Arkwright

The world seemed to sing when wind slapped against the stone walls of the behemoth monstrosity that was the Arkwright. Bursting of gunfire sounded through the air, hugging the same walls the previous breeze beat against. Glass shattering, bottles breaking.

Time was running out, by far as Corrow knew at the moment, there are fifteen dead kids and counting. A number bound to continue growing. Until the moment either all but one were dead or until Clifford sits ready to perish on death row.

Problem was, finding Paspinêw Island remains the one obstacle between Clifford's lifetime in prison, and twenty-three children being mercilessly slaughtered. And the man known as Chef wasn't so keen on sharing that location with someone he didn't yet trust. Worse so, the Observer remained out and about. And soon, very soon, he'll be coming for them.

There was a three-step process Corrow has to keep in mind for the next few hours. Days? A difficult one to fulfill, he thought.

First, he had to get Chef to trust him, and given the circumstances, trust wasn't easy. Fraser, though, he trusted Corrow and he knew him even less. Trusted him enough to give Corrow an address, one that led right to Chef Hatchet's literal doorstep.

Step two is removing the Observer from the picture. Stop him from killing Chef or reporting to Clifford or whatever it is he's meant to do, most likely the former. It wouldn't make much sense otherwise.

Then came step three, the reason he was here in the first place. To find a way to put an end to this nightmare. To get the coordinates of the island of the show Clifford Lane hijacked.

He couldn't fail now. Not when he's this close. Not when this is the only lead he has.

It's not like the three of them could leave this place, either. Too risky. The Observer would hunt them down and kill them when they least expected it. Here, however, they could prepare for when Lane's underling inevitably popped up.

Another gunshot boomed, echoing in the quiet air of the Scottish Highlands. Corrow fixated his eyes to an empty beer bottle Fraser previously set up. Target practice, the Scotsman told him.

Chef fired again and the glass of the beer bottle exploded in shards flying every which way.

"Nice one," the detective complimented absentmindedly.

"Don't congratulate me for killing people, boy," Hatchet roughly replied, moving to reload his Winchester Model 70.

Corrow took an accidental step back, face abashed. He was about to speak when Fraser interrupted him from behind, a shotgun needing to be loaded, hanging by his elbow.

"So who are we fighting, exactly?" Ah. The number one question.

Chef snapped his rifle shut on the bullets he loaded in, sweeping his eyes from Corrow to Fraser then back to Corrow again.

The detective crossed his empty hands, noticing how cold it was for the first time since his arrival to the Scottish Highlands. "I don't know his name."

"This Lane bawbag?" Fraser inquired and Corrow couldn't help the twitch of his lips.

"No." Corrow shook his head away from the older man. He was the only one without a gun, he noticed. Not hard to figure out why that was. They didn't trust him. Or at least, Chef didn't trust him. "No, he's someone who's been observing me somehow. I don't know how," he breathed, watching the air frost ever so slightly.

"Why you?" The ex-cook asked, thumb stroking the side of his rifle. "Why not someone else? CIA, maybe?"

Again, Corrow just shook his head. "I'm not sure. Maybe I just showed up on Clifford's radar?"

"Mibay, or mibay it's the same reason you came up on my radar." Thomas Fraser. The one person here Corrow knew absolutely zilch about, other than the obvious. Maybe the question wasn't where Chef had gone, but how Fraser and Chef met? "Killing a wee bastart?" He suggested.

Killed a bastard? Corrow mulled over the idea. Who would've…

"Owen Slater," he realized.

"That's the one!" Fraser pointed with his free hand.

"You knew? Who killed McLean?" The detective asked in near outrage. They knew this whole time and they didn't take action? Why!?

"We both did," Fraser answered his suspicions without preamble. "Deh get ragey at me, we well couldn't do nothing without sticking our necks out."

Corrow resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. Poker face. It helped him in so many situations with suspects. If they didn't think you knew anything they were bound to slip up.

"So why the change of heart?"

"Eh, don't word it like that," the Scotsman frowned. "Nae all of us are as heroic as ye."

Getting answers wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. It seems that while Fraser is a bit more open, he's just as stubborn as Chef is when it comes to things they don't want to share.

Speaking of Chef...

"Can you two quit flirting?" The ex-cook barked, earning the attention of the two men. "We don't have the time to argue," He glanced at the sun's position. They had at least five hours until nightfall, "Most ambushes happen during the night."

"In that case," Fraser was speaking again, taking the center of attention away from Chef, "we should set some traps in an' around the house."

