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Desmond would’ve never said he had a problem with sitting still before this whole predicament. If anything, most people in his life told him he was too active. Always exercising, always training, always something.
Not according to his trainers, though. In their eyes, he was always slacking in some area. Always falling behind, never doing enough.
“You missed the shot, again.” One of his trainers said, tone cold and harsh. Desmond could feel his arms shaking as he lowered his bow. He was so hungry— he’d had to skip lunch at school to make up a test, he hadn’t gotten to eat since breakfast, and even then…
“I’m sorry.” Desmond lowered his head. “It was a rough day, I just—“
“You just what?” They spat, leaning in closer to his face. Desmond flinched, avoiding their gaze. “Just can’t hit a fucking target? You’re the ultimate marksman, this should be easy for you.”
“I know.” His voice wavered. “I’m sorry.”
The trainer scoffed, standing back up, a look of thick disdain in their eyes. “Fix yourself before the Olympics. We’re taking home gold and nothing else, you hear me?”
Desmond nodded, too worn out for words and too afraid of repercussions. The trainer barked a command for him to try again, and Desmond raised his bow once more, trying desperately to take the tremor out of his hands.
He’d disagreed with their notions. This nebulous idea he worked too hard. He was an Ultimate, after all. Being so high up on the totem pole, it only makes sense he’d push himself so hard. It was a disciplinary thing, really. If he let his mind wander, allowed himself too many breaks, let himself go, he’d slip, and that’s would be it.
He tried to keep his routine up even in the killing game. He’d shortened his workout time from five hours to four, just temporarily, he told himself. He could imagine how disappointed his trainers would be at him slacking off.
Desmond gasped as the freezing sensation of ice water drenched his skin. He sat up swiftly, hugging himself tightly as he shivered.
He looked up, staring at another one of his trainers, one holding an empty bucket. They stared down with disgust in their eyes.
Desmond looked around, realizing he’d been lying down on the floor before being unceremoniously splashed with water. The trainer answered before he could ask why that was.
“Hope you enjoyed your little nap. You passed out.” They said bluntly, tossing the bucket to the side. Desmond blinked hard, trying to remember what had apparently happened before he passed out. He remembered being tired, but it was nothing new in that aspect. He’d been tired everyday since the Olympics, really. His trainers had been constantly berating him for losing, even though he thought bronze was a win in itself, at the time at least.
His training had gotten more rigorous since then. They worked him until his legs burned and his stomach cramped, each joint and muscle and nerve in his body crackling alight like painful electricity. He’d barely had time to shower by the end of it, much less eat or have any hobbies.
It’s fine. He didn’t need it. He needed to work harder, be better.
“Get up. You’ve wasted enough of our time slacking around. It’s a wonder they haven’t taken away your ultimate title by now.”
Desmond nodded, shakily getting back to his feet. He still felt so exhausted, he couldn’t have been out for long, he just wanted a break, he just…
He purged the thought out of his mind. The only time his trainers had ever physically hit him was when he’d asked for a break just a week after losing the Olympics, a harsh slap against his jaw shutting him up before he could even fully get the question out.
It was fine, he didn’t deserve a break anyways. Not then, not now.
But it wasn’t enough. He caught himself bouncing his leg rapidly while sitting, or biting his nails to try and relieve whatever pent up energy had decided to overtake him. It felt silly to be so antsy, acting more like a bored child in a math class rather than a grown man stuck in a death game.
Nobody really got it. Damon looked at him crazy when he explained his schedule, even though an hour of free time was more than enough time. Everything else felt like dead air, he hated it. Jean nodded along sympathetically, but kindly suggested that he shouldn’t push himself so hard. Not hard enough, not hard enough.
Nobody but Eloise. She understood. Maybe not to the same extent, she’d wince when Desmond recalled stories of his trainers, brows furrowed with something that looked like empathy and pity, but he didn’t ask why that was, but she was an athlete too. She understood how off-putting it was to just have nothing to do.
He remembers meeting her at the Olympics. They’d only talked briefly, but it’d been nice. She had this comforting aura about her, weirdly enough. Nervous, but confident. Bold, but graceful. He couldn’t get her out of his mind after the fact, he’d wished that he could have gotten her number, but it may have been too forward. They talked all the time now, so maybe it wasn’t needed.
He rememberers telling his parents about her. Just briefly, as a highlight, but of course they made it into more than it was. “Taking bronze and getting the girl! Oh Desmond!” Is what his mother had said. He gritted his teeth at the word bronze. Like it was something to be proud of. Like he was something to be proud of.
His parents didn’t know what he was dealing with and he preferred it that way. Needed it that way. But it was still lonely. He was always hours away from them, doing photoshoots or at competitions or training. But they didn’t ask many questions, and none that Desmond wouldn’t wriggle his way out of with a few lies and half-truths.
