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littletonoidea[The video is taken from behind a giant pile of rope, just visible on the camera's edge before it zooms in on Flint and Levitt. The cameraman is silent, as Levitt shoves Flint against the railing.]
--lace to run. If you try, I'll gun you down in the back. But if you cooperate and face your execution like a man, I'll allow you a few final words.
[The scene zooms in on Flint, who very pointedly doesn't look at the camera. He just breathes deep, and bellows from the chest.]
DESTROY THE GAVEL. DON'T FUCKING ST--
[And he's interrupted by the deafening explosions from the machine gun tearing him to pieces and shoving him over the edge.
Not that the camera catches most of it, because there's a sharp yelp as Eiffel flails back with a sharp yelp of-]
Holy fuck--!
[-and the camera drops to hit the deck, bouncing and landing upright, and Eiffel's hand is back in view instantly, scrambling to grab the phone, and some errant swipe from fumbling fingers-
--cuts the feed.]
Spam
[Well, at least it wasn't a hand?
On the other hand, getting his left eye removed is way more painful than Eiffel would have ever anticipated, and he ends up spending most of a full day in the infirmary, getting his empty fucking socket cleaned and bandaged and taken care of, until he stops having a dizzy spell every time he moves his head.
But after that? Straight onto the oars. For three. Days. It's not so bad at first, until the realisation hits on the shift change when he's exhausted after the regular eight hours and his manacles don't come undone.
He learns in the second shift that a hastily scarfed meal, dense as it is to make up for the energy losses, makes him vomit. He learns in the third that bandages have a finite amount of sweat they can absorb before it starts seeping into his newly made facial cavity. He stops keeping track after that.]
--lace to run. If you try, I'll gun you down in the back. But if you cooperate and face your execution like a man, I'll allow you a few final words.
[The scene zooms in on Flint, who very pointedly doesn't look at the camera. He just breathes deep, and bellows from the chest.]
DESTROY THE GAVEL. DON'T FUCKING ST--
[And he's interrupted by the deafening explosions from the machine gun tearing him to pieces and shoving him over the edge.
Not that the camera catches most of it, because there's a sharp yelp as Eiffel flails back with a sharp yelp of-]
Holy fuck--!
[-and the camera drops to hit the deck, bouncing and landing upright, and Eiffel's hand is back in view instantly, scrambling to grab the phone, and some errant swipe from fumbling fingers-
--cuts the feed.]
Spam
[Well, at least it wasn't a hand?
On the other hand, getting his left eye removed is way more painful than Eiffel would have ever anticipated, and he ends up spending most of a full day in the infirmary, getting his empty fucking socket cleaned and bandaged and taken care of, until he stops having a dizzy spell every time he moves his head.
But after that? Straight onto the oars. For three. Days. It's not so bad at first, until the realisation hits on the shift change when he's exhausted after the regular eight hours and his manacles don't come undone.
He learns in the second shift that a hastily scarfed meal, dense as it is to make up for the energy losses, makes him vomit. He learns in the third that bandages have a finite amount of sweat they can absorb before it starts seeping into his newly made facial cavity. He stops keeping track after that.]