"Thomas," Chef hissed, "this is your home." Interesting, this seemed to be a side of Hatchet the show didn't, well, show much of. It was weird working with a celebrity, thinking you know what they're like, only for your expectations to be righteously flipped around.

"Aw, who cares?" Fraser questioned. "Ye're always goin' on about how you hate my bit. Cauld and dreich, that's what you said!"

Hatchet sighed in exasperation, trying his best to ignore Fraser's cocky grin. Turning away from the two, he started marching back to Arkwright.

Corrow moved to follow when Fraser stopped him, pressing a hand to his chest. "Ah found this for ye, by the way."

He couldn't even begin moving his fingers before Fraser slammed a body of cool steel against his palm. Sunlight catching, reflecting across the silver of a Smith and Wesson Performance Center Model 629 Hunter.

It felt right in his hand, the detective noticed. Better than the Smith and Wesson MP Hatchet refused to return to him. No hard feelings there, it wasn't personal. It was smart. Who would, in this situation? Besides Fraser, that is.

Whatever, it didn't matter for the time being. Now, he had a way of defending himself.

He looked up to thank Fraser, only to find that he was walking back towards Arkwright on his own.

Figures.

Checking the ammo the Scotsman supplied him, he extended his arms, barrel pointing down at a glass bottle about ten feet away, standing motionless, proudly, at the top of the shooting gallery they set up within the time span of ten minutes.

Finger itching the trigger, breathing relaxed, calm. Corrow shut one eye and lined up the shot. This would be the first time he fired a gun since the Observer shot his hand.

Exhale. Calm yourself, detective, he thought to himself. He pulled down the hammer.

Quiet. A stillness he hadn't made himself comfortable yet. He needed to, soon. Loud noises around the Arkwright could certainly come in handy in warning of the Observer heading their way. Hopefully, he didn't know that.

He pulled the trigger, revolver instantaneously recoiling in his arms, like it wanted to escape his grasp. The bullet sailed through the air for a second, just a moment. Then it impacted. Just barely grazing the bottle that stood still. It mocked him for his failure.

How pathetic is it that he couldn't even fire his gun anymore? He used to be a great shot, and now, he used to pride himself on that. Now he couldn't even shatter an immobile beer bottle.

Seemed that life enjoyed throwing Hatchet an occasional curveball every once in a while. No matter how much he tried to stay away from torment, it always found a way back to him.

Today was no exception, so it seemed.

"What happens when there's too many of them?"

"Trapdoor under the fireplace," Fraser waved Chef off. "Tunnel leads out of 'ere." He paused, thinking, "Think it was built durin' World War II," he shrugged. "We can meet up at the family cemetery if we ge' separated."

"Family cemetery," Corrow couldn't help but ask, tying an axe above the front door.

"Ancestral home, bitch," Fraser gestured around himself.

Chef sighed, putting a plank of wood atop nicely placed shotgun pellets. "Don't stand here," he bawled, pointing to the doorway he put the pellets under.

"Yes, ma," Fraser joked. Of course, he knew the severity of what was going to happen in, what? A few hours? But the elder man felt it was his job to lighten the mood.

"How many nails do we have left?" Corrow asked, hammering in a board in front of a window.

"Enough. Why?" Hatchet asked.

"We could have nails and glass rain down on them from there," he pointed to a chandelier, "by flicking a light switch."

Chef nodded while Fraser snickered. "Do it."

"Oh man, if ma and da could see me now."

Detective Corrows's heart was pounding in his ears. Twilight had fallen, and according to Chef, it was likely during that time the Observer was going to make his stand.

Caught in his thoughts, he turned his revolver over in his hands. So many people were going to die tonight. Maybe himself, too.

What would happen tonight? He hadn't given that simple question much mind until now. How would these things go? Who would they tell about the island coordinates? How would they tell them? Corrow didn't have a return flight to America, and Chef definitely wasn't using credit cards, all things considered.

There were so many things he didn't think about if he got away from this battle alive. For one, if he came out at the end alive, he was so fired once he came home, and that suited him fine. This was the biggest case of his life!

Clifford was gonna get the death penalty, or be shanked by some prisoner, no doubt about it.

His heart came to a sudden lurch.

He hadn't completely grasped the idea of being this close to stopping Clifford. All he had to do was survive a little bit longer, then it's a straight shot to ending...whatever you'd call this.

"They're here," Chef murmured, voice reverberating in every part of Arkwright. His announcement earned attention from both Corrow and Fraser.

Fraser moved his shotgun off his lap, butt dragging against the wooden planks. "How many are there?" He quizzed, Scottish accent dripping.

