(no subject)
You have work to do...
Shock. He must've been going into shock. The pain -- it had been searing, was only a dull ache now. A chill settling into his limbs, that prickling numbness in the tips of his fingers, the revolver felt heavy and warm in his palm, stippled with rust and years of death. Warm as if it had just been fired, not lying there lonely in a ditch for all those years. Waiting for him. Frozen in time. Apart from the rest of the world, just like the island, and nothing else existed. The chamber slid back, six bullets, and John Locke… he could've cried. Oh God, it was a miracle, those six little bullets. His saviors.
Just a spineless…
"No. No!" Petulant. No, determined, he clicked the chamber into place. Pulled back the hammer and pressed the muzzle to his head - So stupid, he'd actually listened to him. All his lies, fooled all over again, and for a moment in John's mind, Anthony Cooper and Benjamin Linus were the same man. Manipulative, cold and cruel, dangling truths in front of him like bait, and he fell for it every time. Promising love and acceptance, only to snatch it all away.
Oh God, I was wrong… I was wrong… Forgive me.
Gunmetal pressed to his skin, and oh, he should've done this years ago… Stop! Finger on the trigger, he heard a voice, gun cocked and ready and his eyes squinting up at the figure looming over him, backlit and glowing like an angel.
"Put the gun down, John. You have work to do."
Work to do, Walt said… Walt from another time and place. That time, that future was a gift the island had yet to give him. It was a future where John Locke was a leader. A hunter. A future not so out of reach, and bleeding in a ditch with a loaded revolver in his hands, John Locke smiled. This was his destiny, and there was no giving up on it now. No giving up. Work, dammit, he thought, tugging on his pants leg and laughing when his foot moved. "You can move your legs, John. Now, get out of the ditch."
Revolver tucked into his waistband - never know when you might need one - John Locke climbed over bones and roots and dirt and death and when he spilled out onto the grass at the top, landing on his back in a heap to catch his breath, John Locke looked up at the sky, and he laughed.
[You can find Locke sprawled out in the grass, north of the stage, anywhere along that strip of unpopulated land. He's got a gun and a knife, and he'll be a little confused, but he's not dangerous unless your name is Naomi. I couldn't wait to get this up, but I'll be slow most of the weekend, so this is open for LT through Sunday.]
Shock. He must've been going into shock. The pain -- it had been searing, was only a dull ache now. A chill settling into his limbs, that prickling numbness in the tips of his fingers, the revolver felt heavy and warm in his palm, stippled with rust and years of death. Warm as if it had just been fired, not lying there lonely in a ditch for all those years. Waiting for him. Frozen in time. Apart from the rest of the world, just like the island, and nothing else existed. The chamber slid back, six bullets, and John Locke… he could've cried. Oh God, it was a miracle, those six little bullets. His saviors.
Just a spineless…
"No. No!" Petulant. No, determined, he clicked the chamber into place. Pulled back the hammer and pressed the muzzle to his head - So stupid, he'd actually listened to him. All his lies, fooled all over again, and for a moment in John's mind, Anthony Cooper and Benjamin Linus were the same man. Manipulative, cold and cruel, dangling truths in front of him like bait, and he fell for it every time. Promising love and acceptance, only to snatch it all away.
Oh God, I was wrong… I was wrong… Forgive me.
Gunmetal pressed to his skin, and oh, he should've done this years ago… Stop! Finger on the trigger, he heard a voice, gun cocked and ready and his eyes squinting up at the figure looming over him, backlit and glowing like an angel.
"Put the gun down, John. You have work to do."
Work to do, Walt said… Walt from another time and place. That time, that future was a gift the island had yet to give him. It was a future where John Locke was a leader. A hunter. A future not so out of reach, and bleeding in a ditch with a loaded revolver in his hands, John Locke smiled. This was his destiny, and there was no giving up on it now. No giving up. Work, dammit, he thought, tugging on his pants leg and laughing when his foot moved. "You can move your legs, John. Now, get out of the ditch."
Revolver tucked into his waistband - never know when you might need one - John Locke climbed over bones and roots and dirt and death and when he spilled out onto the grass at the top, landing on his back in a heap to catch his breath, John Locke looked up at the sky, and he laughed.
[You can find Locke sprawled out in the grass, north of the stage, anywhere along that strip of unpopulated land. He's got a gun and a knife, and he'll be a little confused, but he's not dangerous unless your name is Naomi. I couldn't wait to get this up, but I'll be slow most of the weekend, so this is open for LT through Sunday.]