A modest violet grew,
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view. (Open)
A modest violet grew,
Princess had only been shy one chapter of finishing Lady Morgan née Owenson's novel. Mostly, she missed it because she could have used the paper. A chronicle of her final days might have been a fun way to pass the time.
They'd found shelter from the moon's glare after ensuring Jessica would live to see another day, perhaps no worse the wear for how much her depth of personality would have been distorted by even a significant head injury. The area they'd picked out was close enough to the hypnotic churn of the waterfall that a slight chill warded off an otherwise sticky and humid evening, that sunlight seemed to crystallize out of the morning dew in little golden nuggets that pierced the veil of mist.
Princess was glad she could enjoy this sight alone. Far be it from her to not enjoy having her precious attention monopolized by the stubborn things that once stalked the halls of GHHS, heavens no, she happened to live for her time drowning in the inanity of the concrete jungle. Her dying seemed appropriate, almost, as the price she had to pay for eighteen years well spent. Gag her with a rag. Not literally, hopefully. She was idly hoping her final moments would be more dignified than that- imagine what sort of unwashed things her peers could summon on command?
She stalked the treeline a second longer, gently drumming her fingers along the coarseness of tree bark. She swore she'd seen a parrot, with its distinctively sickle-like bill. The sharpest thing on island she'd yet seen, considering the hundred-some young minds honed by the American education system shipped to that island's shores. She'd wanted to chase the parrot, had barely resisted the morning exercise freshening and refurbishing the dirt packed on the callouses she was proud of having re-grown on her still bare feet.
She had to meditate, she reminded herself. She hadn't woken early just because she was the only person her age who didn't need alarm clocks to spare to be passably useful to society.
She remained firmly convinced that they were all going to die, and that she just had to make sure that statement was absolute. What else was there to it? Anybody who made it back home was just an insult to the memory of the remainder. It was bad storytelling, plain and simple. Princess had yet to see anything that would prove her wrong- forgive her, that all the denial and grandstanding was hardly making an impression! She supposed she just had standards too high for basic human conduct.
She was playing a character with little drive and motive, anyways. She'd follow Valerija for now- her cause was just, and her cynicism charmed Princess. Princess was sure that Valerija would inevitably smell the evil of hope- smoky like overburnt charcoal- when the chance to make it off the island presented itself. She'd be no different from the rest, but for now at least, her morals were winning out. A fight Princess could heartily cheer on, from her position as the idiot on the sidelines. Following Valerija would lead Princess to meet at least some of the people she hoped to meet. She did not yet know which people, because she wasn't so arrogant as to assume she could understand the violence that was to come in any real fashion. No plan survived contact with the enemy- that was why Princess would improvise, and outlast all the others who assumed they could guess human nature when they themselves were as mortal as the people they judged.
Princess supposed, as she took yet another deep breath that settled in her lungs like the essence of her own life, that she'd meet at least some of the people she dreaded to meet, too. The people who would make her feel pathetically small. Megan again, perhaps. Violet. Princess did not yet want to have to confront inevitability when it would cut so deep. She wanted to steal just one more day away from reality.
The crunching grass of her quiet footfalls returned to camp. Something rusty suddenly erupted, and someone began to speak, too loud to be ignored.
He'd seen Princess wander off earlier, likely just killing some time, and as sleep had avoided him for some time now, he did the same. While Claudeson didn't stray as far from the camp as Princess may have, he still felt the need to have some time on his own. Some time for contemplation, for prayer. Except he hadn't prayed. He'd intended to, to garner some support from on high while they went through this ordeal, but instead, he just went to the shore of the lake, took his shoes and socks off, rolled up the legs of his pants and waded in.
His heart rate still raced, he still burned with whatever fire had possessed him on that first day. This may have been an ordeal, but for Claudeson Bademosi, it was a series of trials. He'd thought long and hard about that.
He was being tested, and the prize was his immortal soul.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued from Deep Red Bells))
Standing in the cool embrace of the water reminded him of the many baptisms that he had witnessed for the members of his mother's congregation. Whenever she performed one, Claudeson always loved to see the newest members of the congregation receive their admission into the hallowed grounds of Christ's children. It filled his spirit with joy to see the small infants begin to grow into young children, many of whom he had tutored in Sunday school. The memory made him smile, momentarily forgetting his station.
Forgetting where he was.
Forgetting that everything was not going to be okay.
The only baptism they would receive here was a baptism by fire.
Still, Claudeson focused very hard on the thought of his mother, sprinkling the holy water over an infant's face, warm smiles all around. The same warm smiles that he wouldn't find on the faces of Jessica, Camille, or Valerija.
The group had spent much of the evening tending to Jessica's injuries (and his own) and eventually, they had moved on. There were small wooded sections all over the island, and near the lake was no different. They had holed up, relatively in the open, but open enough that they would be able to tell if anyone were coming. Claudeson had finally changed his shirt, keeping his blood-stained white tee in his pack but switching to another, this one with a v-neck instead of a crew-neck. He had thanked heaven that he'd purchased some souvenir items in Washington - items for his family, and had been forced to put some of his extra clothing in his knapsack. His mother had jokingly demanded that he pick up several tacky 'I <3 DC' shirts for him, which struck him as funny. While Ifechukwu Bademosi was a formidable woman of the church, she still had an offbeat sense of self and humour to her.
If he looked far enough out onto the lake, he could almost see them. All of them. His group, his mother, his father, all of them. Happy, smiling, and content. But there was no one there. His companions were back at their makeshift camp, even further away than his shoes and socks or Min-jae, all set neatly on the shore, just out of the creeping fingers of the lake water.
His parents, of course, were back at home, unaware of the trials their son was currently undergoing. His ribs still ached as a reminder.
They would be proud of him when it was all over. He knew that.
He knew it, deep in his heart. No. Ashamed. A loud crackle took his attention.
His heart rate still raced, he still burned with whatever fire had possessed him on that first day. This may have been an ordeal, but for Claudeson Bademosi, it was a series of trials. He'd thought long and hard about that.
He was being tested, and the prize was his immortal soul.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued from Deep Red Bells))
Standing in the cool embrace of the water reminded him of the many baptisms that he had witnessed for the members of his mother's congregation. Whenever she performed one, Claudeson always loved to see the newest members of the congregation receive their admission into the hallowed grounds of Christ's children. It filled his spirit with joy to see the small infants begin to grow into young children, many of whom he had tutored in Sunday school. The memory made him smile, momentarily forgetting his station.
Forgetting where he was.
Forgetting that everything was not going to be okay.
The only baptism they would receive here was a baptism by fire.
Still, Claudeson focused very hard on the thought of his mother, sprinkling the holy water over an infant's face, warm smiles all around. The same warm smiles that he wouldn't find on the faces of Jessica, Camille, or Valerija.
The group had spent much of the evening tending to Jessica's injuries (and his own) and eventually, they had moved on. There were small wooded sections all over the island, and near the lake was no different. They had holed up, relatively in the open, but open enough that they would be able to tell if anyone were coming. Claudeson had finally changed his shirt, keeping his blood-stained white tee in his pack but switching to another, this one with a v-neck instead of a crew-neck. He had thanked heaven that he'd purchased some souvenir items in Washington - items for his family, and had been forced to put some of his extra clothing in his knapsack. His mother had jokingly demanded that he pick up several tacky 'I <3 DC' shirts for him, which struck him as funny. While Ifechukwu Bademosi was a formidable woman of the church, she still had an offbeat sense of self and humour to her.
If he looked far enough out onto the lake, he could almost see them. All of them. His group, his mother, his father, all of them. Happy, smiling, and content. But there was no one there. His companions were back at their makeshift camp, even further away than his shoes and socks or Min-jae, all set neatly on the shore, just out of the creeping fingers of the lake water.
His parents, of course, were back at home, unaware of the trials their son was currently undergoing. His ribs still ached as a reminder.
They would be proud of him when it was all over. He knew that.
He knew it, deep in his heart. No. Ashamed. A loud crackle took his attention.
((Valerija Bogdanovic continued from Deep Red Bells))
Time passed, like it tended to do.
Val had slept with her helmet on. She dreamt of simpler times. The squad together; Abel alive.
This was nice. Almost. It was almost nice. It was like a weekend retreat, kind of. It reminded her of camping trips she and her parents had gone on back in Croatia; back before it happened.
She hoped that when this was all over, she and this group - at least the ones who stuck with her - would be remembered as heroes, who had stood up and spat at the face of an imagined futility.
She'd decided on a slogan; a rallying cry. It was pretty good. It was snappy. It fit the words - beat - words sentence structure that would make it stick out in people's minds but not make them feel goofy when saying it. It both showed and told, but told only enough for the listener to interpret it in an agreeable way. It juxtaposed and repeated certain words and concepts, emphasized them. She kept saying it in her head, over and over.
