sheriffexe | [ WEEK FIVE – KILL LOG (CHANE) ]

[ Waking up beside the bonfire, it's not difficult to surmise what's happened - happening, will happen. The large, crackling bonfire throws heat and shadows on the planes of her face, making her skin feel dry, almost baked. On the other side of her is the chill of moonlight, the surety of nightfall. Dull eyed and stiff in her limbs, she rises.

So - now? Chane lifts her head, thinks, already? It takes all her mental discipline not to look toward the inn, not to seek out certain windows, to see if anyone is looking back at her.

Yes, now.

Yes -- already.

With absolute certainty, a deft touch, precise and chillingly impersonal, Chane does a few things. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulls out her notebook - her perpetual companion and helper these past weeks - and, without a second of hesitation, tosses it into the flames. Without wasting time watching the flames lick at the pages, she steps out of her shoes and removes her coat. The former are left neatly arranged by the light of the bonfire, the latter folded and set down on the ground beside.

With that weight left behind, well - she could start walking back to the inn, but she doesn't. Her muscles coil tensely into stillness, the ultimate precursor to movement, and she looks around, wanting to see who. ]

[There's something, something about the wait, that's familiar in all the worst possible ways. Too familiar. Turns out no matter how far you get away from it, you can never really shake the experience of being a merc. It doesn't really make it easier to think of this as the old days, as one of Moreau's jobs, but it's what Eliot finds himself doing anyway.

So he's calm as he watches her. Just stands there, with his arms crossed, his face... stoic as ever. First he makes sure to be out of sight, but as Chane finishes everything she's doing, he steps into the open. He's quiet, which maybe hides him for all of an extra second, but he's not really trying not to be noticed. It makes no difference to him.

The second she turns to look at him, in fact, he just nods at her. It's almost casual, like he just passed her in the street instead of... well, the much more grim reality of the situation.]

What's up?

[Don't mind him as he just... walks a little closer. Still keeping some distance, but that'll change with a few more moments, surely. He kinda has to start out cautious here.]

[ Oh. So it's him, then. Chane doesn't look very impressed at first, giving him a somewhat sleepy-eyed look of cool appraisal. She's seen him around, of course, but there are only a few people she's gotten to know with any significant effort. Blame it on the muteness, or her own introversion. ]

...

[ Understandably, she says nothing. Chane only continues to look at him, waiting for his intent to make itself clear. ]

Yeah, didn't figure there were gonna be a lot of pleasantries.

[Is this the time for snark? No, no it really isn't, but who cares. He's still approaching, stopping... close, but not yet too close.] So. This is the part where I'd say something 'bout this not being personal. But that wouldn't be entirely true.

Not that that matters a lot, yeah? [He just nods to himself a little, he's... almost more talking to himself than her right now, considering she's obviously not much for conversation. He's aware of that.] Yeah. Anyway...

[And this is the part where Eliot will finally close that distance. He'll be aiming a punch at Chane's head as soon as he gets close, so uh.

Heads up, Chane.]

[ Heads away, actually.

She doesn't quite understand what he's talking about - personal? Personal for whom? It might be a question worth pondering, were she safe. Something to mull over from the security of roomside machinations; not, as luck would have it, in the middle of what's likely to be a fight to the death. It's not as if she stands a chance of talking him out of it.

Hah. "Talking."

It's a strangely inelegant way to carry out his task, she's also thinking. No weapons? The fact that he's choosing hand to hand combat means there could be some satisfaction of watching her die up close. That, in combination with his comment from a moment ago, well.

Chane only needs to lean back a fraction to avoid his punch. The evasion is smooth, finding power in only slight movements. Following up, she drops into a crouch, retaking the upper hand from below. Her leg sweeps out, doing her best to cut his own legs out from under him. ]

[She's quick. But that's fine, it's hardly the first time he's fought someone fast. First time he has fought anyone since he got here, though, and this is definitely not how he thought it would happen. But sometimes things don't go according to plan. Especially not when it comes to fights.

He sees her drop and doesn't even stop to look at what she's doing, he just moves. Moving to the side allows him to avoid the sweep kick, but now he's gotta close the distance again.

The less time she gets, the better, so he moves back immediately. Going for a grab this time, trying to get her arm.]

[ She moves away before he can grab her, and this feels like a stalemate already in the making. If neither one can land a hit on the other, how does it end? Eliot's task is to kill her. As far as Chane knows, no one has failed in their killing. She certainly hasn't. Her best option would be to get the better of him before he could do the same to her -- but, even then, aren't the odds in his favour? He has the blessing of the Sheriff and she will be dead by morning.

Even then, the question lingers, why did he not simply shoot her as she slept?

