his fists, scrunching his eyes up, trying to stifle the flood of pain overwhelming his senses. The end of the spear had tapped against the ground again, the most minute of vibrations sending pain rippling throughout his body. Rippling. That was apt. His insides felt more liquid than solid at that moment. That was what he couldnt stand. It didnt feel right. It didnt feel normal. Regular pain, that was something he could tolerate. But this? This just took his body and changed it. And that was new, and scary.
He gripped the spear tighter, pulled it away from him, trying to get it out of him.
Alba tried to stop him. She said words. He couldnt process their exact form, and if they were well-articulated, his senses could not appreciate that. Yet he managed to grasp the gist of what she was saying, if by nothing else through her actions. Dont pull it out. The spears holding in a lot of blood. Yeah, of course he knew that. He, uncharitably and unreasonably, for a split second wanted to mock her. That high-pitched voice, used to satirise moral guardians and those stating the obvious alike.
Then he realised that, no, that was a dick move to even think that. Not a funny dick move. Just a dick move.
Dont pull it out, she was begging. Youll bleed to death quicker. Something like that.
Thats the point
And he carried on pulling.
And then it clicked. I guess I...I guess I got Kimikos point. It made him chuckle. Inwardly. Chuckling was impossible physically. Maybe he was delirious. But it was funny. Shed made her point, and hed received it. It was great. A distraction. He loved it.
Thats the point. Heheh. Sorry. I got the fucking point. His tone wasnt aggressive, but slightly manic, channeling all his energy into this final task. The apology that had slipped in there wasnt for the pun. Bradley wasnt sure what it was for exactly. But he said it anyway, and he was happy he did. He continued mumbling, repeating that joke, every now and then another apology bypassing his filter, some other heartfelt murmur, but it descended into illegible jabbering, that one would have to strain to hear.
He kept on tugging, with all his rapidly diminishing might, hoping to dislodge the spear. He never succeeded in pulling it out.
B026 - BRADLEY FLOYD: ELIMINATED