Alere Thaville
"Fala why are you still here?"
Of course his sister would still try to play hero despite her own crippled condition. Only two gunman lay dead on the Cantigre Clinic lobby. The rest of the building evacuation continued. He could not leave until the patients who hadn't been killed by bullets had been safely escorted away. They were his first two kills, accidental, sloppily gutted and impaled by his own bladed limbs. He could still not get over how easy it was to rip through the intruders once they were distracted. His bloodied palms and sleeves couldn't help but to remind him of the ordeal. It was not normal for him to kill. He was not a killer.
Loud pops and shots echoes from outside. "The second floor was cleared out but they are still trying to get the east wing cleared through the back gates. All of our supplies wont be able to come with us. Please, it would be easier to get to the ship."
Had she come to lecture him once more? He figured she would have given up her arguments on abandoning the clinic altogether. She hadn't come to know the wonderful patients of the family clinic, only the riches it provided them. "I'm not leaving." he replied as stubborn and stern as ever.
He would not argue over his responsibilities. "You should go. Ship Docks, Orlinan Embassy, Grandmother's quarters. Just go."
She would not obey, at least not at first. Yet eventually her wheelchair clacked before she rolled away toward the back entrance. He didn't know if he would be brave enough if more men with guns came. He could barely fend off the first two. Would he have the bravery or strength to defend 50 patients and 20 healthcare professionals? Probably not. It was his stubborn way of thinking that kept him in place, arms at the ready. His way of assuming the role of 'hero' even if it was far from the truth.
"Fala why are you still here?"
Of course his sister would still try to play hero despite her own crippled condition. Only two gunman lay dead on the Cantigre Clinic lobby. The rest of the building evacuation continued. He could not leave until the patients who hadn't been killed by bullets had been safely escorted away. They were his first two kills, accidental, sloppily gutted and impaled by his own bladed limbs. He could still not get over how easy it was to rip through the intruders once they were distracted. His bloodied palms and sleeves couldn't help but to remind him of the ordeal. It was not normal for him to kill. He was not a killer.
Loud pops and shots echoes from outside. "The second floor was cleared out but they are still trying to get the east wing cleared through the back gates. All of our supplies wont be able to come with us. Please, it would be easier to get to the ship."
Had she come to lecture him once more? He figured she would have given up her arguments on abandoning the clinic altogether. She hadn't come to know the wonderful patients of the family clinic, only the riches it provided them. "I'm not leaving." he replied as stubborn and stern as ever.
He would not argue over his responsibilities. "You should go. Ship Docks, Orlinan Embassy, Grandmother's quarters. Just go."
She would not obey, at least not at first. Yet eventually her wheelchair clacked before she rolled away toward the back entrance. He didn't know if he would be brave enough if more men with guns came. He could barely fend off the first two. Would he have the bravery or strength to defend 50 patients and 20 healthcare professionals? Probably not. It was his stubborn way of thinking that kept him in place, arms at the ready. His way of assuming the role of 'hero' even if it was far from the truth.
