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Production Costs
Topic Started: Jun 29 2015, 06:01 AM (4,703 Views)
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Yags's eyes darted down from Corin's face as he fiddled around with his gun. He didn't innately see it as a threat, no, but he knew, even through the shroud of alcohol-induced numbness, that it was good to have a rough idea what Corin was doing. It was pretty dehumanising, to not think about the history he knew Corin had or the struggles either had gone through, but instead on the cold practicalities of the matter at hand. He was pretty touched that Corin seemed to think he was still thinking about Bella, or friendships, or humour, or whatever. Maybe it was wishful thinking, thinking that Corin seemed to still be looking at Yags as if he was that goof that had existed back at school, but perhaps if it were true, his family and those watching at home could perhaps think that he had remained his personality throughout this. Won a tangible moral victory.

The old Yagmur would have celebrated that. Embraced that. Considered it a victory in its own right.

But now? Now, he remained stony-faced, unusually frigid, a withdrawn and aloof demeanour that was so much more genuine than the impression of Ron Swanson's own brand of indifference he normally exhibited. He almost lifted up his glass, to take another sip, but opted against it. His gun was a trap ready to fire.

It felt cruel. Dishonest. An unscrupulous treachery that left a nasty taste in Yagmur's mouth. There was no justice in this procedure, no righteousness in his actions anymore. He knew that. He had, perhaps unconsciously, been trying to mitigate that with alcohol. He knew regrets and scruples would be vulnerabilities at this point. But no. The alcohol had, while weakening his senses, somehow brought these concerns into a more acute light. Entrenched them in his psyche.

"Well, that's your loss. Alcohol and dangerous objects make a pretty great combination when I'm concerned." He showed Corin his fingers - well, relative lack of them - and chuckled. Looking down, at the bottle. A moment of weakness. It was a win-win if Corin capitalised on that or not, from Yags's dull point of view. If Corin did not, or tried and missed, Yags would have the unassailable advantage. If Corin fired and hit, he'd die a good person.

He wrapped his bad hand around the bottle. Lifted it up. His pistol was revealed to Corin.

He fired.

Fell to the ground.

The glass hit the floor.

Yags had underestimated the recoil. Checked his body. Not bleeding. Cool, he was fine.

Climbed back up. Used the bar as cover.
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[ *  *  * ]
The pressure of the bang in the air did not register before the boom of the bullet rang through his ears; though Yagmur had gotten the first shot it was not necessarily well placed. It had missed Corin by mere centimetres, and even though they had formed a relationship as vitriolic buddies there was a small sadness and liberation in the fact that things were taking the only course they could have. Even though Corin had been talking about other people when he ejected the brass, the fact was that the last few bullets in his rifle were intended for Yagmur. But still, his heart dropped inside his ribcage as the shock of the bullet ripping through the air nearby him registered.

Corin’s body lurched into action, pointing his gun where he last saw Yagmur’s head pop up. He aimed for the body of the bar itself, not where his head just was, but where he estimated where Yagmur’s center mass would be. But Corin was moving, he didn’t have the time to aim carefully. He hit the ground, moving offensively because he had very little in terms of defensive cover nearby and in the face of their ballistics it may well has been as useful as hiding behind a cardboard cut-out. It didn’t matter if he hit if he could manage to keep some pressure on him to stay down and not fire.

Corin’s mind didn’t dwell much on how he felt about this, because he was running off raw survival instinct. Perhaps it was selfish, but he wasn’t throwing his life away for someone he barely got along with. Because the truth was if that had been someone like Anzu standing there instead of Yamgur, it might have ended just about the same. But the shock of it, it made it difficult to think it through as his body simply urged him to attack, attack, attack.

Curse these shitty bolt actions; they were great at a time like this when all he wanted to was keep pressuring the other person. Eject the brass, one last bullet before he had to rely on the weapon he’d looted from Ramon’s body. Vague thoughts like: Just chuck the sniper rifle after the next shot, the weapon that protected you is going to become dead weight. Just keep the fucker down behind this counter as you inch forward. Move, move, move. Not necessarily put into words, but just very faint inklings in the back of his mind.