'If we can't live in peace, then let's die in peace.'
The speakers blared.
Morning announcements. A daily ritual activity, controlling the flow of information and flow of blood. Days would stop being days and turn into the amorphous blobs of time that separated them. Something concrete, set in stone, with an informed collective consequence in place if people did not do as they were told.
And this first announcement would be the most important. It would set the tone of the students' time on the island. The students had been made to believe their lives were meaningless and that everything before the island was a lie. The first announcement gave people information - an identity, even - when they most desperately wanted it, but the information was pointed. It led the students to the conclusions the terrorists wanted them to make - or at least the ones they wanted it to appear like they wanted them to make. The games of information control and psychology had the potential to be working on multiple levels here, and if Valerija was right, they were.
If she was right, it also meant the terrorists were idiots when it came to efficient methodology. The best way to get a point across was to just get to the point. The terrorists weren't doing that. The terrorists were using the same strategies annoying, pretentious post-modernist artists used when it they tried to make points. This was the kind of stuff that made Val hate art class.
The terrorists were Damien Hirst (with murder).
The island, the cameras, and the show the terrorists put on, were the framing, the plexiglass, and the formaldehyde.
The students were the shark in the box.
Again, the terrorists were idiots, but there were infinitely more stubborn idiots in the world than there were people who were actually 100% evil to the core.
And so Val held hope that the terrorists were just idiots.
All the information on the announcement was irrelevant except the killers, the dead, the timeline, and to a lesser extent, cause of death. Danger zones were short-term problems. The specific details given by Danya were framing. The BKA was framing.
And so the relevant information:
The Killers
Paloma Salt
Tirzah Foss
Tyrell Lahti
Nick Ogilvie
Tyrell Lahti again
Katrina Lavell
Quinn Abert
Blaise d'Aramitz
Justin Greene
The Dead
Abel Zelenovic
Toby Underwood
Christine Bright
Beryl Mahelona
Felix Rees
Yuko Hayashibara
Violet Quinn
Dante Luciano Valerio
Benedict Murray
The Timeline
Paloma Salt bludgeoned Abel Zelenovic
It hurt so much to lose him. It hurt that the first thing Paloma did when she woke up was smash his head apart -
- let's
Let's start that again.
The Timeline
Paloma Salt bludgeoned Abel Zelenovic very soon after waking up, as indicated by information from Julien Leblanc
Tirzah Foss shot Toby Underwood in the head
Tyrell Lahti tore Christine Bright's throat out with his teeth
Nick Ogilvie stabbed Beryl Mahelona in the neck
Tyrell Lahti shot Felix Rees three times
Katrina Lavell killed Yuko Hayashibara with a sword
Quinn Abert stabbed Violet Quinn in the gut
Blaise d'Aramitz shot Dante Luciano Valerio in the head
Justin Greene inflicted a head wound on Benedict Murray, who did not die immediately.
In isolation, each death could be explained fairly easily as being caused by panic, desperation, or the fight-or-flight reflex. Even Abel's. As much as it hurt to admit it, even Abel's.
But after she put the timeline together one name stood out:
Tyrell Lahti.
Two consecutive murders in a day could potentially be explained.
Two non-consecutive murders in a day, however...
...Tyrell Lahti may have been headed down a dark path of his own volition.
Wait.
Wait, shoot. Oh shoot oh no -
Val sat up. Stood up.
- Claudeson had mentioned saving Tyrell's life. Princess had mentioned meeting Paloma but Val couldn't let that be important right now because Claudeson...
...OH SHOOT WHERE DID CLAUDESON EVEN GO!? If he was alone - that'd be bad. He'd take this news badly with people around to comfort him, but alone he'd be taking it even worse. He wouldn't be of any use to anyone if he was just like... pow gun-to-head may-as-well-be-dead mentally gone already.
Val called out, soft enough to be gentle but loud enough to be heard.
"...Claude, buddy, is everything... alright? Where'd you go?"
Time passed, like it tended to do.
Val had slept with her helmet on. She dreamt of simpler times. The squad together; Abel alive.
This was nice. Almost. It was almost nice. It was like a weekend retreat, kind of. It reminded her of camping trips she and her parents had gone on back in Croatia; back before it happened.
She hoped that when this was all over, she and this group - at least the ones who stuck with her - would be remembered as heroes, who had stood up and spat at the face of an imagined futility.
She'd decided on a slogan; a rallying cry. It was pretty good. It was snappy. It fit the words - beat - words sentence structure that would make it stick out in people's minds but not make them feel goofy when saying it. It both showed and told, but told only enough for the listener to interpret it in an agreeable way. It juxtaposed and repeated certain words and concepts, emphasized them. She kept saying it in her head, over and over.
'If we can't live in peace, then let's die in peace.'
The speakers blared.
Morning announcements. A daily ritual activity, controlling the flow of information and flow of blood. Days would stop being days and turn into the amorphous blobs of time that separated them. Something concrete, set in stone, with an informed collective consequence in place if people did not do as they were told.
And this first announcement would be the most important. It would set the tone of the students' time on the island. The students had been made to believe their lives were meaningless and that everything before the island was a lie. The first announcement gave people information - an identity, even - when they most desperately wanted it, but the information was pointed. It led the students to the conclusions the terrorists wanted them to make - or at least the ones they wanted it to appear like they wanted them to make. The games of information control and psychology had the potential to be working on multiple levels here, and if Valerija was right, they were.
If she was right, it also meant the terrorists were idiots when it came to efficient methodology. The best way to get a point across was to just get to the point. The terrorists weren't doing that. The terrorists were using the same strategies annoying, pretentious post-modernist artists used when it they tried to make points. This was the kind of stuff that made Val hate art class.
The terrorists were Damien Hirst (with murder).
The island, the cameras, and the show the terrorists put on, were the framing, the plexiglass, and the formaldehyde.
The students were the shark in the box.
Again, the terrorists were idiots, but there were infinitely more stubborn idiots in the world than there were people who were actually 100% evil to the core.
And so Val held hope that the terrorists were just idiots.
All the information on the announcement was irrelevant except the killers, the dead, the timeline, and to a lesser extent, cause of death. Danger zones were short-term problems. The specific details given by Danya were framing. The BKA was framing.
And so the relevant information:
The Killers
Paloma Salt
Tirzah Foss
Tyrell Lahti
Nick Ogilvie
Tyrell Lahti again
Katrina Lavell
Quinn Abert
Blaise d'Aramitz
Justin Greene
The Dead
Abel Zelenovic
Toby Underwood
Christine Bright
Beryl Mahelona
Felix Rees
Yuko Hayashibara
Violet Quinn
Dante Luciano Valerio
Benedict Murray
The Timeline
Paloma Salt bludgeoned Abel Zelenovic
It hurt so much to lose him. It hurt that the first thing Paloma did when she woke up was smash his head apart -
- let's
Let's start that again.
The Timeline
Paloma Salt bludgeoned Abel Zelenovic very soon after waking up, as indicated by information from Julien Leblanc
Tirzah Foss shot Toby Underwood in the head
Tyrell Lahti tore Christine Bright's throat out with his teeth
Nick Ogilvie stabbed Beryl Mahelona in the neck
Tyrell Lahti shot Felix Rees three times
Katrina Lavell killed Yuko Hayashibara with a sword
Quinn Abert stabbed Violet Quinn in the gut
Blaise d'Aramitz shot Dante Luciano Valerio in the head
Justin Greene inflicted a head wound on Benedict Murray, who did not die immediately.
In isolation, each death could be explained fairly easily as being caused by panic, desperation, or the fight-or-flight reflex. Even Abel's. As much as it hurt to admit it, even Abel's.
But after she put the timeline together one name stood out:
Tyrell Lahti.
Two consecutive murders in a day could potentially be explained.
Two non-consecutive murders in a day, however...
...Tyrell Lahti may have been headed down a dark path of his own volition.
Wait.
Wait, shoot. Oh shoot oh no -
Val sat up. Stood up.
- Claudeson had mentioned saving Tyrell's life. Princess had mentioned meeting Paloma but Val couldn't let that be important right now because Claudeson...
...OH SHOOT WHERE DID CLAUDESON EVEN GO!? If he was alone - that'd be bad. He'd take this news badly with people around to comfort him, but alone he'd be taking it even worse. He wouldn't be of any use to anyone if he was just like... pow gun-to-head may-as-well-be-dead mentally gone already.
Val called out, soft enough to be gentle but loud enough to be heard.
"...Claude, buddy, is everything... alright? Where'd you go?"
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 732
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
((Camille Bellegarde continued from Deep Red Bells.))
Camille made sure she was alone when the announcements began.