Hatchet moved to squeeze the curtain shut. "Eight." He moved away from the window, careful to step over the shotgun shell booby trap set in the doorway. "Spread out, they'll be circling around to corner us."

"That's not a good idea," Corrow was about to say, but bit his tongue. No time to argue now.

A stony expression crossed Fraser's face. He didn't want to kill anyone, believe it or not, but he didn't want anyone hurting his friend. Fraser still tried to think of it as hunting, he was good at that. It did nothing to quell his fears, though. He was about to kill some people. Real, living people.

No time for remorse. These people will shoot on sight, it was their job. They were going to need to die.

Hands curled protectively around his weapon, Fraser just managed a, "Stay alive, laddie," to Corrow, before he escaped down one of the house's many hallways.

This situation was fucked.

What kind of world did these things to people? Corrow took a step toward the curtain, taking care to not move it. They'd see it for sure, and then he'd have a bullet lodged in his temple.

Eight men came over the curvature of the very same hill the detective had come over hours ago. Rifles, all of the same type, lay across their arms. Each step they took held deliberations.

These people were trained, Corrow mused. He scanned the eight men stepping closer and closer to the Arkwright, only then noticing the Observer wasn't among them. Unless he was the man hiding his face underneath a balaclava.

His eyes drifted to the center of the group, to a man dressed in a bulletproof vest. He had light facial hair, a goatee, fixed upon his chiseled face. Dirty-blond hair slightly ruffled in each step he took, boots digging into the ground. It wasn't his position in the group that caught Corrow's eye. No, it was his mesmerizing blue eyes. Even from this distance, he could make out the brightness.

The man made a gesture with his hand, pointing off to the left, then right. The others immediately obeyed the apparent command, confirming Corrow's suspicions this man was the leader, and the group split to three.

"Shit," Corrow cursed, following the blue-eyed man and an average looking man with a buzz cut approach the front, guns pointed.

Without a second thought, Corrow hurried off to the living room and cocked his revolver, back slammed against the nearest wall.

"Kick it in," one voice came from the other side of the door. The detective winced, peeking out from his position.

A short pause came first, then the door flew open, courtesy of Buzz Cut, as Corrow subconsciously dubbed. Splinters of wood shot off in different directions, the door flying hard into the stone wall.

Before Buzz Cut could begin to move through the front door's arch, satisfied smirk and all, however, the entanglements tying a certain fire axe above the doorway came loose and swung down hard.

Buzz Cut stopped mid-step, orbs in his head growing wide in realization. The man behind took quick cover behind a wall, paying his ally no mind even as the axe clanked to the ground. Holding his stomach, Buzz Cut made to fire off at least one shot and went still. Instead, he fell forward on his wound, his weapon clattering, and body unnaturally still.

"Wasn't expecting that," the blue-eyed man exclaimed in a tone Corrow couldn't quite decipher.

The detective flung himself from the wall and took two shots towards in the doorway's direction. Racing across the room, he scooped up the rifle Buzz Cut dropped. Coming out a doorway, he skidded to a stop in front of Hatchet.

"What're you doin' here?" Hatchet asked, his eyes as wide as saucers. "I almost shot you!"

Corrow dropped his own eyes to his chest and found a rifle pointed at him. "Spreading out wasn't a good idea," he whisper-yelled before he could stop himself.

Chef shook his head and opened his mouth to say something, and stopped, his stare stuck on something beyond Corrow's shoulder. The detective began turning around, catching a glimpse of a silver watch in the sunlight, before he was pulled under the kitchen's arch, just as a spray of gunfire blasted pieces of glass off a nearby table.

"Son of a bitch!" Corrow shouted amidst the gunfire, holding his rifle close to his chest. In his panic, he didn't notice Chef's shaking, the man frozen to his spot. Had he noticed, he would've realized this would be the first time he fired a gun at another human being since his time in war.

Silver Watch took slow steps closer to the arch, rifle pointed with a sure and steady hand. Unlike Buzz Cut, his face remained neutral. For him, this was just part of the job.

Detective Corrow maneuvered himself as best he could in the limited space he had, aiming his gun towards the place Silver Watch would come into focus. He didn't expect the man to grab the barrel of his gun and force it down to the ground.

Coming around from the other side, Silver Watch tossed Corrow's rifle to the ground, weapon directed at him.

"Wait," the detective tried, his tone weak, and although Silver Watch hesitated, the creaking of floorboards earned his divided attention instead. Corrow jumped in his skin as a blast blew Silver Watch away.