His hearing was selective, his vision tunnelled, he didn’t even know if he had hit Yagmur or not. He wasn’t even sure if he heard a scream. Hell, he may well have been shot and he would soon realise that as the adrenaline wore out and he exsanguinated on the floor. But while he had the option and his body could move he was coming for him, he wasn’t going to let him hide behind that bar counter. This confrontation was going to be face to face, or Corin would die in the attempt.

You get to leave this place over my dead body.

It was probably a mutual sentiment.
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Yagmur did not have much time to recover before the bar he was resting behind proved its unsuitability as cover. A single bullet was not only unhindered in its travels, but managed to take several square inches of wood away with it as it passed through. Luckily, the shrapnel - for lack of a better word - that landed against Yagmur's clothed torso was imbued no real momentum or velocity, brought down by gravity more than anything else.

But several jagged pieces of wood followed the rough trajectory of the bullet, stabbing into the carpet several feet away from Yagmur.

He had been lucky that time. He lacked the motivation or the wherewithal to examine the bullet's ballistics. But what was important was self-evident. A few inches to the right, and he woulda been hit directly, or at least shredded by the more powerful shrapnel.

Visibility aside, this bar was more likely to kill than save him.

"Shit." Yagmur's ears were ringing. He thought - hoped - this profane expression of his exasperation was not shouted. He had intended it as a mutter, a mumbled outlet, lumbering it with all the baggage of fear and hatred and raw survival instinct that he needed to vent somehow. But his ears were ringing, and his senses were dulled, and the more astute parts of his consciousness were distracted, so he could not say for certain his emotional turmoil had been released as subtly as he had hoped.

He had to remain stoic.

He crawled away, away from where the bullet had soared past him, yet still found his arms crushing against a few shards of shattered glass and obliterated wood fragments. They were not sharp enough to cut through the skin, but he pressed down on them anyway, wincing at the stinging. Hopefully some punter would step on them later.
SOTF-TV V2:
GH4: Yagmur Tekindor

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[ *  *  * ]
If Yagmur had indeed shouted Corin barely even heard it, he could barely hear a thing past the drum like noise of his heart pumping and it felt like a tachycardic rhythm was going off right in his ears. He could feel just a bead of sweat trailing down his forehead, and it wasn’t from the cold but the stress of it all. He could see that he took a massive chunk out of that bar, like he suspected, it wouldn’t do anything to stop his bullets. Sadly for him, he wasn’t lucky enough to be carrying more bullets for his rifle, or else he would just kept shooting through the bar blindly until he hit his mark. Conserving ammunition was a major pain, and if he had been thinking more about it he probably would have regretted wasting an inordinate amount of bullets on Anarchy’s dying body when they were perfectly servicable.

But it was too late to think about that.

He didn’t see Yagmur though, in his aggressive haze who knew how reliable his senses actually were. He doubted that he would be lucky enough to get him with a well-placed shot on his first go. Though deep down he really hoped that luck was on his side, since Yagmur didn’t seem to be firing back. If Yagmur was dead that was good, if he wasn’t then one of them would be in a few moments.

It wasn’t like Corin’s approach was too discrete; he broke into a full run – quickly trying to close in on the distance between them. He wanted to be face to face when he passed around that counter and pointed his rifle at Yagmur. Yagmur might have sensed his foot falls getting louder as that distance very quickly began to shorten. As Corin closed that gap he was battle ready, more ready to kill than he had ever been - gun raised. More ready to die than he had ever been in his life. He was ready to just bank it all on the next few moments; he was just full of raw aggression at this point.

The end was so close and he couldn’t wait for it anymore, he didn’t want to have an extended shoot out. He just wanted it to be over he just wanted to speed to the conclusion and end it all. No more waiting, talking, dragging it out and wasting both their time.

If Corin died, it would simply be what it is and nothing more.
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Yagmur was in a strange state.

This scene was far from the greatest chaos he had endured. It was one man. One threat. Corin's movements were far from erratic. His motivations were clear. Understandable. Identical to his own. It was only competition that had thrown them against one another. There was no real chaos here. No fires lapping at his feet, no hidden foes waiting behind corners, no new variables poised to jump into the scene.

And yet, as he crawled to safety, Yagmur was overwhelmed with adrenaline. Everything was chaos.