Or suffocated her, or cut her throat, or tossed her bodily into the bonfire, or --

So Chane thinks. Every moment that passes means a new calculation, a new question, in her mind, even as her body moves purely on instinct, choreographed by muscle memory.

With the heel of her hand, she goes for the center of his throat. It's not dissimilar to the way she struck Ash in their first meeting, when her silence goaded him into hostilities. On a human, it's startling, even disorienting, and takes a few moments to recover from. It's a gambit that leaves herself open otherwise, however. Chane's counting on her quickness being greater than his. ]

[The grab is useless, doesn't work, but he didn't expect this to be quite so easy. Nothing about this is easy. Hell, he could've had easy, but he passed up that opportunity.

No weapons, he'd told the Sheriff, I'm good.

There's no real regret over that decision, not really, but that doesn't mean he appreciates the blow coming his way. He sees it coming and has a split second where he gets to make a call.

The thing about Eliot is that taking punishment is just as much part of his job as dealing it out. He's been hit a lot in his life and it's an expected part in any of his jobs. Take a punch, take a kick, get hit by a car, it's all just routine. So he does what he does best.

He takes the hit.

And while it has the effect of disorienting him - maybe not as much as a regular person, but he is still human - he still moves. Almost blindly, he goes for another grab, for the hand she just used for that strike. The intention, if successful, is to pull her closer towards him, then move from there.]

[ Because Chane never learned how to take a blow, only how to evade them, she's caught off guard by his tactic. As a result, his grip catches fast on her arm, tugging her that distance closer, as much as he deigns.

In that moment, there's an odd flicker of something in her eyes. Not fear, no. She may never make it to fear.

Apprehension, more likely. The death of calculation, a fight or flight response she may have believed - (incorrectly?) that she trained herself out of years ago. If this was a night she was meant to survive, that might be worth examining in more detail. As it is, such thoughts are far away.

Something innocuous catches her eye, but nothing is done about it. Not yet. ]

Edited 2017-02-16 00:06 (UTC)

[Eliot's at his very best in close quarters. As close as possible. His strength tends to get him through that. Whether his opponent is armed or not. Hell, usually especially when his opponent is armed.

He groans slightly from the hit to his throat, but he powers through it. No time for anything but following through now. Now that he's got her close and has a hold of her, going for a strike should be simpler.

It'll be a blow right to the temple. Usually Eliot holds back, because his intent is to incapacitate, not to kill. Send someone to the hospital at worst.

Not this time. Not today.]

[ The blow lands, because she can't scrabble back fast enough. It's disorienting, leaving stars in her vision as her neck flings back. Her immediate response is to get away from his hands as quickly as possible, pain and nausea blossoming simultaneously. It says quite a bit about her capacity for composure that she doesn't get violently sick right then and there.

Still somewhat floundering in his grip, she reaches down and picks up one of the shoes she had set down a moment ago - the innocuous "what" that had so helpfully lingered in her peripheral vision.

Her arm swings toward the fire, into it -- and then, as soon as the shoe is hot enough to melt flesh, if not burning outright -- she brings it up to his face as hard as she can. ]

[Now that isn't easy to see coming. You can't exactly plan for improvised weapons. Especially not when they're in fire. There's almost something admirable about a crazy move like that.

He'd appreciate it more if it wasn't, y'know, directed at him. It's funny, he actually pulled a move like this on someone before. He likes to think he reacts a little better than his victim back then, at least.

By which I mean he very quickly, as soon as he feels the burning, releases her and pushes her away. Not ideal. But necessary. He winces, groaning some more. That's gonna leave a mark, no doubt about it.

He honestly looks kind of incredulous when he realizes what exactly she used to burn him with.]

...Seriously?

[ Dude, you're trying to kill her! You have zero room for indignation. (nottalking) ]

[ That is, she immediately takes advantage of his stunned reaction and he distance between them and... turns and runs like a rabbit. Even in bare feet and a dress without much give, she beats out a good pace. It's less fleeing as it is trying to find the higher ground, regroup and make sure of what's around her. With a significant burn on her hand and a probable concussion, it's... not easy. ]

Edited 2017-02-16 02:11 (UTC)

[You attacked him with a shoe, he is absolutely gonna be indignant, okay. Geez.

And... she's running, because of course she's running. It's the smartest option.] Damn it...! [Doesn't mean he's happy about it, of course.

There's nothing to do but chase after her, of course. And he's pretty fast himself, so she won't have much time. Because if she doesn't find anywhere to go before he catches up, he's just going to straight up tackle her to the ground.]

[ Her head still splitting from the force of his strike, it takes all her concentration to run straight. She can't exactly focus enough to come up with any sort of singular getaway; instead, the best she can do is build up enough distance between the two that something - god, anything - occurs to her.