"Welcome to Scotland," a curt distinctive Scottish accent sounded, and Corrow felt Chef's tension ease away beside him.

Fraser appeared seconds later, shotgun in grasp. "Whit are you twa doin' here?" He asked, looking from Chef to Corrow. "Ah thought we were spreadin' oot?"

"We were," Hatchet replied, growling to Corrow. "Boy came-"

"Wheesht," Fraser suddenly snapped, and Chef instantly went quiet. The house was silent, excusing the gurgling from Silver Watch, who remained a crumple on the floor.

Corrow started to ask what was wrong when it dawned upon him. It was way too quiet for people who were trying to break into the house. Those thoughts went blank at the sight of a figure outside a window, and instincts took over.

"Get down!" He shouted, looping one arm around Chef and dragging him to the ground, Fraser following seconds later as a stream of shots clipped the stone.

"Damn! We need to get out of this room," Hatchet roared, returning fire the best he could at the window. "Go!"

They didn't need to be told twice, duo standing up and racing to the next room over. By time they turned around to see a lack of gunfire, Chef was gone. Rather than see, they heard the sound of a man thrusting his weapon up against a boarded window.

Fury exploded within Corrow's innards. How dare they do this to them? Killing these kids on television, so when you try to stop them, you're attacked like you're the bad guy. What right did they have?

Just as Windows clambered through broken glass, and against his better judgment, Corrow sprinted at his attacker. The action turned Windows's head in his direction, in time for Corrow to slam his fist into his face, and the blow sent the man staggering.

Despite his daze, Windows lifted his firearm at Corrow. The action became pointless when the detective stamped down his foot and brought his hand in a bang against his throat, crushing Windows's windpipe.

Groaning in pain, the man went silent at last, Corrow having punched him in the face, feeling the cartilage in his nose break under the thwack. He fell back, knocked out cold.

Corrow's stomach turned at an aroma of sweat and a thin layer of smoke. "Ye broke his coupon," Fraser couldn't help smirk, putting a hand on Corrow's shoulder. In spite of the circumstances, Corrow let out a small laugh.

"Come on, let's go," the Scotsman continued, serious, leading the detective into an empty dining room adjoining to the kitchen.

"What do we do?" Corrow whispered.

"Keep moving yer arse," Fraser retorted.

A string of shots thundered from the tip of the tube, and Fraser did a half-circle just in time to watch a lead bullet collide with his tibia would be. They were two men, this time. One with a four-leaf clover keychain on his piece. His partner, though, couldn't seem to hold his gun still, instead twitching with nerves.

It became quickly apparent Twitch was the one who took the shot.

"Ye cunt!" Fraser shouted, falling to his knees.

Ireland and Twitch moved their guns to Corrow, who'd begun running to the other end of the room, hand outstretched towards a light switch, flicking it downward on a movement he'd perfected in his childhood.

Just as they'd planned, the place where bulbs used to be shattered in an explosion of nails and gunpowder, sending both Twitch and Ireland to the floor in a bloody heap, life fizzling out of them by the second.

Fraser rolled out of his spot underneath the dining table, sight sweeping past the bodies of the people Corrow subconsciously named Twitch and Ireland. Using his shotgun to help himself to his feet, he spoke, "Ye good?" He queried, voice hoarse.

Corrow nodded at his stance from the light switch, making sure to keep his ears open to if the others would follow the source of the explosion. "You stay here," he told the Scotsman, eyeing his injured leg, "Fix yourself up. Be careful, get under the table."

Fraser made a show of rolling his eyes but complied nonetheless.

More gunfire went off, helping to cover their conversation. Corrow hurried out of the dining room and down the hallway.

Another rifle shot. This time digging into the thick table Chef sat behind, splinters flying out under every shot taken. How were they still going?

Just as quickly as the thought crossed, the barrage of bullets ended. Chef leaped up with a spray of his own, landing one on the man with a scar's shoulder.

Balaclava man, however, ducked his head back under a stone wall separating them.

Dust touched Chef's nostrils, falling back under his cover. Just a few more steps, just another step-

Boom!

The man with a balaclava was thrown against the wall, legs bent the wrong way.

"Bastard!" Scar faced man howled. "You killed my friend!"

The man surged forward, kicking the table, and knocking Chef over in one swift movement.

"He was goin' to kill me!" Chef snapped back, stomping his foot back at the man's ankle.

The man grunted, putting his hand against the table to support his weight.

"Killed him like he was nothing!" The man shouted, conveniently ignoring the last words Hatchet spoke.