Everything was an oxymoron. Everything was a contradiction. Nothing made sense, but nothing needed to make sense. He had lived his live with a rather black and white mindset, of course, and everything being thrown into such a sharp state of upheaval and bedlam was a shock to the system. It was delirium-inducing, a heady thrill, at once terrifying and shamefully exciting, nauseating, intoxicating. Like too much whiskey, too much bacon. Should be sick-inducing, but instead it was compelling, moreish. His senses were dull, but at the same time, he felt more aware of his surroundings than ever before.

He always liked simplicity, in the abstract. Perhaps that was why he was okay with this. A real competition. No melancholic spirit he was being asked to encapsulate, no abstract artistic pretensions he was asked to respect, no bullshitting, no lying. He'd always told himself that was what he was about. Self-discipline. Poise. Frankness. Stillness. Self-reliance. They were all on the pyramid.

But no, he was lying. He knew that. He didn't realise that. Didn't have time to consciously mull on the situation. This was an injustice. A horrid day. He was crawling on glass, bleeding and bruised, a buzz from alcohol that only fuelled his self-delusions. He knew that, in his heart of hearts, and he was scared. But the adrenaline was pumping, and those thoughts were happily consigned to the back of his mind. A relief, of course. Wasting time, wasting energy, on such self-fulfilling prophecies? That was bullshit. He wasn't going to do that.

Thank fuck for adrenaline.

He had crawled up against another row of slot machines, resting his back on them, sitting up, poised and ready to sting like a bee. Fuck floating like a butterfly. That was stupid. He'd wait for Corin. Gun ready. Couldn't remember consciously hearing the sound of Corin's feet, consciously hitting the ground. Didn't need to. He knew Corin was coming.

Maybe he should have been more strategic about this. Laid a trap. Been ingenious. Been smart. Too late now. Corin was here.

And who needed strategy? Corin was right in front of him. He was running straight into the trajectory of Yags's bullets. He fired. Emptied the clip, until there was a clicking. Most of the shots missed.
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GH4: Yagmur Tekindor

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[ *  *  * ]
If there was a smarter choice Corin wished he had thought of it as a cluster of bullets whizzed past him, he was exposed in the open with little to hide behind. It had never really panned out like this for him before, there was a tinge of regret but it was soon wiped away as the feeling of pain washed over him and he felt his leg buckle over. It registered just before the sound even hit his ear drums, as he dropped to the ground and his mind went blank for a moment, void of real thought.

His body moved with instinct, as he let out a pained almost unearthly howl. For a moment he was just an animal as the feeling washed over him, stripped of reason as he mired in the pain and his hand clutched a wound that was bleeding through the right side of his pants leg. He gritted his teeth; as a grunt escaped his lips. This was pain, true and real, a piercing quality that he felt as something shattered inside of his leg and dug into the flesh surrounding it. If anyone knew those Wong -Baker pain scales with the little faces, Corin would have measured out to a ten – the sad face – signifying that the quality of the pain is the worst experienced in his life time. This was because he wasn’t off his face; he hadn’t been drinking alcohol like Yagmur to dull that pain. He felt every raw quality of that wound – he had nothing in him to dilute it.

Was he fucked? Possibly.

It was possible Yagmur had to come near him to kill him, he’d shot so many bullets. It was likely that he didn’t have any bullets left, but that wasn’t what Corin was thinking as the adrenaline rushed through his body. A single thought permeated his brain as he took his hand away from his wound and lifted his rifle.

Fuck you, Yagmur.

There was a mix of fear, hate, that part of him that was moving only to kill Yagmur to ensure his own survival. At the time it might have seemed last ditch, but he pulled the trigger on his rifle and fired the last one it had. He’d seen where Yagmur had run to hide, at the least he could approximate mostly where he was.

“Come out you son of a bitch!” His voice was livid from the agony.

He was immobile, bound to the floor by this crippling wound. He felt like a trapped feral animal, ready to lash out against an attacker.

This was too real.
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Yagmur kept on pulling the trigger.

For too long, when he already knew it was futile. Fruitless. The aim had already been achieved. Corin had been struck. A lethal blow, hopefully. Sadly. But hopefully. Clicking more just sent a sound, a repetitive droning noise, through the eerily tranquil casino, otherwise punctuated only by his breaths and Corin's tumble. He kept clicking. It was foolish. Madness, really. But it felt good. Cathartic. Like he was doing something.

