The CEO would be proud. Teamwork, he had said, was the key to survival here. At the dusk of the fifth Day since his departure, something must have smiled down on you.
The team gathered around Diomedes in the central courtyard. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, he looked from face to face, searching for pity, or succor. He found nothing. Everyone was certain he was either a murderer or was part of the conspiracy to commit mass murder. Or, if certain members were not certain, they had agreed to this course of action and were bound to see it through, no matter what it did to the stock price, or their pension plan.
HazelNutCoffee stepped up and began the execution, with harsh words for the condemmed. “You know, a Limited Liability Partnership is a chickenshit way of doing things. Either own your decisions, or be a silent investor. This nonsense about trying to have it both ways is just cowardly.” With those biting comments still ringing in everyone’s ears, she reached to her belt and unfastened it, drawing it slowly from around her waist until it hung from her outstretched hand like a wide strap of pure malice. Once, twice, thrice she slashed it diagonally across whatever part of Diomedes she could reach. Her eyes were cold, but her mouth held a hint of a smile, as she continued to strike him.
“Oh God,” cried Diomedes, “why are you doing this, I’m innocent, I swear!”
No mercy was in the team that day however. brewha took up where HazelNutCoffee had left off. A conflicted soul, yet determined to do what was right for the team, regardless of the cost. He took Diomedes by the collar, ignoring the rapidly swelling welts from the lashing, and marched Diomedes straight over to the iron pier above the tallest drop. A grip of adamant held the condemmed as he tetered near the precipice. “Confess,” was all brewha said. “I’m innocent!” came the cry from Diomedes’ tormented lips. In reply brewha turned and thrust him back into the waiting group. A low stone bench caused Diomedes to fall and strike his head, opening a bloody rent in the back of his skull. He staggered to his feet and looked for a respite from his agony.
sachertorte stopped Diomedes as he staggered back into the group, with suprisingly gentle hands. “We just want the nightmare to end Diomedes,” he said reasonably. A reasonableness given lie by the action which accompanied the words. As sachertorte spoke, he twisted Diomedes’ necktie, cruelly compressing the carteroid arteries and cutting off Diomedes’ breath. A quick pivot and yank and sachertorte had flung the victim further into the group, who stood waiting to administer justice.
Hawkeyeop stood his ground until the last second, as Diomedes, propelled fiercely by sachertorte, came straight at him. At the last possible moment he sidestepped, but left his foot in Diomedes’ path. Diomedes tripped and fell, face first into the embers of the council fire they had built to decide who to execute that day. Hot coals seared his hands and chest, burning his flesh, and igniting his soul patch. As he gasped for air the sparks flew up into his mouth and nose, burning, burning, burning. Hawkeyeop watched him burn and was unmoved.
Unable to speak, unwilling to continue to seek pity where there was none, Diomedes gathered his strength and fled towards the martial arts studio. The squishing of his feet in his wet shoes was eerily loud when constrasted with the silent menace of his executioners.
Pleonast was in no hurry. The wet footprints(all the left foot) would lead him straight to Diomedes. He stalked his prey remorselessly. He had no grand plans to salvage this situation, but he could not ignore the danger Diomedes presented, nor the mandate of the team. As he reached the door to the studio he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He could never abide posers, and since Diomedes had loaded himself down with every weapon he could get his burning hands on, he looked like a walking weapon rack. Pleonast did not even have to dodge the throwing stars. Diomedes had no training or natural aptitude for the martial arts. In fact, he had already cut himself a large gash on his left thigh with a wakizashi, the fabric of his pants was sticking to his leg with a combination of blood and urine. Pleonast calmly picked up a throwing star and threw it casually, with deadly intent. Diomedes threw himself to one side to avoid the missile weapon, but staggered due to his wounded leg and heavily encumbered body. Most of his weapons clattered to the ground and his legs became entangled with a bokken he had discarded during his mad rush to arm himself. Another fall saw one of the throwing stars he had hastily tied to himself pierce his right bicep.
Diomedes knew this was the end of his hopes for armed resistance. He threw as many weapons as he could at Pleonast and ran again.
Rysto was waiting for him. With ruthless efficiency befitting a man seeking strong performance reviews, Rysto set about bringing punishment to the convicted man. Fingernails raked across the welts from his lashing. The tie was ripped from his neck. The burns on his face were gouged and places where his clothing was burned were ripped open to expose more flesh to the bitter cold. The entire left pant leg, soaking in blood and bodily wastes was ripped away, exposing the wounds and wet skin. Diomedes flopped on his stomach and twisted and turned like an earthworm cought out in the sunlight, with no shelter in sight.
Hal Briston called Rysto away for a coffee break. Hal Briston, the mild-mannered, gentle soul, had had enough. Enough of the terror every night. Enough of wondering if he would wake up in the morning. Enough of constantly writing and re-writing his final letters to his family. Enough of the same old boring conversation over and over in the neighboring cubicles, and now it was time for someone to pay. Diomedes thought Rysto was brutal, but nothing prepared him for Hal Briston’s onslaught. Hal Briston, himself, was well prepared, with his camera on repeat burst mode on a nearby tripod. Only such a setting could capture the savage uppercuts which rocked Diomedes repeatedly, causing a whiplash effect all up and down his body. A series of hammering blows left Diomedes stunned and coughing up blood on the cold ground.
faithfool knelt beside Diomedes, and calmly broke his nose with one open-palm strike. “You’ve had worse than that coming for a very long time,” she said. She stood unhurriedly and kicked him in the ribs, feeling the bones bend and break at the end of each blow.
zuma focused his anger and shook off most of the effects of his early start on the evening’s drinking to contribute to the group’s effort. He rolled Diomedes over onto his hands and knees and barked “crawl!” Diomedes struggled, clearly favoring his right arm and left leg. Whenever he slipped in blood or tears, zuma was right there to yank up on the back of his waistband, sending ripples through his injured ribs and bringing bright red blood to each cough. “i take no pleausre in this” zuma said, as he reached down and tore Diomedes’ left ear from the side of his head and left the misshapen cartiledge to hang free. With one final, savage kick to Diomedes backside, as he crawled through the courtyard, zuma stepped away.
Hockey Monkey ended it with one swift movement. A stiletto heel driven through Diomedes’ right temple stopped his wriggling immediately. He never saw it coming.
Goes to show we’ve both been wrong.