The man struck Chef's chest with his foot, shoving him down.

"Hey, Scarface!" The man whipped around at the new voice. The distraction gave pause to his actions and allowed Chef to free himself.

"Bitch!" Scarface seethed, taking a half step forward, half a turn to the side.

Lunging for his weapon, Hatchet rolled away and fired away, shredding through the man's torso until his magazine emptied.

His eyes burned from sweat, gunpowder, and death, even after the man fell back, dead.

Pause took the scene. Six dead bodies lay somewhere, unmoving, in Arkwright's walls. People were dead, adding further numbers to the total victims of the Total Drama Murders, as most media are calling it.

Who did these things to people? These kids? Forcing them to vote for each other until they die, until only one of them is left. Chef swallowed the bile in his throat.

Clifford killed his best friend. This was retaliation.

"Are you hurt?" Corrow dropped to his knees beside the ex-cook. The simple action helped the man in question realize he hadn't stopped staring at Scarface's corpse, bone fragments protruding from his many bullet wounds.

Hatchet nodded slowly. "How many are left?"

"Just one," Corrow paused, "Outside."

Chef breathed a sigh and began to stand up, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder. "Where's Thomas?"

"Right here," Fraser appeared in the doorway, a tourniquet tied tightly around leg. His shotgun remained by his side. "Where's this last wee cunt?"

Corrow started to speak but was aggressively interrupted by something outside. Fraser's brow rose in confusion, while Chef's mouth was left agape.

"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!"

Exchanging glances, the trio hurried the best they could to the nearest window for the source of the noise.

"Sound the news from the din of battle booming,

"Tell the people far and wide that better times are coming!"

"What-"

"The fuck?"

Emerging over the top of the hill some hundred or so feet away was an RG-31 Mk3A with large speakers attached to the side, blaring music obnoxiously loud.

"I guess that's him," Corrow took a step back in disbelief, both at what he knew they had to face against, and the loud entrance he made for himself.

"Ye mean Ah got my leg shot up for hee haw?"

"There are voices of hope that are borne on the air,

"And our land will be freed from its clouds of despair-"

"What's the plan here?" Corrow looked to Chef for guidance. The truck came to a stop outside.

"For brave men and true men to battle have gone,

"And good times, good times are now coming on!"

The doors opened and six men stepped out, Corrow's attention landing on only one of them. He was wearing a black overcoat over some fancy militia vest, one that allowed him two handguns strapped to his chest, both laying opposite directions. Further down was two pistol magazines ready to be taken out and loaded in.

He was the Observer.

Hatchet let out a growl and hit out his window with the butt of his rifle, and began to open fire at the new team of mercenaries.

"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!"

The Observer was the first to jump for cover, lead raining upon two of his men, falling to the dirt ground with a thud.

Scowling, the man in the gunner's seat returned fire.

"Sound the news from the din of battle booming,

"Tell the people far and wide that better times are coming!"

"Run!" Hatchet bellowed, dragging Fraser along with him as bullets pierced the air, flying through boarded windows and soft stone.

Wheels moving once more, the RG-31 circled the Arkwright with continuous firepower.

"Great plan, min!" Fraser shouted, back hugging the stone arch. Chef didn't respond. "We can't take these pieces of shite!"

"You're giving up?" Corrow questioned with outrage.

"I didnae say tha'!" Fraser countered. "I'm sayin-"

The Scotsman stopped mid-sentence as a grenade came flying through one of the many broken windows.

With a yell, Corrow snagged Fraser and ran in a senseless direction, Chef trailing behind.

"Generals Lyon and Baker and Ellsworth now are gone,

"But we still have some brave men to lead the soldiers on-"

"Why don't you get out of here detective? I have no quarrel with you!" Someone shouted, probably the Observer.

Corrow bit back his reply.

"The noise of battle will soon have died away,

"And the darkness now upon us will be turn'd to happy day!"

"No?" The Observer tossed another grenade, blowing up a chunk of the house. "So be it, then."

"What do we do?" Corrow asked his two allies, rubbing soot from his face. Fear was overtaking his primary emotion.

"We can leave through the fireplace. Trapdoor, 'member?" Fraser said quickly, sweating badly.

"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!"

"We can set off the propane tanks," Chef whispered, rifle rattling to the floor.

"Nae bother," Fraser cut off his thought process. "At this rate, the wallaper'll set it off on his own."

"Sound the news from the din of battle booming,

"Tell the people far and wide that better times are coming!"