They would still know where she was - just around the corner, just out of reach, her shadow still visible and her attention able to be called with just a slightly raised voice - but that she needed some alone time would be obvious. She liked her company well enough, it was better than being alone, but it was really just making her crave more familiar company. She knew that her dearest friends in George Hunter High were almost all here with her - she and Val shared a common friend in Regina, after all - and she wished they weren't, but so long as they were here, she'd like to be with them together. All of these grandiose plans that the group seemed intent on devising would be so much more manageable with her close friends.
Some of the others were spending time by themselves too. Camille didn't mind. If the group got separated, it got separated. If it stayed together, it stayed together. She knew she'd prefer the latter - safety in numbers, plus these guys were good people fundamentally - but this was likely a place where plans crumbled and alliances collapsed without a single second's warning. At least Camille herself was staying close to the group. She was doing her bit. She couldn't demand others do the same.
It was, of course, too much to hope for that the deaths would be limited to just Abel's. Accidents, suicides, mercy kills, acts of fundamental weakness in character - the class was large enough and the circumstances dire enough that the conditions for a startlingly horrifying death count were all already in place. She still found herself almost relieved when Abel's name was listed first. Relief was an awful word for the context, and she was sure if she had a thesaurus on hand or a few moments to pick apart her intended meaning, she would have found a more inappropriate and less callous-sounding word.
It wasn't really even accurate to call it relief, even on a surface level. It was more a moment where she could allow herself false hope, for but a second, to be rationalised and defended. Abel's name being first meant that, for a second, she could cast herself away to a slightly less unjust world, a slightly less morose and irreparable future, where his name was the only name. If only Abel died, that meant that the collars definitely wouldn't be detonated but also that maybe, just maybe, despite Danya's phrasing, despite his gleefully sadistic cadence and the first inklings of chronological ordering that he was setting himself up for, there were no further tragedies to list, no further atrocities to call out.
Camille wasn't sure when she started crying. She wasn't sobbing, no. She was too stoic by nature for that, and any actual sobbing from her would likely sound forced and unnatural. But a few names in, the tears had already travelled down her cheeks. She was biting into her cigarette, to stop any ungainly quivering of her lip, to suppress any urge to whimper. She could put a name to each face. People mourning to each face. She wished, for a second, that she didn't care for gossip or socialising, as each new name was another punch to the gut.
The one that hurt the most was Dante. Dante was cool. Dante was fun. They used to make out at parties sometimes. And he and Aurelien were extraordinarily cute together. And he was nice and pure and there was no way that Blaise's murder of Dante could be anything other than a -
And then Blaise had the cheek to get a best kill award - whatever ignoble honour that was - for it.
Grief turned to anger. The cigarette fell onto the ground. Swearing in every language she knew under her breath, she bent down, picked it up, relit it, and made sure to inhale way too much. The coughing covered up any urge to sob.
Camille made sure she was alone when the announcements began.
They would still know where she was - just around the corner, just out of reach, her shadow still visible and her attention able to be called with just a slightly raised voice - but that she needed some alone time would be obvious. She liked her company well enough, it was better than being alone, but it was really just making her crave more familiar company. She knew that her dearest friends in George Hunter High were almost all here with her - she and Val shared a common friend in Regina, after all - and she wished they weren't, but so long as they were here, she'd like to be with them together. All of these grandiose plans that the group seemed intent on devising would be so much more manageable with her close friends.
Some of the others were spending time by themselves too. Camille didn't mind. If the group got separated, it got separated. If it stayed together, it stayed together. She knew she'd prefer the latter - safety in numbers, plus these guys were good people fundamentally - but this was likely a place where plans crumbled and alliances collapsed without a single second's warning. At least Camille herself was staying close to the group. She was doing her bit. She couldn't demand others do the same.
It was, of course, too much to hope for that the deaths would be limited to just Abel's. Accidents, suicides, mercy kills, acts of fundamental weakness in character - the class was large enough and the circumstances dire enough that the conditions for a startlingly horrifying death count were all already in place. She still found herself almost relieved when Abel's name was listed first. Relief was an awful word for the context, and she was sure if she had a thesaurus on hand or a few moments to pick apart her intended meaning, she would have found a more inappropriate and less callous-sounding word.
It wasn't really even accurate to call it relief, even on a surface level. It was more a moment where she could allow herself false hope, for but a second, to be rationalised and defended. Abel's name being first meant that, for a second, she could cast herself away to a slightly less unjust world, a slightly less morose and irreparable future, where his name was the only name. If only Abel died, that meant that the collars definitely wouldn't be detonated but also that maybe, just maybe, despite Danya's phrasing, despite his gleefully sadistic cadence and the first inklings of chronological ordering that he was setting himself up for, there were no further tragedies to list, no further atrocities to call out.
Camille wasn't sure when she started crying. She wasn't sobbing, no. She was too stoic by nature for that, and any actual sobbing from her would likely sound forced and unnatural. But a few names in, the tears had already travelled down her cheeks. She was biting into her cigarette, to stop any ungainly quivering of her lip, to suppress any urge to whimper. She could put a name to each face. People mourning to each face. She wished, for a second, that she didn't care for gossip or socialising, as each new name was another punch to the gut.
The one that hurt the most was Dante. Dante was cool. Dante was fun. They used to make out at parties sometimes. And he and Aurelien were extraordinarily cute together. And he was nice and pure and there was no way that Blaise's murder of Dante could be anything other than a -
And then Blaise had the cheek to get a best kill award - whatever ignoble honour that was - for it.
Grief turned to anger. The cigarette fell onto the ground. Swearing in every language she knew under her breath, she bent down, picked it up, relit it, and made sure to inhale way too much. The coughing covered up any urge to sob.
She had been awake for hours now but none of them knew it, because she didn't want to wake up.
((Jessica Rennes continued from Deep Red Bells))
When she first opened her eyes, it was dark. Only the moon's glow illuminated the woods in which she now lay, and yet the glow did not illuminate the bodies and faces around her. She'd done a quick check of her body, her limbs, making sure she hadn't been brutalized by blade in the night, and she almost yelled in pain when she touched her nose, but her lips contorted to a close to prevent such a sound from happening. She felt bruises all over her body, her limbs and her head and her face and especially her stomach where Reuben had put his foot to her gut, but specifically the crunch rewound and replayed in her head over and over again from when she went over the fall.
And it did nothing but bring her pain. Two of her classmates attacked and robbed her and at some point she'd completely blacked out. Everything onward from the crunch was a blur.
When she'd heard a noise, Jessica resumed the position and pretended to still be asleep. She was still scared, of who these people could possibly be, if they were there to hurt her or hold her hostage or something nefarious, so she wanted to pretend she was still too wounded to face the world. Through hours of hidden glances, listening to the occasional voice, and other assorted looks, she'd figured out there were four people who were with her. She didn't really know Claudeson, Valerija, or Camille that well, but she knew Princess somewhat. Not enough to hang out with her, really, but enough to know things about her - Jessica still wasn't entirely sure of Princess's opinion on her, though, and she didn't want to put someone on the spot by asking such a question. None of them seemed like they were going to kill her in her sleep, though. She didn't know exactly where she was, or if she was truly safe, but that was enough.
Jessica's facade dropped to the floor when the announcements came on, and suddenly she felt more tense than she ever had in her life. Every name that passed by told a story, but her sister and her girlfriend appeared in none of them. Thankfully. It was all she could be thankful for now. She felt disgusted that she was thankful, but she didn't know how long the straws in her hand were. They could have been cut short at any moment.
When the announcements ended, Jessica opened her eyes, and pulled herself to sitting. She looked around, and saw the lake. She also saw the waterfall in the distance, constantly cascading - the place she'd been thrown from was now out of bounds. A swirl of something nettled in her stomach the longer she looked, and yet she couldn't look away. Eventually, her face travelled to her knees.
Where was everyone?
((Jessica Rennes continued from Deep Red Bells))
When she first opened her eyes, it was dark. Only the moon's glow illuminated the woods in which she now lay, and yet the glow did not illuminate the bodies and faces around her. She'd done a quick check of her body, her limbs, making sure she hadn't been brutalized by blade in the night, and she almost yelled in pain when she touched her nose, but her lips contorted to a close to prevent such a sound from happening. She felt bruises all over her body, her limbs and her head and her face and especially her stomach where Reuben had put his foot to her gut, but specifically the crunch rewound and replayed in her head over and over again from when she went over the fall.
And it did nothing but bring her pain. Two of her classmates attacked and robbed her and at some point she'd completely blacked out. Everything onward from the crunch was a blur.
When she'd heard a noise, Jessica resumed the position and pretended to still be asleep. She was still scared, of who these people could possibly be, if they were there to hurt her or hold her hostage or something nefarious, so she wanted to pretend she was still too wounded to face the world. Through hours of hidden glances, listening to the occasional voice, and other assorted looks, she'd figured out there were four people who were with her. She didn't really know Claudeson, Valerija, or Camille that well, but she knew Princess somewhat. Not enough to hang out with her, really, but enough to know things about her - Jessica still wasn't entirely sure of Princess's opinion on her, though, and she didn't want to put someone on the spot by asking such a question. None of them seemed like they were going to kill her in her sleep, though. She didn't know exactly where she was, or if she was truly safe, but that was enough.