He couldn’t remember another time in his life where he’d felt quite so alone. He had no time for friends, or family, or hobbies, or going out, or anything really.
He knew he didn’t deserve these things, so why did it— why was it still—
He chose not to dwell on these things much. Being constantly busy made that easy.
Desmond wonders if he’s having some odd sort of cabin fever. He’s so irritable all the time. He can’t stand the people he’s with anymore (maybe because they’re all ready to be murderers or murderer sympathizers, Toshiko was going to let them all die to get out, but they look at him like he’s crazy for saying she deserved it), he hates being inside for all this time (he’s developed a bad habit of scratching his arm, if his nails weren’t so bitten down he’d worry about breaking skin), and he barely recognizes himself anymore. (It was such an odd mix of adrenaline and self-disgust he felt when punching Damon in the face. He wasn’t sure if he cried from anger or shame after.)
Something breaks within him at the fourth murder. He feels repulsed at the notion that the person he’s spent weeks with was lying about his identity, that he caused his brothers death, that he’s just another liar. That’s what everyone here is, right? Liars, scumbags, fakes. He clenches his fists and bites his tongue when he sees Jett cry over Marks execution. Eloise holds his hand wordlessly and rests her head on his shoulder, and he remembers that there’s one person in here that deserves to live.
One person.
Getting the invitation letter was the first time that Desmond had felt excitement in what felt like months. His life had been so dull as of late, the monotonous routine of his workouts feeling like white noise. He barely even registered the insults his trainers hurled at him anymore, barely registered the records he broke, barely wondered if any of this mattered anymore. He was only twenty and his lifelong passion felt so meaningless now, more of a burden than a blessing.
The invitation sparked something within him, something that he forgot had drove him this far. An honest and true passion for marksmanship, an actual pride in his Ultimate. He hadn’t even gotten confirmation from his trainers before he made up his mind to go, choosing to tell them at the last minute about his decision.
They weren’t happy, of course. Desmond had to fight tooth and nail to convince them to just let him leave. He remembers how his hands shook with adrenaline and his heart hammered in his chest, but for the first time in so long he was excited for something and something in him wouldn’t let that go.
He was so excited seeing his soon to be classmates on the train, and maybe childishly, tried to guess their talents based on nothing but the way they dressed in his head. He kept to himself, mostly. Content to observe and talk later.
Until he saw her again. It was that girl from the Olympics, Ellie? Ella? No, Eloise, that was her name. She was just as pretty as he remembered. He hoped that didn’t make him sound like a creep, and he hoped his staring wasn’t too obvious. Play it cool, Desmond, play it cool.
They’d only been able to talk briefly before being knocked out, Desmond wonders in his last moments conscious if he should’ve known it was too good to be true.
Desmond was surprised by the last of resistance Eloise had to his plan, but he wasn’t upset by it. He was happy she understood what needed to be done, she always got it, she always would.
Eloise was the only one who deserved to live out of them all, the only one he could trust. Desmond was just happy his life could go to something that mattered, instead of dying by any of these people. He wondered how he ever considered them friends, when they’d all betrayed his trust more than he could count.
She helped him set up the trap that they’d all walk in on, and he explained how she’d be the one to set off the gun they killed him. She gave him a kiss on the cheek as she left the room, eyes watery. Her gaze felt different, somehow, like she couldn’t recognize the man standing in front of her. Desmond had seen it in his own eyes in the mirror, but he never thought about it further than that.
Desmond sat in his chair, surrounded by seven shotguns. His foot tapped anxiously as he waited for the others to arrive. He still couldn’t stay still, even now.
He wondered how they’d react. They’d probably be happy, he sneered. Happy to finally be rid of him. He tried not to think about the good times he’d had with them, tried not to think about when he so desperately wanted nothing more than for them to all get out. It made him want to get up out of this stupid chair and rush to them and apologize for everything he’s done and how badly he’s failed them all.
He tried so badly to get those thoughts out of his head. He was doing the right thing. He was protecting Eloise, she told him this was the right thing to do— Eloise wouldn’t just lie to him, she was the only one who wouldn’t.
He heard footsteps approach his door, mumbling and chattering coming from the others.
It was almost time, she’d open the door, and the gun would go off, and he’d—
He heard the doorknob rattle.
It’d be worth it. He’d finally do something worthwhile, stop being a failure for once.
He stared down the barrel of the gun placed in front of him, right at his heart. He hoped the last thing he saw was her.
“Desmond, what are you—?”
He heard gasps ring out from the other participants, before a gunshot rang out into the air. He coughed up blood as the bullet passed through his body, the other shotguns going off and firing soon after. His body slumped to the side, ears ringing.
He wishes he could tilt his head up just a bit, to see her one more time.
He couldn’t help but grin slightly, at the thought that Eloise would be okay. She’d get out, at least.
That made this all worth it.