The gun kept on clicking until he hurt. The stubs where his fingers had once been were sore from the friction, feeling a vexing abrasion that threatened to feel more corrosive, more intense, if he were to stop clicking. And so he kept going, a more languid and irregular pace, enough to allow the occasional shuffle for comfort, the pause to acclimatise his senses. Infrequent enough pauses to get some energy back. Yet not so infrequent that he lost that surge of adrenaline, that kick of macho bravado, that surge of bittersweet accomplishment, that had accompanied felling the final hurdle. He paused again, slightly longer, realising slightly too late that it was a good pause. Combined with the creaking of the tilted machine behind him, it might have been mistaken for reloading.

It was ultimately a more brittle and fresh wound that brought a pause to this profitless cycle. The cut on his good hand, still sore, still probably a breeding ground for all manner of grisly infections. He'd been relying on his good hand, by sheer necessity. A nasty cut, no matter how deep or visceral, on the back of the hand still allowed more versatility than some missing fingers and some mostly healed over, yet still tender, scar tissue on the over fingers. But he'd been placing too much of a burden on it.

He threw his head back, blinking a few times, letting out one anguished exhale as a concession to the pain. It wasn't bleeding, but it was throbbing. Skin had been stretched, or thrown about, or whacked hard by the recoil, or something. Strained by the repetitive clicking, maybe. He wouldn't know. He was no doctor. He'd always viewed doctor's visits with suspicion. Well, not suspicion. Apathy. Irritation. Mild insult. He was young. Quite healthy. Could swallow a stiff drink and man through most things. But god, he looked forward to them this time. Would probably be aired on TV. Shame, but he could probably get in a few good quotes at the questioning. That'd be good.

Still, for now he had to man up. Using his bad hand - the one lacking fingers - as a kind of support, he pushed himself up to his feet. Groaned a few times as his joints ached. His legs, they'd enjoyed that sedentary period. Probably been the most ardent advocates for continuing the sit on the ground plan. And his bad hand, hell, it couldn't do fine motor tasks, but it was pretty adapt at taking weight. He held his other hand up, still having to hold the gun in it out of necessity, but letting the muscles relax.

Now stood up, he scratched his stubble with the index finger on his bad hand. It was a rather sharp and unkempt nail at the best of times. A few days unwavering neglect had made it jagged and rough. Perfect for scratching.

He checked his pockets, running his hands gently over them. Made contact with something that could only be a magazine in one of his pockets. Slightly pressed down on the fabric, nodding when he determined, to his own satisfaction, that it was a magazine in that pocket, and not a forgotten snack bar or some piece of shrapnel or a prank on the parts of the producers or something.

And then Corin yelled. Yagmur scowled. Not out of anger for Corin, he had nothing personal against the guy. Now that he had won, there was no point in letting blind rage cloud his judgement. He wouldn't draw out his suffering. Wouldn't let him bleed out, or extend his suffering unnecessarily. It was the best any of them could have realistically hoped for, at the start of this whole mess.

Nobody else had had a quick or tidy death, but a lucky few had had those final moments cut blissfully short. Some names came to mind, as he ruminated on their deaths. He wasn't sure why those names sprung to mind, above all others. Maybe he'd just seen the consequences the most. But the question was was how they died. Did they receive a quick ending? A curt and blunt full stop to end their suffering?

The whole mess with the eye back in the ballpit? Gabriel and Davis, he thought he could recall their names being. Yes, they had not had a kind final day. Was pretty certain they hadn't received a swift coup de grace to end their torment. Lisa, he highly doubted she hadn't suffered. Vahka, he hoped not. Bastard deserved his fate. Gene, unlikely. He too probably went painfully. Paisley, too. Bella had not been a kind cause of death. Regina and Michael, maybe. He wasn't sure what their demise had felt like. Anzu, she had. Yes, she'd been able to end her life with a certain definitive punch, but she had had the strength to deliver her own quick out. Bella, no, Yagmur had let her bleed out painfully.

