I'm... um, nervous about this one? No idea if it's gonna go down well. But I needed to do it, to give Jason closure. This is an insight into his brainwashed mind as he strangles Charlie. It's a little choppy, written in second person (it seemed to fit well) and is basically his stream of thought. I hope I did him justice.

I've never done anything like this before. With Revolution I keep finding myself dabbling in new styles of writing. First with 'Crossing Proverbial Lines' and now this. Try to enjoy, despite it being a little disturbing! :).

The title is modified from Shakespeare play, Hamlet: 'A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.'

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you may recognize. Any relation to my version of the characters and real life persons is purely coincidental. There is no copyright infringement intended.

Once more into the fray.
Into the last good fight I'll ever know.
Live and die on this day.
Live and die on this day
- John Ottoway, The Grey

-More Sorrow (Than Anger)-

It's her fault. You don't need to rationalize with yourself because it's simple. She saw the gun and now she needs to be eliminated. Blind fury washes through you. An emotion always present; right behind your eyelids, no room for other emotion. It throbs through your head. She's in the way of your target. So now she's become the target.

You swing out, back-hand her face. It hits, hard. She falls to the side, twisting her body, grabbing onto a shelf for balance. You see the gun, tucked into her waistband. You ignore it. Stupid move. She grabs it, swings it round at you. No hesitation. You grip it and slam her hand against the shelf, over and over, until she drops it with a cry of pain. It ricochets off a shelf with a clang and clatters to the ground. She struggles as your hands close in around her throat, wheezes out a name. Jason. Tells you to stop. It means nothing. The undiluted rage fills every pour, it blocks out everything but the dark heavy fog pressing down on you. You grit your teeth and squeeze harder. She pushes against you, grips your collar. You shout out as solid pain hits and resonates through your body. She kneed you.

You slam her small frame into another shelf. She grunts in pain. You punch her. She pushes back. There's a struggle. Tugging. Pulling. Finally you hurl her against the previous shelf, hands back around her throat. Squeezing. She grapples, twisting her body to get free. It's no use. She's trapped. You've won. She desperately pleads, hands reaching up gripping air. Her body weakening. You feel no sense of satisfaction, no thrill of winning, only the resounding rage that still pollutes your soul.

Blue eyes. Gasp for breath. Weak scramble for hands. Blond hair. Grip scratching, voice wheezing. Panic. She reaches out, smothers your face with sticky palm. You use your grip to push her to the ground. She bends under the weight, knees buckling and collapsing to the concrete. It's only a matter of time before the lights go out. Before those blue eyes go flat. Dead.

Then you can go back to your mission.

She looks you dead in the eyes. Something flickers. Then she has your knife. And it's in your leg. You cry out now. For a second sharp real pain clouds pierces the red fog. Enough to drop you to your knees. She takes advantage, punches you in the face. This snaps the fog back and it floods your senses, drowning you like a person underwater, one who's given up hope of gasping for air. Forget the knife, you grab for her leg as she stumbles away. She tumbles to the ground, still crawling away. She's a fighter, you think, as you grab for her body and fling it over. The gun was easy to pry from her hands and you toss it away. She's a scrapper, all nails as she wrestles against your hands around her neck. She's trained. You know this. You don't know how you missed her move. You try to pin her legs down. She uses your distraction to leverage weight and rolls you over. It doesn't matter. You're stronger. You use your extra weight and combined muscle to keep rolling so you remain on top.

The fight has gone on a while now. Despite the adrenalin fuelled anger you can feel yourself tiring. Only a little. Not enough to stop you. She throws a punch for your ribs. You block it. Too late to realise it was a distraction as she punches you in the face. You fall to the side. She scrambles out your grip and away. You stand, wince slightly, the rolling has pushed the knife in further. You grip it, yank it out, stare at it. The thought registers and you're moving without fully processing. The weapon tightly gripped in your hand. You turn, registering that she's picked up the rifle.

You've reached a stalemate. Kind of. She's got the gun, you've got a knife. She has the upper hand, you know this. You stand there - the throb in your leg barely a passing thought – and glare at her. She stares back at you. For a moment all is quiet. You privately relish in the peace. And then she's begging you again. This isn't you. Jason. Please. You move forwards, this has to end now. Either way. Stay back, stay back. The gun that she'd lowered rises a little. A threat. You move quicker. It's now or never. She shouts out. You lurch forwards. Flinch. Bang.

It takes a moment for the pain to register. Then it does. The bullet rips through you, the agony spreading like a wildfire. It smothers the simmering fog, burning its own trail of red fury through you. Not emotional. Not something only you can feel. Actual undeniable glorious agonising real pain. Somewhere in the back of your mind you register a second shot. But no more pain. So you must have imagined it.

You're on your knees now, hands gripping – caressing - your face. You're eyes are open, but you see nothing. Then sobbing, raw gasps for breath as strong arms wrap around you. Pulling you in. You go willingly, seeking comfort. The arms are familiar. Safe. Your eyes flutter, close, and you let them, relaxing into the arms hugging you to them. Then you're being slowly lowered to the ground, head resting softly on folded knees. The warm gradually seeps over you, and you let it. It chases away the cold and the lingering threads of red. It's peaceful, letting it slide over you, knowing someone's watching over you. An image of dazzling liquid blue eyes, blond wavy locks of hair; a young woman with a bright smile fills your mind. You know it's her who's got you now. She's there for you. Other thoughts drain away, fade to nothing, and yet you cling to her. Holding onto that beautiful smiling image. And as the world finally starts dissolving to black, her image flickering around the edges in your mind, you smile slightly as the name finally weaves itself through your fading mind. Charlie.

Charlie's here. And she's going to guide you home.

A.N/ RIP Jason. I hope I did him justice, and that - despite the different style - you enjoyed reading. Let me know, I may try it again someday if it worked.

The description of Jason's passing was inspired by a scene in the movie 'The Grey' - the same film where the poem at the beginning came from. It's a movie which is very hard to explain; it contrasts a lot of violence and bad language with a lot of meaning and deep sentiment. It's about a pack of wolves hunting down a group of oil-rig workers after their plane crashes and the survivors land in the wolves territory.

As always, thanks for reading! Drop a review, they give me love and warm hugs (which Charlie desperately needs right now).