Yet another grenade came through, but the trio was already on the move. Flames exploded through the broken window, setting another room on aflame.

The Observer took a step away from the window, heat too strong to keep near. The sky had gone dark now, leaving the only light source as that from the burning building.

"There!" The blue-eyed man pointed to shapes through one of the window gaps.

"Better times are coming!"

Fraser lifted the secret hatch under the fireplace, allowing Chef to descend first. He nodded to Corrow, smiling slightly, and the detective started to climb down.

Glass breaking under a boot earned Fraser's attention. Swinging around, he took a shot at the man Corrow knocked unconscious. Landing back on the ground, Fraser chanced a glance out the window, right on time to see the Observer underhand a grenade right in.

Fraser made quick work to the hatch as the grenade fell not far off a propane tank.

But he wasn't quick enough.

An absolutely enormous explosion tore apart Arkwright from the inside. The powerful blast flinging Fraser's body like a ragdoll into and along the stone chimney, shattering each and every bone in his body.

The force sent Corrow stumbling down the secret stairs, and by the time he hit the bottom, he knew no more.

Aleksandr Grinik groaned in pain. What the hell was that, he wondered, a constant ringing in his ears. He examined his surroundings, finding the house he and his team were invading was a fireball. Speaking of…His gaze drifted, briefly touching the corpses within the explosives proximity.

Snarling, he pulled a pistol out of its strap, slamming the magazine into place. Couldn't be too sure now, could you?

The blue-eyed man hissed from where the explosion launched him over. He touched his ear, blood dribbling low. "I can't hear anything," he whispered, grasping at his ears desperately. "Wait…"

"Here!" Grinik shouted over the rumble of flames and debris, lobbing his one remaining ally a pistol.

"What?" The man asked, turning his head so that Grinik was facing his non-bleeding ear.

Grinik's eyes narrowed. "We're leaving. There's a cemetery further down. If Chef or Corrow are alive, that's where they'll be."

The man's dazzling blue eyes grew. "Why would they be there? I saw them in the house!" He shouted, wincing when he couldn't hear his voice in his right ear and gestured wildly at what was left of Arkwright. He took a step closer to Grinik and grimaced. "What happened to your face?"

Grinik rose an eyebrow and his free hand instinctively went to the right side of his face and found what felt like shards of glass and debris impaled in his face. He shook his head, muttering, "I'll deal with that later." More loudly, "Let's go," he ordered.

Today wasn't supposed to happen this way. Today they were supposed to find Chef Hatchet and unleash rounds of bullets into his chest. Or something on the classy side, Grinik frowned. Look at how all that went. His team dead and there was a chance Chef and Corrow was still alive.

The man with blue eyes cocked the pistol Grinik graciously donated to him. "And if they aren't there?"

"Then they died in the explosion," the Observer returned, loading his own handgun.

Detective Corrow woke with a start, and the first sense that came back was the amount of pain plaguing his sore body. Next was smell; the smell of smoke and fire running and desperate to escape the secret tunnel beneath Arkwright. Third to return was the taste of dirt and blood stuck at the back of his throat.

It was when sight came back, however, when Corrow realized Chef had left him behind. How long had it been? A few minutes, perhaps? Arkwright was still in flames, after all.

The detective scrambled to his feet, intuitively reaching for the holster he forgot wasn't there. Chef took his weapon, too? He cursed.

Chef, you stubborn asshole. After all this and you still don't trust him?

Coughing when he inhaled smoke throughout his lungs, Corrow ran as best he could to the exit of the tunnel. Fraser told them to head to his family cemetery if they were to get separated, Corrow recalled.

Then again, Chef trusted Fraser, not him. And now, Fraser's corse lay within Arkwright, burned and broken. Corrow loured. He liked Fraser.

Reaching the exit, he shoved hard at the wooden disguised door and sprinted hard in the cemetery's direction. If the Observer was still alive, he might make his way over, himself.

No. No, that couldn't happen. He needs to live just as much as anyone. He won't let the Observer or his lackeys kill-

A short spritz of pellets knocked up dirt particles and Corrow skid to a stop. From here he could feel the presence of two men, but only one of them came to view.

Ten feet away stood the Observer and looking worse than he'd ever seen him. Light from the fire illuminated glass shards sticking out of his face and Corrow internally winced, straining to show his opponent the least amount of emotion he could.

"Detective Corrow. You're still alive," it came out as more of a statement than an observation. "If you just stopped investigating we wouldn't be in this mess, you know," the Observer rubbed his eyes.