Sometimes a final bullet was the most peaceful way out. He supposed it made him a better man, to give Corin that act of definitive closure. To remove all doubt of those watching at home who had actually died. And that was what he would do. He strode over to Corin. Man looked like a pathetic sight.

Reached into his pocket to pull out the magazine, left hand sliding into his pocket. But the cut must have caught on something, for it tore open, and Yagmur screamed in pain, and fell to his knees.
SOTF-TV V2:
GH4: Yagmur Tekindor

THE PROGRAM:
Alexander Adam Tartaglia

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[ *  *  * ]
He saw Yagmur approach, knew that he was coming to finish him off now that he was weak and exposed in the open. A part of him filled with a sense of dread that was different from what he felt over the past few days, it felt final, decisive as he intrinsically understood that there was no margin of error for him to lean back on. In moments there was a very big chance that he would be dead, in fact things looked worse for him than Yagmur. His gun lay scattered to the side; there was no use for a weapon that had no ammunition.

Corin tensed as he watched Yagmur approach, his body almost frenetically sending signals to his limbs to move and take action, prematurely and reflexively and he had to fight to ignore his basic instinct. He felt like he could misstep, his body want indeed shaking as his hand slowly moved back and traced over the fabric of his pocket, reaffirming his thoughts on what to do and how to proceed if he ever hoped to survive. Corin had to contain the anticipation building up, his expression falling serious and hateful as he concentrated on Yagmur’s approach, the actions he took, the movements of his body. His vision tunnelled, he felt ill, sick to his stomach and somewhat faint. But most of all he felt a directed anger, almost placid and honed that seemed to drive his instincts.

He was about to move, his hand ever so slightly inching into his pocket as he saw Yagmur reach into his. Whatever it was, Corin didn’t care, and he just assumed it was in his best interest to stop Yagmur from taking it out. Perhaps through sheer providence or luck, as Corin anticipated a race to quick draw whatever they had hidden Yagmur seemed to reel back from an injury or something of that nature. Corin wasted little time to pause and make sense of it, his hands moved to draw the pistol he had been hiding in his coat, he was already in the motion, to him a new device that felt foreign and not as trusty as the weapon he had before it was reliable enough. As Yagmur seemed to crumple in pain, Corin found the time to point it at him. Somehow the tables were starting to reverse or at the very least even out.

His hands shook as they moved to undo the safety, his finger finally resting on the trigger as it threatened to squeeze. Corin had nothing to say, his eyes narrowed and his expression said all that needed to be said.

It's you or me.
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Yagmur's gun was on the floor. Out of reach. Corin, on the other hand, enjoyed every advantage. He held his gun in his hands, with an unflappable confidence, a sudden surge of adrenaline, something, that gave him a stability and ability that Yagmur now lacked. Somehow, his cut was more crippling, in a worse position, than Corin's gunshot wound.

He remained still, bar the predictable quivering from the pain. He swallowed back as many groans of pain as he could, sniffed a few times for some reason.

He looked down at the cut. Inflammed. Rivulets of blood streaking down his arm, mixed with pus and sweat and grime. It was searingly painful, there was no other way of describing it. He blinked, a few tears also trickling down his face, into his patchy stubble. "The baconnaise betrayed me."

He hoped that placed Corin off guard. It had not been a conscious strategy, but he acted according to it anyway. He lunged onto his side, his hand with the missing fingers shooting to grab his own gun, to level the tables somewhat.
SOTF-TV V2:
GH4: Yagmur Tekindor

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Alexander Adam Tartaglia

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Alex Tartaglia V2
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[ *  *  * ]
His eyes narrowed, he thought that Yagmur would have someone of substance to say but he didn’t. A final dignified set of words or something of that nature, but instead he got… that. He could feel his heavy breathing, the pulsating ache in his leg that burned with every beat that his heart took as it pumped. He grit his teeth, thinking about how sad it was the Yagmur was crying when he was the one who had just been shot. It really pissed him off.

And then Yagmur lunged for his gun, at the very moment where Corin sensed the first sign of movement his finger finally pulled against the trigger. There was a loud bang, another, multiple, and he felt that ringing noise that he had known all too well over the past couple of days and a sense of illness wash over him. He didn’t have the resolve to keep his eyes open, his senses overwhelmed by the noise, vibration from the shots and the pain. The pistol was wielded with an uncertainty, it felt unfamiliar and hefty in his hands but it seemed that it was doing pretty much all he could ask of it.

