Chapter Text
BAITSAKHAN, MACCABEE ADLAI, SARAH ALOPAY, RENZO, JAGO TLALOC
The Depths, Valley of Eternal Life, Sikkim, India
Baitsakhan gets his bearings.
He sees the other Players strewn across the floor.
And the non-Player.
A rare grin flits across his face because finally, finally , the fun can begin.
Baitsakhan walks up to the Cahokian first, sneers down upon her.
This girl is the weakest. A poor excuse of a Player. A replacement, so he has heard. Baitsakhan wonders for a moment how she is still alive, still Playing, then quickly dismisses the thought. No matter, the girl will be dead soon. At his hands.
He grabs her by the hair and Olmec by the wrists, and despite both being older than him, and probably three times heavier than him, manages to drag them across the room and deposits them carelessly against the wall, tying them together.
Next he walks to one of the many rifles laid on the ground, checks its cartridge: loaded. He calmly walks up to the non-Player, the Olmecs accomplice, and shoots him once, twice, thrice in the head. The shots echo down the hall, eerily bouncing off the stone walls.
It’s music to his ears.
Now that the non-Player is dead and the Players are at his mercy, Baitsakhan supposes it’s time to wake up his alley.
Baitsakhan sighs inwardly. The Nabatean is too soft, too annoying, too honourable . Does he have to wake him up? Would it not be easier to put him to eternal slumber?
But no, Maccabee gave him his hand, and Baitsakhan feels indebted to that, ridiculous, suit-wearing boy. Baitsakhan cannot be indebted to anyone, dead or alive.
If he’s dead, how will Baitsakhan pay him back?
And maybe –– just maybe –– Baitsakhan is starting to warm up to Maccabee, though he would not admit it.
But no, now that Baitsakhan has jost Jalair and Bat and Bold, he has nothing to lose, no weakness, and he intends to keep it that way. He will not create a new weakness for himself.
He will not make friends.
With these thoughts in mind, he stiffly walks over to the unconscious boy and unceremoniously shoves the smelling salts under his nose, so that Maccabee wakes up spluttering like a fool.
It amuses Baitsakhan.
“We’re not in Bolivia anymore.” Baitsakhan says.
Maccabee gets to his knees.
“Wh’are we?” He slurs, barely coherent.
“Don’t know. The archway moved us.” Baitsakhan doesn’t want to sound like an idiot, but his English is barely passing and he can only speak simply, unless he is concentrating.
Which, due to the after-effects of the portal, he isn’t.
Maccabee remembers. “To Sky Key?”
“Think so.”
Maccabee looks left and right. “Where’s it? Where’s she?”
“Don’t know that either.”
Maccabee slaps himself in the face. “Earth Key?”
Baitsakhan smirks. “Got it.”
He had slipped in into a pocket on his leg and zippered it shut.
Relief briefly flickers across Maccabees face. “Th’others?”
Baitsakhan just pointed his chin in the general direction of the two unconscious Players. The dead body of Renzo lies in between them, ignored, unimportant.
Though Maccabees body is still numb, his mind is starting to clear. “You haven’t killed them yet?”
Baitsakhan shrugs nonchalantly. “Thought you might want to watch.”
He points the rifle at Sarah, then Jago, the muzzle dipping down then up due to his unsteady hands.
“My head is swimming.”
“Mine too.”
Baitsakhan tries to steady his HK G36. The Cahokian is waking up.
The Olmec is still out.
Baitsakhan aims for the senseless boy’s neck. If he can’t handle the recoil, then it will force the gun up and take his head.
He pulls the trigger.