If she had her knives... If she had anything, really. At best, she's prolonging something, knowing this death is worth very little if she doesn't go to it with full effort.

Chane ends up turning to enter the cemetery, feeling the cold, damp grass squish under her toes. Noctis had been tidying up the unearthed graves just the other day, she knows that much. With a tremble to her gaze that she refuses to classify as concern, she looks around for a shovel, or any digging apparatus. ]

[The graveyard... Not where he expected this to go, but fine. There's worse places it could be.

Still, there being any kind of distance between them is bad and that's a problem he has to fix immediately. The less time she has to get her bearings, the better.

Better find something quick, Chane, Eliot's still running after you.]

[ Hey, she's fumbling around in the dark with a head injury, okay!

Regardless, it only takes her a few more seconds to locate the aforementioned shovel. It's clearly made for digging and not, you know, combat -- but a few seconds with it and she wields it like a second limb. A second unbalanced, cumbersome limb. Beggars can't be choosers, after all.

The moment he's in reach again, she swings out toward his head as hard as she can. ]

[He sees her reach for something and he just barely reacts in time. The shovel swings entirely too close by his face, but the swing does miss. Of course, now she's got a shovel and he's still unarmed. So that's not ideal.

He looks at her, then the shovel.

Carefully, he moves closer to where she can reach again, trying to lure her into another swing. He can turn this around still.]

[ Chane takes that gambit, because she's injured and desperate. The shovel swings out again, as hard a blow as she can muster with her arms -- ]

[Yeah, there we go. Eliot ducks to dodge the swing, then reaches for the shovel's shaft, grabbing hold of it. Then, quickly, hopefully before she has time to let go of it, he aims a kick for her abdomen.]

[ She lets go of the shovel the moment he grabs it, but doesn't leap back in time to dodge the kick. She might have, had she been at full health... but the more her head throbs, vision swimming under the residue of that first, damning blow -- the more she knows she's not going to last much longer. He strikes her abdomen hard and although she feels the concussive strike rattle through to her spine, she leaps back.

Already, her movements are growing erratic and sluggish, injury on top of injury crippling her.

It won't be much longer.

She turns to run again, but not as fast. He'll gain on her quickly. ]

[He caught up to her before. This time, it's even less of a challenge.

And this time, he has a shovel. Which isn't according to plan at all, but it's about to come in handy. Namely the second he catches up to her. A blow to the head with this won't really be elegant, but it'll be effective. So long as it connects.

Let's see if it does.]

[ It does. The second blow to the head is even worse than the first, even if she can't feel the pain as severely. This time, she stumbles, collapsing in a heap as if her legs had come out from under her. The warm, bitter tang of blood fills her mouth as she realises she must have bit her tongue - foolish.

That'll be it then, won't it?

Vaguely, she wonders if her father will feel anything when she dies; if the psychic backlash of a severed connection can even reach him through the blockage of this town. That's not where her final thought will be, though. No.

Whatever Eliot does next, Chane is prepared to go with only one word - one name - in her thoughts.

Drawing up as best she can on trembling limbs, she looks her assailant directly in the eyes. ]

[So that's it, then. This isn't the first time Eliot's stood above someone, knowing they were about to die by his hand. It's been a while, though. It should've been longer, it should've been never again, but that's how it goes. He's sure he's letting down his crew by doing this, but that's alright. Hardly the first time he's disappointed people who believe in him.

He wonders if this is breaking some arbitrary rule, using a weapon when he said he was going in without one. Well. He's sure the Sheriff will bitch at him about it if that's the case. Whatever.

There's no hesitation. That came before he decided to go through with this. Looking her in the eyes doesn't change that at all.

There's just another swing down at her head.

And that should be that.]

[ She barely has time to confront the final blow before it lands. This time, the blow breaks skin, her skull cracking and brain rupturing all in one swift second. Blood mats her hair, but it doesn't pour long.

Thought - a single thought, a beat and a syllable - courses through her like wildfire, an apology or maybe a plea, Claire —

By the time her body collapses into the cemetary grass, it's already growing colder.

Chane is dead. ]

[He's breathing pretty heavily, winded from the workout she gave him. But it's over and that's that.

He'll have to do something about the burn she gave him, but he'll think of something. As for her body, well. They'll find it anyway. Moving it doesn't seem like his problem. So with that done, he just looks at her body and... walks away. The shovel he carries with him for only a little longer, before tossing it onto the ground somewhere. He doesn't even look at where it lands.

Eliot's done, he did what was asked.

That's enough.]

[ WEEK FIVE – KILL LOG (CHANE) ]

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