The sound of dirt crunching under boots makes Corrow tense back up. Ever so slowly, he watched a second man emerge from the shadows, studying the blue eyes that appeared before the figure did.

"Now," the Observer continued, drawing Corrow's attention. "I really need to be finding Hatchet. So, maybe I'll be seeing you around?" He looked to the other man. "Or maybe not."

And then Grinik stalked off.

The blue-eyed man, though, didn't.

Acting purely on instincts alone, Corrow pounced onto the man, driving his elbow into his gut.

Smothering his moan, the man pushed his gun hand in a circular motion towards Corrow's head.

Jabbing out like a shooting star, Corrow's fist met the man's neck, and his grasp on the gun weakened.

The blue-eyed man, nevertheless, stood standing, and struck his leg out like a cannon, clipping the detective's leg, and sending him sprawling to the earth.

His blue eyes glared Corrow into the dirt. This was what he got for trying to play hero. He lifted the gun…

And in retaliation, got a fierce kick to the knee.

The man let out a yell of pain, but the time he pointed the gun back down, Corrow had looped his leg with his and pulled.

Crashing beside him, Corrow wasted no time going for the pistol.

"No!" The man gnashed his teeth in rage. How could he have been so stupid? He, too, reached forward as far as he could.

One of the two found the gun and fired a single shot through the night air. The body fell with a bullet wound through the eye.

Grinik smirked as a gunshot echoed. So his comrade killed the bastard? Good. He resumed his trek towards the family cemetery front gate.

Maybe this hunt may have been worth his while after all. Usually, his targets ran, never fought back, so this was near new. Despite his frustrations, he felt excited at the prospect of someone refusing to go down.

Perhaps that's why Clifford proposed the idea of sticking speakers to an RG-31. He'll have to thank him for that, it led to more fun.

The downside of the contract? Dealing with Corrow. He was an annoying piece of the puzzle dumb enough to lead him to Hatchet. But, that's why he left him alive; he didn't care much for him.

It's also why he left the blue-eyed man with him. No doubt he hated the detective for blowing his eardrum.

Grinik rolled his eyes, putting the fact he was also responsible for that explosion out of his mind.

Reaching the cemetery gate, he pushed it open regardless of the hinges squeaking in protest. Without cease, he marched in with lethal confidence.

"Chef Hatchet?" Grinik shouted to the night sky air. "Why don't you come out?"

How could the Observer be beaten? This was his natural environment. On the hunt in search of prey.

The Observer went down a row of gravestones, surveying the area from left to right. His calm footsteps crush the dirt beneath his every step.

"You're nearby," he said, tap, tap, tapping at his gun.

Chef remained still, not dating to either respond or move. He wasn't going to die like this. Not when he's so close to surviving this attack.

"I know you're here," the Observer whispered loudly. He stopped and turned around. He must've reached the end of the row. And that meant he was coming closer. Narrowing down on Chef's position.

How was he going to escape this? He had no weapons, no means to defend himself...

The knife, Hatchet abruptly remembered.

The ex-cook darted his hand into his pocket, slipping his grip around the hunting knife he'd forgotten about. So stupid, stupid! He mentally berated himself for forgetting.

"Seriously, just come out! We'll make this quick, I promise," the Observer gave an exasperated heave, apparently not at all worried about Chef jumping out and attacking. Or at least, not worrying about Chef beating him in combat.

"It's nothing personal, you know," Grinik slipped in another row. "A contract is a contract."

He was getting testy, Chef realized. The hiding was getting on his nerves. Not only that, he was getting closer. He grit his teeth in preparation.

Grinik's footsteps were getting louder and Hatchet had to bite down the gasp when they reached just the other side of his cover.

"This hiding is…" he trailed off. "Is that- oh, there you are!"

And there was his cue.

The ex-cook propelled his body in a circular motion, knife raised high.

Grinik dodged, the sudden movement making him unable to lift his gun arm.

Chef missed the blade, although his momentum barreled into his enemy, shouldering him.

The Observer regained his balance in time to catch Hatchet's punch, returning a neat left hook to the jaw.

He stumbled back, bleeding from the nose.

"I thought you were a veteran, Hatchet," Grinik smiled crazily. "I guess you're all talk, after all." He hoisted his pistol up.

Chef ducked the shot and slammed his full weight to the Observer, hurling the both of them to the floor.

Unwillingly, the pistol fell to the side and Chef took the advantage to ground in the pieces of debris sticking from the Observer's face.

Grinik howled in agony. He sprawled his hand out in search of something, anything that could help him. When he did, he swung as hard as he could at Chef's head, rock breaking on impact.