Jessica's facade dropped to the floor when the announcements came on, and suddenly she felt more tense than she ever had in her life. Every name that passed by told a story, but her sister and her girlfriend appeared in none of them. Thankfully. It was all she could be thankful for now. She felt disgusted that she was thankful, but she didn't know how long the straws in her hand were. They could have been cut short at any moment.
When the announcements ended, Jessica opened her eyes, and pulled herself to sitting. She looked around, and saw the lake. She also saw the waterfall in the distance, constantly cascading - the place she'd been thrown from was now out of bounds. A swirl of something nettled in her stomach the longer she looked, and yet she couldn't look away. Eventually, her face travelled to her knees.
Where was everyone?
Sleeping Beauty was awake, but not worthy of the story told of her namesake. Nobody else in camp, anyways. A time to speak perhaps, once the terrorists broadcast their collective moral failings as a class, but speak about what Princess didn't know. If they were any more different species they might well have been totally unable to communicate.
Princess idly observed Jessica from the cover of a blind corner in the trees. Her reaction would perhaps be relevant, but that was unlikely.
First- Paloma. If Paloma had killed with a 'speed record'- quoted verbatim, she never would have personally used such colloquial terms for an event of such gravity- then Princess was dully surprised. Not like she'd held Paloma in that much more regard than her average peer. All she could cite was that Paloma had been a fan of chiaroscuro, and most the rest was irrelevant now. Shadows of the heart indeed. Princess felt some anxious swell of her spine trying to press forward and burst out of her body- inevitable. A familiar face was now a killer. But that was to be expected.
Princess calmed her nervousness with a brief breathing exercise. Stage fright, it turned out, translated one-to-one with existential anxiety.
Jessica seemed bothered, but in the deer-in-headlights sense. Princess wondered what would happen if she chose then to appear in her ratty sleeping outfit- her washed-again-again gray pajama pants, only in her bag because she'd been too embarrassed to wear it in the hotel room and thus had to separate it from the unwashed laundry packed in her main travel case. A loose white button-up atop it, because it had been the most comfortable thing she'd been able to salvage from her own overwrought aesthetic. Princess was half-convinced by her own atrocious getup alone that she needed to stay hidden- she hadn't even had a chance to put on makeup yet.
The cameras gently hummed a rhythm of bolts and rivets to themselves, watching her watch someone else listening to the fates of yet more unknown others. A chain of voyeurs all the way down.
Tirzah- another photographer, apparently they were prone to bloodlust. Princess being the exception that proved the rule- she half expected to hear Demetri and Mercy had made love onto others with knives and axes. Tirzah was at least separated by some degree of irrelevance. It was no laughing matter, but it wasn't worthy of serious consideration. People killed, people died, that was just how the corruption of their class would proceed through to the bitter end. The people they'd killed at least, Abel, Toby, she vaguely knew as the sort of men hedonistic enough to probably draw the violent ire of others.
Her own resolve, anyways, remained. People were being killed. Tyrell was a killer- and Princess had to wonder about Claudeson, suddenly, and hope their camp's being deserted was only temporary and that a sudden bunch of folk weren't about to lose their will to live.
Though she supposed that made her own job easier.
Names continued to pass, Princess continued to feel some morbidly solid self-satisfaction. Petty, almost. She was right, had been right all along. Her class was full of those who could not defeat their own selfish impulses and weak nature. It was full of people like Tyrell- there, because of grace he did go and murder two people. It was full of people like one charlatan man named Ogilvie pettily killing his ex-girlfriend with an intimately heartwarming knife to the throat.
Princess started to feel the gravity of anxiety, grabbed forcefully at the crown of her head and tugged hair as if harvesting strands would restore her now lost innocence. She would need to show strength, and pretend to show weakness. Now was no time for any other arrangement of affairs. She wanted to move- Valjeria, Claude, they had to be somewhere close, but she couldn't wrest herself away from the magnetic draw of a middle aged man's boring drone. How pathetic of herself, how laughable, that heaviness in her own two feet welded to the suddenly uncomfortably cold and crumbly mash of dirt pressing against her skin.
She didn't need to listen to this anymore, she'd gotten the point, her class was formally consigned to hell and she'd be dragged down with them, she got it, if he would be so kind as to stop fucking speaking-
Yet he still had more to say.
He was finally silent a few moments after. Funny how slow it had dragged and how one name had suddenly been read and all the rest had passed with an almost anticlimactic dullness, no punctuation mark, no conclusion.
Violet. Princess had just been thinking of you.
She was glad she was hidden, and gladder still that she could at least somewhat control the sudden faint that washed over her and took her legs out of her own reach. She tried not to whimper, and had just enough control to manage it, but everything else suddenly felt far and away impossible, like she should never have even tried to clamor for anything beyond her lowly mortality.
A minute- she needed a minute. A reasonable ask.
She hoped no one found her and she hoped nobody noticed her sobs muffled through two hands suddenly generously slicked with her own puke.
Princess idly observed Jessica from the cover of a blind corner in the trees. Her reaction would perhaps be relevant, but that was unlikely.
First- Paloma. If Paloma had killed with a 'speed record'- quoted verbatim, she never would have personally used such colloquial terms for an event of such gravity- then Princess was dully surprised. Not like she'd held Paloma in that much more regard than her average peer. All she could cite was that Paloma had been a fan of chiaroscuro, and most the rest was irrelevant now. Shadows of the heart indeed. Princess felt some anxious swell of her spine trying to press forward and burst out of her body- inevitable. A familiar face was now a killer. But that was to be expected.
Princess calmed her nervousness with a brief breathing exercise. Stage fright, it turned out, translated one-to-one with existential anxiety.
Jessica seemed bothered, but in the deer-in-headlights sense. Princess wondered what would happen if she chose then to appear in her ratty sleeping outfit- her washed-again-again gray pajama pants, only in her bag because she'd been too embarrassed to wear it in the hotel room and thus had to separate it from the unwashed laundry packed in her main travel case. A loose white button-up atop it, because it had been the most comfortable thing she'd been able to salvage from her own overwrought aesthetic. Princess was half-convinced by her own atrocious getup alone that she needed to stay hidden- she hadn't even had a chance to put on makeup yet.
The cameras gently hummed a rhythm of bolts and rivets to themselves, watching her watch someone else listening to the fates of yet more unknown others. A chain of voyeurs all the way down.
Tirzah- another photographer, apparently they were prone to bloodlust. Princess being the exception that proved the rule- she half expected to hear Demetri and Mercy had made love onto others with knives and axes. Tirzah was at least separated by some degree of irrelevance. It was no laughing matter, but it wasn't worthy of serious consideration. People killed, people died, that was just how the corruption of their class would proceed through to the bitter end. The people they'd killed at least, Abel, Toby, she vaguely knew as the sort of men hedonistic enough to probably draw the violent ire of others.
Her own resolve, anyways, remained. People were being killed. Tyrell was a killer- and Princess had to wonder about Claudeson, suddenly, and hope their camp's being deserted was only temporary and that a sudden bunch of folk weren't about to lose their will to live.
Though she supposed that made her own job easier.
Names continued to pass, Princess continued to feel some morbidly solid self-satisfaction. Petty, almost. She was right, had been right all along. Her class was full of those who could not defeat their own selfish impulses and weak nature. It was full of people like Tyrell- there, because of grace he did go and murder two people. It was full of people like one charlatan man named Ogilvie pettily killing his ex-girlfriend with an intimately heartwarming knife to the throat.
Princess started to feel the gravity of anxiety, grabbed forcefully at the crown of her head and tugged hair as if harvesting strands would restore her now lost innocence. She would need to show strength, and pretend to show weakness. Now was no time for any other arrangement of affairs. She wanted to move- Valjeria, Claude, they had to be somewhere close, but she couldn't wrest herself away from the magnetic draw of a middle aged man's boring drone. How pathetic of herself, how laughable, that heaviness in her own two feet welded to the suddenly uncomfortably cold and crumbly mash of dirt pressing against her skin.
She didn't need to listen to this anymore, she'd gotten the point, her class was formally consigned to hell and she'd be dragged down with them, she got it, if he would be so kind as to stop fucking speaking-
Yet he still had more to say.
He was finally silent a few moments after. Funny how slow it had dragged and how one name had suddenly been read and all the rest had passed with an almost anticlimactic dullness, no punctuation mark, no conclusion.
Violet. Princess had just been thinking of you.
