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Martyn drops his sword. His hands are trembling— his whole body. Grian's dead. He did it. He's won. Again.
He walks over to Grian's body with shaky legs. He knows what a dead body looks like, but— but surely he should check, right? He presses a hand to Grian's chest, testing for a heartbeat, for breathing, for anything.
“Grian?” He tests, and of course, he receives no answer. Yep, that's a corpse. Martyn lets out a long, shuddering breath.
What now? Void, he's shaking so badly the climb up the ladder and out of the hole seems impossible. He'll just fall off (although... it wouldn't matter if he did, would it? It's over).
He shucks off his armor— if he does fall off the ladder he needs to be sure the fall will kill him— and makes his way to the blasted-off (haha, Team Rocket's blasting off again!) bottom of the ladder. He builds up to it, clings to the bottom rung for dear life, and starts to ascend.
There's a lot of things Martyn could do before he kills himself— because he will. Staying alive now doesn't have any point without his friends. He could make graves? Maybe not for everyone, but, Cleo probably deserves one. Impulse, too, if he gets really bored.
Martyn reaches the final rung of the ladder, pulls himself up on to the dirt. Every muscle in his body protests the more he moves. He's so fucking tired. There's no more adrenaline coursing through his system to keep him up and fighting, so he doesn't get back up.
He shuffles along the ground to the edge of the square hole. “Ugh, I feel sick.” Martyn muses, to nobody but the ghosts that are probably watching him. He was already a bit queasy (y'know, murder can do that to you), but looking down at the drop in front of him... goodness.
It's really, really weird to stare down at the place you know you're going to die. He gets to choose, and of course he chooses the square hole. Martyn's nothing if not a man of poeticism, and the square hole taking the winner's life? Pure poetry.
Martyn hugs Cleo's jumper around himself. Maybe he won't be able to give her that grave. His legs ache at the mere notion of getting up again, and he definitely doesn't have the energy to go down the hole and fetch her body.
It doesn't feel as good as last time, Martyn notes. Maybe it's because he won Limited Life by playing dirty, and killing Impulse gave him that little rush of extra time. Now he just feels alone (even when he knows that everybody else is here, around him somewhere, invisible).
He should just off himself now. He needs naptime, but he can't make it all the way back home, or to the pyramid for that matter. Like hell is he sleeping in the lighthouse, he'll probably get blown up by one of the millions of traps in there. If he's gonna die, he wants to know it's coming.
What's the point of naptime anyways if there's no Cleo left to cuddle, or wake up to? There's just no point. Martyn fiddles with one of the rings on his finger, the one symbolizing Ren, Cleo, Impulse, and his' marriage. He's... really glad Impulse ended up with them in the end up.
He kisses the ring, just as a little gesture, or a goodbye, and then stands up. His legs scream at him to let them rest. Don't worry, you'll be resting soon, he promises... to his legs. He's alone, he's allowed to have conversations in his head with his own body parts, okay?
Martyn peers down into the pit. Oh, void, why did he put spikes down there? It'd be so much easier to get the composure if he wasn't falling on top of spikes. That's fine. He'll just... turn around.
Martyn turns on his feet, looks up at the sky. Don't pussy out of your own suicide, everyone's watching, it'll be so embarrassing. He lets out a deep breath, one for bravery.
He salutes the spectators, “Meet me for improv, yeah?” He drops backwards into the square hole.