Ripples of pain came to Chef like a wave. Unable to regain his advantage in time, Grinik shoved him off and stood up.

The ex-cook groaned, struggling to his feet, and Grinik kicked him back, bottoming his face in the dirt.

Swiping the hunting knife from Hatchet's weakened grip, the Observer dragged him towards one of the graves, and before the man could regain his awareness, the Observer struck him through the collar bone and pinned him to the grave.

That brought him out of his stupor; he screamed.

So then...this is how it ends. The realization hit him hard. That there was nothing left he could do. His life, just like his best friend, was over.

"Aren't you going to kill me now?" He asked, panting.

"That's the job," Grinik answered, picking up his dropped pistol.

"Why?" Chef spat out through blood. "Why do this?"

The Observer shrugged. "It's a job. It's nothing personal."

"Sure seems like it."

The Observer shrugged again, pulling a small splinter out his face. "Lane doesn't want you leaking the island's location. Other than that, nothing."

The gate closed and Grinik glanced back, just managing to see his ally's bulletproof vest in the dim light.

"That's it?" Chef interrogated. "Does your employer have no regard for life?"

"Probably not," the Observer admitted. "But as I said, a contract is a contract."

Chef exhaled. So then, this really was the end.

"Now then, how would you like to die?"

"What?"

"That's what I always ask people before I kill them. One last request in the form of how you want to die."

"And," Hatchet swallowed back acidity in his mouth, "how do most people choose?"

"Screaming and crying, most of the time. Then a headshot," the Observer smiled at what seemed like fond memories. "You're stalling."

Chef didn't answer.

"Fine. If you don't answer, I'll ask my associate what he thinks," he turned his body at the other man, who had just come to stop behind him. "What did you say your name was-?"

Turning his notice elsewhere, he quickly became aware that it wasn't a pair of two bright blue eyes staring back at him.

Rather, he found John Corrow looking back at him, handgun leveled at his head.

Grinik drew his piece but wasn't nearly as fast as Corrow was, the man has already fired.

The Observer felt a sharp sting, followed by a flow of warm blood. He fired back at the detective, emptying his magazine into his chest.

The idiot grazed him, Grinik leered. He clasped a hand around the left side of his neck to stop the bleeding. He could feel Chef's gaze on his back, but he ignored it.

"You really can't count on people, can you? You've gotta do everything yourself," the Observer shook his head to himself and stood over Corrow's body.

"On the bright side, that's two for one." He frowned when he saw Corrow stir. Right. Bulletproof vest. "Of course," he murmured.

He dropped the magazine and reloaded with the other, leveling it at Corrow's head.

No. No, not him, too! He tried to save him. He was wrong about him! He couldn't die, too. He could feel his adrenaline pumping in his veins and, without thinking much of consequence, ripped his hunting knife out of his collar bone.

Holding it by the blade and, thinking a lack of the things that could go wrong, let the knife fly and watched as it ripped into the Observer's neck.

A sharp pain took over Grinik's senses, and he pulled the trigger, the bullet whizzing past Corrow by a mile. His blood spilled over his hands and he went on to say something, to check if this was all part of his imagination, when the only sound that came out was a choked gasp.

He collapses with a dull thump, gagging and gasping, clutching at his throat in spite of the growing pool of crimson beneath him. This couldn't happen to him, he thought!

Chef stood up, placing a hand on where his knife wound was. He couldn't bear to look at the Observer's convulsing. Corrow, on the other hand, couldn't look away.

Only when the ex-cook sat beside him did Corrow finally look away.

"Why did you do that?" He asked, sitting up beside Hatchet. He wanted so bad to drown out the sound of the Observer's harsh breaths and garbling.

Chef, it seems, understood. "Because I was wrong. There was no reason for me to not trust you."

"So you're saying you trust me, then?" Corrow questioned.

"No, boy," Chef replied, glowering. "I'm saying I'll give ya the coordinates."

"What made you change your mind?"

"Because I haven't done anything right since Chris died, man. Not one thing." And all this helped me realize that, he kept to himself.

AN: First, I'll go ahead and confirm Grinik did indeed die here. I couldn't find a way to incorporate the moment he died into the story without making come off as choppy. Speaking of, I based off a lot of this chapter on a certain movie, extra points to you if you can name that movie, and mixed with that that I suck at writing fight scenes, I feel like some of the scenes come as choppy. And lastly, the song is in the public domain.

And, you know what would be a great Christmas present? A TVTropes page, perhaps? Just kidding, but I really would appreciate that.