She was glad she was hidden, and gladder still that she could at least somewhat control the sudden faint that washed over her and took her legs out of her own reach. She tried not to whimper, and had just enough control to manage it, but everything else suddenly felt far and away impossible, like she should never have even tried to clamor for anything beyond her lowly mortality.
A minute- she needed a minute. A reasonable ask.
She hoped no one found her and she hoped nobody noticed her sobs muffled through two hands suddenly generously slicked with her own puke.
The speakers crackled.
The very first thing that Claudeson took from the beginning of the day's announcement was something that he hadn't noticed initially during their initial briefing. Poor Ms. Garcia's awful fate had been a horrifying focus for each of them, and had stolen the majority of the focus. Since he'd spent almost an entire day in a state of hyper-awareness, almost enhanced by the cool feeling of his feet in the lake, he noticed that the voice of the main terrorist — Danya's voice was almost youthful, and though his tone was inappropriately jovial, it seemed a rather evident put-on. While he toyed with that thought, his mind was snapped straight-back into reality as the very first kill was announced; Abel Zelenovic had been beaten to death by Paloma Salt.
Early.
While most of them had been asleep.
Which meant that when he and Princess had encountered her, Paloma had likely —
"Oh, no."
She'd been holding a baseball bat as she tried to make her way away from the lot of them. Had that been the murder weapon? The thought made him queasy, but he crossed himself, and continued listening. Next up was Toby Underwood, killed by Tirzah Foss, another combination that he could barely comprehend hearing about. Toby was an inoffensive boy, kind and a pleasant person to have around in any circumstances. Tirzah, while a chaotic soul, didn't seem like the type to murder someone. Tragically, his life had been cut short in a scene that barely seemed like it could have been real. His ears could barely comprehend the words that he was hearing. Tyrell Lahti bit through her throat. To think that Tirzah was capable of murdering someone — hadn't they gone to prom together? Claudeson recalled seeing the both of them show up; he'd been helping work the door, much as he had at Swiftball, though in a far more appropriate venue, one he was far more comfortable with. Tyrell Lahti bit through her throat. Prom in itself had been a far nicer night than he'd given it any credit for. He'd seen all kinds show up and enjoy themselves at prom this year. Everyone had looked very stylish in their dresses and their suits, and while Claudeson had gone only to help out and enjoy the party on his own, it had been quite the fancy affair for George Hunter High School's class of 2018. Tyrell Lahti. Wait, where was he? He wasn't at prom anymore. He wasn't at school, he was here, in Survival of the Fittest. Standing in a lake, shoes and socks and Min-jae neatly piled on the shore. Who was Min-jae? His crossbow, of course. Why did he name his crossbow? Tyrell. No, he named it Min-jae. After its prior owner. After the person who'd used it to survive, to escape. It had been lucky for him, in a manner. He didn't name it after Tyrell. Why would he name it after Tyrell?
Claudeson struggled to take a breath, and looked uncertainly down at his hands. Why was he — what — the announcement. Yes, he was listening to the announcement. Apparently, Beryl had died. That made Claudeson's heart hurt. While not a good friend of Beryl's, she was well-known around school and she — why would someone murder Beryl? Why would someone want to send Toby to stand with the Heavenly Father? It didn't — Claudeson couldn't understand, nothing was making. Why wasn't his mind — something was getting in the — Tyrell — why was he still thinking about Tyrell, whom he'd saved. He'd saved Tyrell, he'd saved him and he'd saved him and he'd pulled him down and he'd stopped the rope from tightening around his neck and he'd made sure that Tyrell was alive because why wouldn't he be alive he needed to live to help people he had to help he needed to be the one to help those who could not help themselves —
"Felix Rees was the next one of your classmates to meet his end as busy boy Tyrell Lahti shot him in the chest and then—"
—and then, with a choked cry, Claudeson's legs gave out from under him and he collapsed onto his knees, the lake staring back at him as everything went into a haze.
Why?
What had he done?
Tyrell, what had he done?
No.
What had Claudeson done? He'd done what he had to, right? He'd had to save him, but if —
He could have prevented — no, he could have allowed — no, what was he supposed to do, he couldn't just —
When the man on the announcements read off Dante Valerio's name, sweet Dante Valerio, who'd tried to make him feel better when he had no reason to do so, sweet Dante whose only crime in God's eyes might not have even been a crime at all, depending on who you asked - was he wrong? Maybe he wasn't. Who? Dante, or Claudeson himself?
What else was he wrong about?
He looked at his hands.
He could see the blood on them. There was so much blood on them. This was all his fault. All of the blood was on his hands. His fault, his hands. Their blood on his hands.
Claudeson's mind simply shut down.
He gasped as he felt his body tumble forward and submerge beneath the shallow water, unable to stop it, nor necessarily sure if he wanted to.
Or if he deserved to.
You don't.I know.
The very first thing that Claudeson took from the beginning of the day's announcement was something that he hadn't noticed initially during their initial briefing. Poor Ms. Garcia's awful fate had been a horrifying focus for each of them, and had stolen the majority of the focus. Since he'd spent almost an entire day in a state of hyper-awareness, almost enhanced by the cool feeling of his feet in the lake, he noticed that the voice of the main terrorist — Danya's voice was almost youthful, and though his tone was inappropriately jovial, it seemed a rather evident put-on. While he toyed with that thought, his mind was snapped straight-back into reality as the very first kill was announced; Abel Zelenovic had been beaten to death by Paloma Salt.
Early.
While most of them had been asleep.
Which meant that when he and Princess had encountered her, Paloma had likely —
"Oh, no."
She'd been holding a baseball bat as she tried to make her way away from the lot of them. Had that been the murder weapon? The thought made him queasy, but he crossed himself, and continued listening. Next up was Toby Underwood, killed by Tirzah Foss, another combination that he could barely comprehend hearing about. Toby was an inoffensive boy, kind and a pleasant person to have around in any circumstances. Tirzah, while a chaotic soul, didn't seem like the type to murder someone. Tragically, his life had been cut short in a scene that barely seemed like it could have been real. His ears could barely comprehend the words that he was hearing. Tyrell Lahti bit through her throat. To think that Tirzah was capable of murdering someone — hadn't they gone to prom together? Claudeson recalled seeing the both of them show up; he'd been helping work the door, much as he had at Swiftball, though in a far more appropriate venue, one he was far more comfortable with. Tyrell Lahti bit through her throat. Prom in itself had been a far nicer night than he'd given it any credit for. He'd seen all kinds show up and enjoy themselves at prom this year. Everyone had looked very stylish in their dresses and their suits, and while Claudeson had gone only to help out and enjoy the party on his own, it had been quite the fancy affair for George Hunter High School's class of 2018. Tyrell Lahti. Wait, where was he? He wasn't at prom anymore. He wasn't at school, he was here, in Survival of the Fittest. Standing in a lake, shoes and socks and Min-jae neatly piled on the shore. Who was Min-jae? His crossbow, of course. Why did he name his crossbow? Tyrell. No, he named it Min-jae. After its prior owner. After the person who'd used it to survive, to escape. It had been lucky for him, in a manner. He didn't name it after Tyrell. Why would he name it after Tyrell?
Claudeson struggled to take a breath, and looked uncertainly down at his hands. Why was he — what — the announcement. Yes, he was listening to the announcement. Apparently, Beryl had died. That made Claudeson's heart hurt. While not a good friend of Beryl's, she was well-known around school and she — why would someone murder Beryl? Why would someone want to send Toby to stand with the Heavenly Father? It didn't — Claudeson couldn't understand, nothing was making. Why wasn't his mind — something was getting in the — Tyrell — why was he still thinking about Tyrell, whom he'd saved. He'd saved Tyrell, he'd saved him and he'd saved him and he'd pulled him down and he'd stopped the rope from tightening around his neck and he'd made sure that Tyrell was alive because why wouldn't he be alive he needed to live to help people he had to help he needed to be the one to help those who could not help themselves —
"Felix Rees was the next one of your classmates to meet his end as busy boy Tyrell Lahti shot him in the chest and then—"
—and then, with a choked cry, Claudeson's legs gave out from under him and he collapsed onto his knees, the lake staring back at him as everything went into a haze.
Why?
What had he done?
Tyrell, what had he done?
No.
What had Claudeson done? He'd done what he had to, right? He'd had to save him, but if —
He could have prevented — no, he could have allowed — no, what was he supposed to do, he couldn't just —
When the man on the announcements read off Dante Valerio's name, sweet Dante Valerio, who'd tried to make him feel better when he had no reason to do so, sweet Dante whose only crime in God's eyes might not have even been a crime at all, depending on who you asked - was he wrong? Maybe he wasn't. Who? Dante, or Claudeson himself?
What else was he wrong about?
He looked at his hands.
He could see the blood on them. There was so much blood on them. This was all his fault. All of the blood was on his hands. His fault, his hands. Their blood on his hands.
