Becoming A Jackal

[Kermit]

((Michael continued from Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Is In)))


He found her there, lying on the bed. Dead, as was to be expected. A single gunshot wound to the gut. Nobody had mercy killed her.

She was Michael's kill.

She looked peaceful, like the aftermath of a survivorless bus crash.

There was less blood on the bed than he expected from a fatal gunshot wound. The girl's eyes were closed. She hadn't seemed like the type to die with her eyes closed.

Someone who cared about her had found her, post-mortem. They'd moved her corpse; tried to give her dignity in death.

They were probably broken by it.

He looked down at her.

"I'm sorry." He said to everyone who was listening. He knew she didn't care.


A few minutes passed. He found a weird, culty white robe. He thought it was quaint and nifty like The Owl and The Many-Eyed Bear Holding A Dildo, so he stuffed it into his bag for later use. This whole island had a kinda creepy cult vibe to it. He'd probably read about it at some point during his past Wikipedia trawls.

The announcements began. However they described the murder would define Michael in everyone's internal narratives from here on out. He would never not be a murderer to anybody still left alive.

Clay had died first; got stuck in a DZ. Morgan and Henry were Michael's only non-murderer friends left alive.

Reuben had been stabbed by Teresa. The Owl encounter had been after his death. That felt... not weird, but...

...it didn't feel like anything.

Quinn Abert killed Rhonda Lawson. Her third kill. Quinn was the island's first official spree killer.


Camila. Fourth death of the day.

If he'd been keeping track correctly, and he was pretty sure he was, that made him the 19th person to commit murder. His assigned number was B019. A coinky-dink, as Beryl may have called it if she wasn't dead.

He looked up at the camera, closed his eyes, and breathed slowly. He focused on the exact phrasing of the next sentence spoken.

Michael Froese shot her, they said. Simple and effective work, they said.

An efficient murderer. A killing machine.

They'd labeled him as one and he couldn't undo it.


Erika poisoned Blake. It was hard to not premeditate poisoning someone. Modus operandi change. Double murderer.

Quinn killed Nerd Ned. Sniped him, changed her modus operandi from stabbing to shooting. She'd be one to watch out for. Her fourth murder.

Wig Person killed Dolly the gothic lolita. Their second kill.

Wig Person killed Alexander. Their third kill. Wig Person was now the island's second official spree killer. Also someone to watch out for; it was hard to justify murdering a blind person.

That one hurt. He hoped Nia was doing okay. He knew she wasn't.

Both blind kids died on the same day. A statistical improbability but not a statistical impossibility.

Cheridene fell down a well.

Violet S. shot Layla. Double murderer.

Lorenzo bludgeoned Emil, the kid with the fancy name. Double murderer.

Marco Volker pushed Arjen down the cliffs. Elaborately, they said. Both Marcos were murderers now.


Quinn killed Stepney, the guy who couldn't recognize faces. She did something bad to his organs, apparently. That didn't sound good. Another modus operandi change. Pentuple murderer. She was the only person on the island with a kills per day rate of above 1.

Sounded like Quinn was enjoying herself.

Quinn being the school shooter kid was a surprise. Michael'd always expected it to be Richard Smith or one of the other Gamer nerds. Quinn was a smart nerd; sciency. She had a future, maybe.

She was in most of the same classes as Michael. If she'd decided, one day, for real, to bring a gun to school and start shooting, chances were that he'd have been in the room when it happened.

Fucking hell.


Adonis stabbed Tristan. Tristan and Beryl and Nick had fucked, as Michael knew but wished he didn't know. Nick was now the sole survivor of that ménage à trois.

At least Nick hadn't killed Tristan too.


Claudeson shot Bryan. He shot Bryan after a philosophical discussion, they said. He talked Bryan to death, they said. Never had Michael related to someone more.

But they had left out all those same details when they were announcing Camila's death. Why did Claudeson get to sound like he had humanity? Why did they want everyone to think Michael was a goddamn murderbot?

His face contorted. He inhaled sharply. He fidgeted with the band on his wrist. He did not cry.

It just... it just hurt so fucking much.


The danger zones were announced. Nothing that effected Michael.

Best kill awards. Two winners, this time. Erika, who was a sniper and a poisoner, and -

- and him.

Michael Froese.

Michael Froese, co-winner of the third best kill award.

That was probably why they left out the details, then. Either that or the thing he said about being a serial killer.

When someone saw Michael, their first thoughts wouldn't be of Michael Froese the person, they would be of Michael Froese the award-winning murderer.

When someone saw Michael, their first thoughts wouldn't be that he was a human, but that he was good at killing people.

The terrorists had just dictated that in everyone's internal narratives, Michael was one of the bad guys. That was all anyone left alive would let him be.

The terrorists, experts in their field, thought he was good at murder. They wanted him to snap.

They were always watching. They were the one universal constant on this island. They'd be there with him every step of the way.

A wave of calm washed over him. His face looked normal again. He opened his eyes; looked back through the camera.

It made him feel a warm feeling deep down in his chest, like he was being given a big hug. It made him feel like he was something to someone.

It made him feel wanted. It made him feel loved, almost.

It felt nice that someone actually liked something he did.

- and he was completely and absolutely fucking horrified that he was feeling these things but he couldn't stop - didn't want to stop - feeling them.


Michael Froese the award-winning murderer. That was who he was now.

He was done with trying to be his own dead dreams. He was done trying to be something he couldn't still be. He was done with his old life. He was done with inhibitions unless they served him. He was done with civility unless it served him. He was done with the fucking pretenses. He was an animal. Deep down that was what anyone ever was, he knew that. They'd always pretended like they were something else, but they weren't. He was done pretending. On this island, it didn't matter if you did good or bad things; nobody made it out alive. If he didn't let go of his old life, it would break him.

And, in that moment, he finally let himself go.

He blinked. Approximated eye contact with the camera. Inhaled. Smiled with his mouth closed. Closed his eyes. His voice was soft as he exhaled.

"...Thank you."

He meant it. By god, did he ever mean it.

He opened his eyes. He reloaded the pistol. He nodded to the camera. This was happening. He wasn't afraid; he was already dead.

The way out of trauma was a cohesive narrative, and most narratives needed villains. It hurt, but if it meant people could die feeling like they had a purpose, he was willing to carry that burden. He had to own it. He had a duty.

"Okay. Let's roll."

He was going to go have a talk with Erika Stieglitz. He picked up another white robe. Maybe she'd appreciate one.

((Michael continued in Devil Like Me))