He started to open his eyes as he took his finger of the trigger and the sound of gunfire ceased.
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Corin was right about one thing. Those were final words. Yagmur had not intended them to serve that purpose. It was a joke more than anything, an attempt to try and dull the pain with a final burst of levity. But Corin gave him no opportunity to fix that mistake.

Yagmur should have conjured up something more elegant to say. A pithy comment on his development as a person, a final concise indictment of the cruel nature of the show, some stirring appeal to basic human decency that perhaps could have ignited a spark of opposition among the mindless fanatics at home. But no. He decided not to. Were his full logical faculties about him, he would have also made that decision.

Others had already used this as a soapbox, he was sure. It was impossible for that not to be the case. And it had had no effect. No, a more coherent Yagmur would have concluded, were he not distracted by the bombardment of pains attacking his body, that to try and turn this into some self-aggrandising polemic would have been ineffectual at best. It was preaching to those already set in their ways of sheepish stupidity - preaching to the choir of the enemy church.

In reality, though, such reasoning did not take place. In between pained breaths, choked gasps, an occasional grunt of shock as another bullet dug into his skin, he abandoned that idea. On an instinctive level mainly, out of laziness too. Then his mind turned to something more noble. Final words to his family. Maybe some comment about how his own attempt to show mercy had backfired. A kind of metacommentary. Some apology, maybe, or a morose musing after Corin's fire ceased.

Unfortunately, that wasn't to be the case. Yagmur would die with those ignoble comments as his final words. And there was very little thought behind that.

Most of Corin's bullets missed. But enough hit that, by the time Corin's clip was empty, the job was done.

There had been worse ways to die. And more troubling final thoughts than criticising your own last words. Not a bad performance.

GH4: YAGMUR TEKINDOR: DECEASED

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He opened his eyes in time to see Yagmur drop lifelessly, there was a moment where he felt like he was frozen before his arms slowly lowered the weapon in his hands and let go. For a long while, he didn’t do very much, a sense of numbness washing over him as he watched the other boy bleed out onto the ground. His expression was vacant until his body budged a bit and a grunt escaped his lips as he reacted to a sharp pain in his leg. He grit his teeth, letting out a loud exhale as he tried to cope with the strain of the agony.

He didn’t exactly know if he was really the winner at that point in time; after all there were a few finalists he never even met so their fates were a mystery to him. Regardless, at this point in time he felt that this was the end for him. Not in the sense that he thought that he was the winner, but in the sense that there was a subconscious feeling, he just knew that there was little strength in his body to couple with his sense to fight and stay alive. He gripped his upper thigh, not far from where the entry wound was and he let out an expletive as the pain flared up with the slightest of pressure.

He felt a bead of sweat trailing down his face, the rush of adrenaline starting to leave him now that he was no longer in the presence of immediate threat. His emotions started to shift, an unexpected wave of relief that was tinged with the slightest bit of sadness. He didn’t know why at the time, maybe it was just that abhorrent feeling of relief he got from getting rid of a major stressor or a sense that something was accomplished, no matter how bad it was. It wasn’t like he was in the right place to mull over the implications – not with his blood pressure turning the way it was. Not when his thoughts started turning to the possibility that he might die even though he made it past Yagmur.

Maybe if he hadn’t been feeling so weak after the surge of adrenaline had left, he might have been able to makeshift a tourniquet and stem the bleeding from his leg a little, but he barely felt like moving. For those watching at home, the first indication that something wasn’t going right was when he shut his eyes and his head dipped back. He could barely stop his eyes from rolling back, and despite his best efforts to stay conscious there was a point where he simply couldn’t keep himself upright and he stopped fighting to stay awake. Corin’s body fell back with a dull thud, and from the viewpoint of the camera it was difficult to see if he was moving at all.

Surely in the history of SOTF-TV there have been several more dignified winners who were able to revel in their sense of victory and say something memorable at the end. Maybe able to think about and look forward to reuniting with their loved ones again - able to find something positive at the end of the experience.

Corin was not one of those individuals.

SOTF-TV Season 66: End
((To be continued…))
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