Claudeson's mind simply shut down.
He gasped as he felt his body tumble forward and submerge beneath the shallow water, unable to stop it, nor necessarily sure if he wanted to.
Or if he deserved to.
You don't.I know.
"Claudeson? -"
Val rounded the corner to the camp. Claude wasn't there! Neither was anyone else except Jessica! The group needed to have a nice, long talk about not wandering out into the woods without telling anyone. Discipline needed to be instilled.
Val's eyes bugged out. She was livid. "- Oh, zaboga."
Jessica was awake. Val's eyes alternated between staring at her and flitting around the surround environment looking for signs of anyone else. She could smell cigarette smoke from somewhere, Camille maybe? "I - uh - hi, Jessica! You were unconscious, beat up pretty bad, and... I'm Val. Shoot, sorry - this was a really bad time for you to wake up, and -" She caught a glimpse of human skin in the foliage across the camp from her. A foot; no shoe. Princess!
...Princess didn't look like she was doing too great.
This was a disaster!
"- where the fuck did everyone go?!?"
Val wasn't usually one for profanity, but she felt the circumstances justified it.
Val rounded the corner to the camp. Claude wasn't there! Neither was anyone else except Jessica! The group needed to have a nice, long talk about not wandering out into the woods without telling anyone. Discipline needed to be instilled.
Val's eyes bugged out. She was livid. "- Oh, zaboga."
Jessica was awake. Val's eyes alternated between staring at her and flitting around the surround environment looking for signs of anyone else. She could smell cigarette smoke from somewhere, Camille maybe? "I - uh - hi, Jessica! You were unconscious, beat up pretty bad, and... I'm Val. Shoot, sorry - this was a really bad time for you to wake up, and -" She caught a glimpse of human skin in the foliage across the camp from her. A foot; no shoe. Princess!
...Princess didn't look like she was doing too great.
This was a disaster!
"- where the fuck did everyone go?!?"
Val wasn't usually one for profanity, but she felt the circumstances justified it.
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 732
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Camille was, in her defence, only just around the corner, behind an outcrop of craggy and moss-covered rocks. The only thing about it that made it even slightly approximate to a hiding space was that it broke line of sight of where the impromptu camp, centred as it was around their adoptive patient Jessica, was based. Camille had not thought it so unacceptable to wander just a short distance away when everyone else seemed to prefer more ambitious treks and less convenient distances for their own indulgences of solitude. But apparently that she was so nearby wasn't obvious to her peers.
Camille should have seen that coming and so, aside from a quick startle at the sudden exclamation, was not too concerned by how she had been called back. After all, she didn't exactly have a palpable aura, a distinctive odour, or loud breathing. She was even quiet when it came to crying, so her desire to pop a few metres away and get some flimsy fabrication of privacy could conceivably be mistaken as her pulling a fast one and slyly attempting to slip away or her getting lost in thought and carelessly getting split off from the group.
When Val asked where everyone was - with understandable grievance in her tone - Camille paused only to wipe the visible tears from her cheeks and do a perfunctory wipe of her nose with her sleeve before stepping back into view.
"Sorry," she spoke, deliberately speaking calmly and coolly so as not to betray her emotions and, more pragmatically, not to startle her allies. "I just went around the corner to get some alone time. With some cigarettes."
Jessica was awake. "Do you want one?" she asked, in reference to the half-extinguished cigarette she was still smoking.
Camille should have seen that coming and so, aside from a quick startle at the sudden exclamation, was not too concerned by how she had been called back. After all, she didn't exactly have a palpable aura, a distinctive odour, or loud breathing. She was even quiet when it came to crying, so her desire to pop a few metres away and get some flimsy fabrication of privacy could conceivably be mistaken as her pulling a fast one and slyly attempting to slip away or her getting lost in thought and carelessly getting split off from the group.
When Val asked where everyone was - with understandable grievance in her tone - Camille paused only to wipe the visible tears from her cheeks and do a perfunctory wipe of her nose with her sleeve before stepping back into view.
"Sorry," she spoke, deliberately speaking calmly and coolly so as not to betray her emotions and, more pragmatically, not to startle her allies. "I just went around the corner to get some alone time. With some cigarettes."
Jessica was awake. "Do you want one?" she asked, in reference to the half-extinguished cigarette she was still smoking.
Valerija and Camille were half of everyone. And they stood in camp with her at their knees, arms crossed across her own and feeling no longer as chipper and enthused as she used to. Did she die at some point without finding out? If this really was the next day, it couldn't have been more than a day ago that she was trying to keep people together, keep them strong and figure out a way to beat this thing. But everything felt beat now.
Valerija told Jessica her name, telling her the story which Jessica should have known. Apparently, somehow, she'd made it away from the waterfall itself and into the arms of these four people. Valerija seemed just as perplexed at the lack of people in the camp as Jessica herself was, which said something. Just something. Camille had been crying, and it made Jessica want to cry too, but for some reason the thought of crying terrified her. As though if she leaked tears from her eyes, someone would light a match to it and send the hole trail of tears into flames, rushing up her face and consuming her. She wanted to get up, to comfort her, yet even the idea of touching another human swirled her nettled stomach. What were these feelings? These weren't Jessica. Jessica didn't know what was going on inside her head, why every once common thought of hers made her sick to her stomach.
The cigarette pointed in her direction, but Jessica shook her head, never losing her stare into nowhere. The smell still made her sick, which was nothing new - the smell had always made her sick, made her gag from the smell of rotten bush being lit on fire. It was nothing new, and that felt of strange comfort right now.
A compulsion entered her head. Jessica wanted to speak, wanted to say something, but the swirls and the nettles of her mind kept her silent when she opened her mouth ever so slightly to use the vocal chords which had been working just fine yesterday. But all that came out was a breathe. She swallowed, and looked behind the two girls to the falls, and everything came back again but faster.
There was a strange kind of strength to be held there. She felt her hand move, and it pointed towards the crushing waters that would never end as long as Jessica lived.
"They threw me."
Jessica barely noticed the closer splash of water from within their own camp.
Valerija told Jessica her name, telling her the story which Jessica should have known. Apparently, somehow, she'd made it away from the waterfall itself and into the arms of these four people. Valerija seemed just as perplexed at the lack of people in the camp as Jessica herself was, which said something. Just something. Camille had been crying, and it made Jessica want to cry too, but for some reason the thought of crying terrified her. As though if she leaked tears from her eyes, someone would light a match to it and send the hole trail of tears into flames, rushing up her face and consuming her. She wanted to get up, to comfort her, yet even the idea of touching another human swirled her nettled stomach. What were these feelings? These weren't Jessica. Jessica didn't know what was going on inside her head, why every once common thought of hers made her sick to her stomach.
The cigarette pointed in her direction, but Jessica shook her head, never losing her stare into nowhere. The smell still made her sick, which was nothing new - the smell had always made her sick, made her gag from the smell of rotten bush being lit on fire. It was nothing new, and that felt of strange comfort right now.
A compulsion entered her head. Jessica wanted to speak, wanted to say something, but the swirls and the nettles of her mind kept her silent when she opened her mouth ever so slightly to use the vocal chords which had been working just fine yesterday. But all that came out was a breathe. She swallowed, and looked behind the two girls to the falls, and everything came back again but faster.
There was a strange kind of strength to be held there. She felt her hand move, and it pointed towards the crushing waters that would never end as long as Jessica lived.
"They threw me."
Jessica barely noticed the closer splash of water from within their own camp.
People cussing, people crying, just close enough that she was probably seen and known and the curtains were lifted and the show was over- no, another minute minus some few seconds, she still needed that countdown. The numbers ticked by. She was Princess, backstage, gripped by a rare impulse of stage fright, waiting for the swooping arm of the stage director and ticking time away, clock-like machinery, slower than her racing heartbeat-
She almost washed the bile beginning to seep through her fingers back down, she choked, gagged, and then
Violet was there, wasn't she, ever unmovable stoic smiling like a smile that could be captured by the pinch of fingers or by the press of lips- Princess' first kiss, and however many had followed. No no no she had known the whole affair had been stupid, insipid, merely a child playing at love before it vanished away, pretending she could swing swords like the Montague when her blood only burned hot in the moment, without meaning, without purpose. But,
But, she could have given it all up, she'd been prepared to for her in her weakest of moments, Princess could have given into the silly storybook romance and have maybe been happy
Her heart was still thundering, by god it hurt, the molten iron racing down each cheek. But she could still count the seconds as they passed. Ten and
nine and
eight and-
no, she didn't want to come back, dammit, she didn't want control, she wasn't ready for this and she never would be and she wasn't the Princess in the fairy tale she was just some petty bitch who had lost the only girl she'd ever been willing to for a second of her life actually trust even though it could never be real and she'd been lying to herself and to Violet all that time and she then and now and forever just wanted to let it all go, it wasn't worth it because morals would never win in this cruel world and she'd never be the heroine of the story when the ink had bled away all over the first page like Violet's body would bleed until dry
A minute, precise.
Princess dropped her hands and inhaled and burst through the cover of greenery and she was alright again, because she had to be. Showtime and she still wasn't ready but she had to be.
Somewhere in the audience, Violet smiled that serene smile of hers, but it was one of bemused scorn.
"I'm okay." Her throat burned a bit. A drip of runny pale yellow acid slowly ran off the corner of her lip. Her voice came out a bit hoarser than she'd intended. It occurred distantly on the horizon away from her this might be the first time any of her peers that hadn't been her two real friends (Violet is dead and Violet is rotting and you don't get to join her until you've proven how far you can fall for the world to know) had heard her real unaffected voice, that simpering little piglet squeal she had been born with because of course even her genes had been fished out from the mud of a pigsty.
"Claude- where is he?" The future, at least, compelled her against her own pathetic will. She could read lines. She could always fall back to reading lines. She was good at that.
"Claude- Claude!? I- I'll go look for-" She started to run. "Stay-!" And her command was weakly shouted in the wrong direction, the direction she was suddenly sprinting, away from the others as quickly as she'd come.
The water was shallow under her feet as she toppled into it at full tilt. The mist of the waterfall billowed, and she couldn't see, but she continued to call for him, without knowing what she'd do if she found him. Improvise, she guessed. All she knew how to do.
She almost washed the bile beginning to seep through her fingers back down, she choked, gagged, and then
Violet was there, wasn't she, ever unmovable stoic smiling like a smile that could be captured by the pinch of fingers or by the press of lips- Princess' first kiss, and however many had followed. No no no she had known the whole affair had been stupid, insipid, merely a child playing at love before it vanished away, pretending she could swing swords like the Montague when her blood only burned hot in the moment, without meaning, without purpose. But,
But, she could have given it all up, she'd been prepared to for her in her weakest of moments, Princess could have given into the silly storybook romance and have maybe been happy
Her heart was still thundering, by god it hurt, the molten iron racing down each cheek. But she could still count the seconds as they passed. Ten and
nine and
eight and-
no, she didn't want to come back, dammit, she didn't want control, she wasn't ready for this and she never would be and she wasn't the Princess in the fairy tale she was just some petty bitch who had lost the only girl she'd ever been willing to for a second of her life actually trust even though it could never be real and she'd been lying to herself and to Violet all that time and she then and now and forever just wanted to let it all go, it wasn't worth it because morals would never win in this cruel world and she'd never be the heroine of the story when the ink had bled away all over the first page like Violet's body would bleed until dry
A minute, precise.
Princess dropped her hands and inhaled and burst through the cover of greenery and she was alright again, because she had to be. Showtime and she still wasn't ready but she had to be.
Somewhere in the audience, Violet smiled that serene smile of hers, but it was one of bemused scorn.
"I'm okay." Her throat burned a bit. A drip of runny pale yellow acid slowly ran off the corner of her lip. Her voice came out a bit hoarser than she'd intended. It occurred distantly on the horizon away from her this might be the first time any of her peers that hadn't been her two real friends (Violet is dead and Violet is rotting and you don't get to join her until you've proven how far you can fall for the world to know) had heard her real unaffected voice, that simpering little piglet squeal she had been born with because of course even her genes had been fished out from the mud of a pigsty.
"Claude- where is he?" The future, at least, compelled her against her own pathetic will. She could read lines. She could always fall back to reading lines. She was good at that.
"Claude- Claude!? I- I'll go look for-" She started to run. "Stay-!" And her command was weakly shouted in the wrong direction, the direction she was suddenly sprinting, away from the others as quickly as she'd come.
The water was shallow under her feet as she toppled into it at full tilt. The mist of the waterfall billowed, and she couldn't see, but she continued to call for him, without knowing what she'd do if she found him. Improvise, she guessed. All she knew how to do.
The water served as the grand equalizer, as it muffled Claudeson's thoughts alongside his ears, and for just a moment, he floated face-down in it, enjoying the serenity. He could stay here. He could just stay here for a long while, and after a while, he'd set off to stand next to Christ. Everything would be okay, after that.
But something else kicked in, something darker, something that had been treading under the surface for a long, long time. Maybe it was self-doubt, perhaps it was the feeling of worthlessness that he'd been carrying along, but something else told him in no uncertain terms that he didn't deserve to die. He didn't deserve to live, but to let himself go in the here and now, that would be the coward's way out. He'd chastised Tyrell for doing the same.
Tyrell. Goodness, that had surely worked out for the best, hadn't it? Claudeson had been so sure, blindly sure that Tyrell would walk a changed path. He had gifts that he could use to help stand by his classmates. Those are the words that he'd said to Tyrell, the words that he'd believed with all of his heart. So here he floated, pondering what it felt like to be so terribly, terribly wrong. Claudeson had taken a chance and extended an olive branch to a classmate that he thought was in need. Tyrell had taken that olive branch and beaten Christine and Felix to death with it. He may have done the deed, but the blood had splattered all over Claudeson's hands and no matter how much time he spent floating face-down in the lake, he knew that particular stain was never going to wash off.
With a gasp, he managed to plant his knees on the sandy bottom and raise himself up, his lungs greedily filling with the air that he didn't deserve. Each breath brought the energy back to him, but instead of the same fire that he'd been filled with the day prior, Claudeson found a different sort of energy, a guilty energy. It was as though he'd started to breathe in the immortal souls of both Felix and Christine, and after each breath, they pounded at his chest from within, asking him 'why have you done this to us' and pleading for their eternal rest. He half choked a breath out. There was nothing that he could do. He couldn't stop it, he couldn't feel anything different. He could no sooner grant them rest than he could take back what he'd done for Tyrell.
Claudeson had given Tyrell the gift of life, and Tyrell had perverted it into something dark, something chaotic, something twisted. He had taken that gift and he had damned two people with it.
With little feeling left inside of him but grief, Claudeson once again stared down, this time at his own reflection in the lake. His dark features were visible, distorted. Who was looking back at him? This was not the face of a sentinel, a force for good. It was an unfamiliar face, corrupted by the agony of the souls that had taken up rest within. The terrorists in Survival of the Fittest had damned the senior class of 2018, but why was Claudeson Bademosi special? Why did he receive special treatment in this regard? Why must he suffer at a spiritual level?
The answer came to him, and almost immediately, Claudeson wept.
God had no place here. All of his prayers had gone unanswered for a reason. God had averted His eyes, because this was not his domain.
This was a place of evil, and as a man of faith, he was now one of the Devil's playthings.
As he wept into the lake, the souls within screamed their silent song, filling his heart with despair.
Claudeson was truly lost.
But something else kicked in, something darker, something that had been treading under the surface for a long, long time. Maybe it was self-doubt, perhaps it was the feeling of worthlessness that he'd been carrying along, but something else told him in no uncertain terms that he didn't deserve to die. He didn't deserve to live, but to let himself go in the here and now, that would be the coward's way out. He'd chastised Tyrell for doing the same.
Tyrell. Goodness, that had surely worked out for the best, hadn't it? Claudeson had been so sure, blindly sure that Tyrell would walk a changed path. He had gifts that he could use to help stand by his classmates. Those are the words that he'd said to Tyrell, the words that he'd believed with all of his heart. So here he floated, pondering what it felt like to be so terribly, terribly wrong. Claudeson had taken a chance and extended an olive branch to a classmate that he thought was in need. Tyrell had taken that olive branch and beaten Christine and Felix to death with it. He may have done the deed, but the blood had splattered all over Claudeson's hands and no matter how much time he spent floating face-down in the lake, he knew that particular stain was never going to wash off.
With a gasp, he managed to plant his knees on the sandy bottom and raise himself up, his lungs greedily filling with the air that he didn't deserve. Each breath brought the energy back to him, but instead of the same fire that he'd been filled with the day prior, Claudeson found a different sort of energy, a guilty energy. It was as though he'd started to breathe in the immortal souls of both Felix and Christine, and after each breath, they pounded at his chest from within, asking him 'why have you done this to us' and pleading for their eternal rest. He half choked a breath out. There was nothing that he could do. He couldn't stop it, he couldn't feel anything different. He could no sooner grant them rest than he could take back what he'd done for Tyrell.
Claudeson had given Tyrell the gift of life, and Tyrell had perverted it into something dark, something chaotic, something twisted. He had taken that gift and he had damned two people with it.
With little feeling left inside of him but grief, Claudeson once again stared down, this time at his own reflection in the lake. His dark features were visible, distorted. Who was looking back at him? This was not the face of a sentinel, a force for good. It was an unfamiliar face, corrupted by the agony of the souls that had taken up rest within. The terrorists in Survival of the Fittest had damned the senior class of 2018, but why was Claudeson Bademosi special? Why did he receive special treatment in this regard? Why must he suffer at a spiritual level?
The answer came to him, and almost immediately, Claudeson wept.
God had no place here. All of his prayers had gone unanswered for a reason. God had averted His eyes, because this was not his domain.
This was a place of evil, and as a man of faith, he was now one of the Devil's playthings.
As he wept into the lake, the souls within screamed their silent song, filling his heart with despair.
Claudeson was truly lost.
So the smoke was Camille! That meant Claudeson was the only one still missing. Val felt a little better.
"Shoot - sorry Camille! I didn't know you were there!"
Val watched as Jessica pointed towards the waterfall.
"They threw me."
The words hurt her almost as much as Abel's death had. That was... that was abhorrent. What kind of a person would throw someone else off the waterfall on day one? Even worse, the use of the word 'they' left room for the possibility of multiple people having worked together in the act.
That made Val legitimately angry.
Princess shot out into the water, yelling about Claudeson. Val briefly wondered what the girl had been doing in the bushes but was quickly distracted again by the smell of smoke. She looked back at Jessica, before turning her head and scanning her eyes over the lake. "If you ever need to... talk about it, we're here." She caught a movement out from the corner of her eye.
Someone in the lake, going from a prone position into a kneeling one. Claudeson-esque. Near the shore, a bit further down the lake.
"Oh, I think that's him over there - oh, goodness, what is Princess doing!?!" As she saw Princess disappear into the mist, she raised her voice and pointed out towards Claude. "Princess! Princess, stop - he's over here! Princess - shoot, I'm not sure if she can hear us - uh..." she pursed her lips. "Camille, check on Claude. I'll stay with Jessica."
"Shoot - sorry Camille! I didn't know you were there!"
Val watched as Jessica pointed towards the waterfall.
"They threw me."
The words hurt her almost as much as Abel's death had. That was... that was abhorrent. What kind of a person would throw someone else off the waterfall on day one? Even worse, the use of the word 'they' left room for the possibility of multiple people having worked together in the act.
That made Val legitimately angry.
Princess shot out into the water, yelling about Claudeson. Val briefly wondered what the girl had been doing in the bushes but was quickly distracted again by the smell of smoke. She looked back at Jessica, before turning her head and scanning her eyes over the lake. "If you ever need to... talk about it, we're here." She caught a movement out from the corner of her eye.
Someone in the lake, going from a prone position into a kneeling one. Claudeson-esque. Near the shore, a bit further down the lake.
"Oh, I think that's him over there - oh, goodness, what is Princess doing!?!" As she saw Princess disappear into the mist, she raised her voice and pointed out towards Claude. "Princess! Princess, stop - he's over here! Princess - shoot, I'm not sure if she can hear us - uh..." she pursed her lips. "Camille, check on Claude. I'll stay with Jessica."
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 732
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
Camille looked at the ground as Jessica spoke.
'They threw me.'
The words sent shivers down her spine. They threw her. Off a waterfall. There was something about that, something that Camille couldn't describe, that felt all the more real than even the litany of horrors that Danya had gleefully read out for their amusement. It was such a...simple act of violence. Using the surroundings to hurt someone. There was something about that that suggested an innate willingness to spring into violence, to work together to be violent, like the capacity for it had always been there, bubbling beneath the surface, just needing the twin sparks of motive and opportunity to get the ball rolling.
Camille bit her lip, grimaced, hoped she looked sympathetic. She was sympathetic, but that wasn't her prominent emotion. Not even close. Fear. Bewilderment. Bemusement. A dark and morbid curiosity about what would happen next. A very real absorption of the peril, of the heartache, of the fact that she would never see her parents or her cousins or her home or anything that made her life hers ever again. All of these emotions were competing for attention, ultimately coming out in such gormless gestures as a sniffle here or a blink of shock there, her eyes flitting up to the cameras as she realised that monologuing to the camera was probably a good use of time, a safer way to spend her time and energy than trying to reunite with loved ones or fight against the island's brutish rules.
She was being selfish, by instinct and by disposition, and she knew it. She didn't like it, but that was the way her mind was working. That was the unimpressive way that her psyche seemed to respond to such an odious situation. Camille appreciated, then, when Val gave her an easy way to make a difference, a way of helping others without worrying that her mind would wander and get distracted by more self-serving diversions.
"I'll check on Claude," Camille murmured. She wasn't sure if Claude was the one who needed intervention right now, but that difficult decision had already been taken by Val, and for that, Camille was grateful. Her previous way of being helpful, of being pragmatic, had been keeping an eye on the bags, but that task was now, temporarily, one and the same with the more important task of being there with Jessica. She put out her cigarette on a nearby rock, knowing that, if Claudeson was in the need for some emotional support, the smell of tobacco, which he so clearly did not appreciate, wouldn't help. Camille turned and began making her way towards Claude.
"Claudeson?" Camille asked, speaking softly as she walked up behind him. She wasn't sure if Claudeson or Claude was more appropriate. Though she would alternate between the two internally, Camille would err on the side of formality in talking to him out loud, at least until they struck up a more comfortable rapport. Which, hopefully, there was time to do.
"Claudeson, are you okay?"
She wasn't sure what to say in these situations, but the cliches were usually a good start.
'They threw me.'
The words sent shivers down her spine. They threw her. Off a waterfall. There was something about that, something that Camille couldn't describe, that felt all the more real than even the litany of horrors that Danya had gleefully read out for their amusement. It was such a...simple act of violence. Using the surroundings to hurt someone. There was something about that that suggested an innate willingness to spring into violence, to work together to be violent, like the capacity for it had always been there, bubbling beneath the surface, just needing the twin sparks of motive and opportunity to get the ball rolling.
Camille bit her lip, grimaced, hoped she looked sympathetic. She was sympathetic, but that wasn't her prominent emotion. Not even close. Fear. Bewilderment. Bemusement. A dark and morbid curiosity about what would happen next. A very real absorption of the peril, of the heartache, of the fact that she would never see her parents or her cousins or her home or anything that made her life hers ever again. All of these emotions were competing for attention, ultimately coming out in such gormless gestures as a sniffle here or a blink of shock there, her eyes flitting up to the cameras as she realised that monologuing to the camera was probably a good use of time, a safer way to spend her time and energy than trying to reunite with loved ones or fight against the island's brutish rules.
She was being selfish, by instinct and by disposition, and she knew it. She didn't like it, but that was the way her mind was working. That was the unimpressive way that her psyche seemed to respond to such an odious situation. Camille appreciated, then, when Val gave her an easy way to make a difference, a way of helping others without worrying that her mind would wander and get distracted by more self-serving diversions.
"I'll check on Claude," Camille murmured. She wasn't sure if Claude was the one who needed intervention right now, but that difficult decision had already been taken by Val, and for that, Camille was grateful. Her previous way of being helpful, of being pragmatic, had been keeping an eye on the bags, but that task was now, temporarily, one and the same with the more important task of being there with Jessica. She put out her cigarette on a nearby rock, knowing that, if Claudeson was in the need for some emotional support, the smell of tobacco, which he so clearly did not appreciate, wouldn't help. Camille turned and began making her way towards Claude.
"Claudeson?" Camille asked, speaking softly as she walked up behind him. She wasn't sure if Claudeson or Claude was more appropriate. Though she would alternate between the two internally, Camille would err on the side of formality in talking to him out loud, at least until they struck up a more comfortable rapport. Which, hopefully, there was time to do.
"Claudeson, are you okay?"
She wasn't sure what to say in these situations, but the cliches were usually a good start.
It felt strange say what happened out loud. If she'd told them what had happened before the waterfall - the beach, her friends, her girlfriend, the people who ran off (one of who was now dead, and it took a few moments for Jessica to realize that the Christine she met yesterday and the Christine on the announcements were the same person), and how she ran off after them. It felt fine in her head, to be able to talk of the normal things. None of this was normal, of course, but meeting people was normal. Finding someone after you've lost them is normal. Running after someone after you've fallen behind is normal.
But being attacked, mugged, and thrown from a great height isn't normal. But even then, it's all she could really talk about.
Valerija stayed behind. Camille left. Jessica continued.
"They attacked me. Reuben, and Teresa, they hurt me, they...took my stuff. And then-"
And that's where Jessica's voice stopped making sound at all. Her hand fell, and her gaze returned to her knees.
But being attacked, mugged, and thrown from a great height isn't normal. But even then, it's all she could really talk about.
Valerija stayed behind. Camille left. Jessica continued.
"They attacked me. Reuben, and Teresa, they hurt me, they...took my stuff. And then-"
And that's where Jessica's voice stopped making sound at all. Her hand fell, and her gaze returned to her knees.