((Stepney Cruz continued from Assignment to Catastrophe))
Day Three was now under full swing on the island, and to nobody’s surprise, not least Stepney’s own, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Nia and Alexander.
It had not, of course, been for lack of trying. There hadn’t been any kind of change of heart, or sudden shift in clarity, or anything like that. Since leaving the eastern housing, all he’d been trying to do was find Nia again. Just that, y’know. All he’d had to go on was the vague direction she’d headed off in. He’d known, really, just how slim the chances of finding her had been, right from the get go. But he also knew that the guilt of letting her go would have eaten him up inside.
So, fuck it, he had to try, right? You never go anywhere if you didn’t try, and if there was anybody at George Hunter who would rise to a challenge, it was him. So he’d traipsed across pretty much the entire island until it was dark, before shoving himself into a bush and hoping that if anybody saw Bichael a couple feet away, they’d assume it was an extension of the art exhibition he’d seen listed on the map. Then he’d woken up, and continued to search.
And now here he was, outside a boat desperately trying to recreate the Titanic, with nothing to show for himself but a shirt that was more sweat than cotton at this point.
He wiped his brow, the moisture immediately replaced by raindrops, and sighed, a combination of disappointment and exhaustion. He’d keep on trying in a little bit. Keep on searching and re-searching every square inch of the island. Maybe he’d run into somebody like Andy, and he could check whether he was all right, and maybe then they could both search for Nia together. There was a lot of maybes there, sure. But it was still less impossible than abandoning his friends outright. Sometimes maybes were all you had.
But first, a break. He had a lot of thoughts to occupy himself through this pitstop anyhow.
Stepney pulled his shirt and t-shirt over his head, leaving them in a damp heap on the ground next to Bichael, before grabbing a bundle of clothing out of his personal bag, staring at the yacht as he stood back up. He’d taken a brief glance around inside when he’d first arrived here, figuring he could stay dry in there, but he’d been greeted with rising damp, mouldy furniture, and a body with two bullet holes in its back.
So he’d figured he could brace the rain a little while longer.
He couldn’t help but wonder who the body belonged to. Odds were, he’d never know, and that just felt wrong somehow. But he wasn’t about to seek out everyone who’d been on the announcements earlier, and ask them ‘hey, were you the one who shot some poor fucker in the back in that sinking ship?’
It couldn’t have been Mikki. She’d had a gun, but now she was as dead as the unlucky facedown sod in the boat. The girl who’d jointly thrown the biggest party of the year, and quite possibly of most of GHHS’ recent history. Dead as a doornail. And it couldn’t have been Nick. He’d been too busy killing Jeremiah. Big, lumbering, gentle giant Jeremiah. Stepney’s friend. Dead as a dodo.
There were other names, of killers and the killed, that he recognised. Few that had distinctive enough features that he could begin to visualise them. He supposed it was a blessing in a way, that he wouldn’t have a last memory of them tainted with blood. But again, it felt wrong, not having a last memory at all.
The thought of changing tracks and going after Jeremiah briefly crossed his mind, seeking revenge, murdering his friend’s killer, and the source of Nia’s sorrow. But it was there for a moment, and then it was gone. What was he gonna do, fight a known killer with a mountain bike, and his fucked-up eyes, and a whole bunch of blood, spit, and vinegar? No chance. Besides, he was much more concerned about making sure his friends and loved ones were doing okay and that they were as safe as possible before their, as far as Stepney saw it at least, inevitable end. He figured Ming would be pleased with that resolution, at least.
Ming. God, Ming. That was a real kick in the teeth. As if he didn’t already have enough to contend with, enough people who he wanted to make sure were all right. Fuck, he wanted to see her again. He wanted to see her again so, so badly. And he was sure that she wanted to see him return safely just as badly.
With blood on his hands, however? Maybe that was a different story.
Stepney shook his head, as if trying to knock all his thoughts loose and let them drift away. He pulled on his new t-shirt, a black one with an image of the infamous Black Lotus artwork in grey, then his new shirt went over the top of that, still unbuttoned, blue and white checked this time. There was still one thought left that he’d been mulling over for a while now. The island wasn’t incredibly huge, but it was big enough to be a total pain in the ass to walk across, and with enough treacherous terrain to make even short distances more torturous than they needed to be. Walking, therefore, was incredibly slow going, and odds were that every second he was walking, Nia and Alexander were doing the same, back to places he’d already wandered through.
His chances of finding them would no doubt increase if he actually figured out how to ride Bichael, rather than just wheeling it alongside him.
Stepney looked around the area, making sure he was alone, then swung one leg over the bicycle’s frame, seating himself on it and gripping onto the handlebars. No time like the present, as the saying went. Time for a belated trip to cycling school.
I am the inferno in which heroes are born
Privato
I am the inferno in which heroes are born
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
((Quinn continued from Binary Suns]))
Someone was riding a bike.
Someone had either found a bike or been given one, and Quinn wasn't certain which of those she found more intriguing. She couldn't imagine that the speed from pedalling around the flatter areas was worth the hassle of trying to navigate the trees with such a burden. She had a deepset ache in her arms and shoulders from carrying her gun around everywhere. Slinging it offered her some temporary relief, but swiftly that new position began to wear and that left her no better off than before. Sadly, as much as it generated frustration no end, having a gun, even one with a single bullet, was much too valuable a resource to discard. Quinn wasn't happy using it, but she had what she had.
Equipment was a concern. What she'd done so far was working imperfectly. She'd had some luck and she'd been willing to execute in the moment. That wouldn't carry through forever, and Quinn still hadn't succeeded at what she really wanted to try. Sooner or later, others would grow wise to her and how she was operating, or she'd encounter someone with better weaponry or preparation, or a sharp spike wouldn't be enough. Sure, Quinn could endlessly replace the wooden stakes and shivs, she was hardly going to run out of trees, but she had no guarantees that they wouldn't break at the wrong time, fail to penetrate, or simply strike at the wrong angle. While readily available, they were very much a one-and-done; she'd essentially brute forced the repeated stabbings of her second victim. So far they'd served her well. They wouldn't always.
Quinn watched the cyclist from just inside the treeline, deliberating, and then he looked up, directly in her direction and the choice slid away from her.
Recognition did not dawn in his eyes. She slowly raised a hand and waved.
Someone was riding a bike.
Someone had either found a bike or been given one, and Quinn wasn't certain which of those she found more intriguing. She couldn't imagine that the speed from pedalling around the flatter areas was worth the hassle of trying to navigate the trees with such a burden. She had a deepset ache in her arms and shoulders from carrying her gun around everywhere. Slinging it offered her some temporary relief, but swiftly that new position began to wear and that left her no better off than before. Sadly, as much as it generated frustration no end, having a gun, even one with a single bullet, was much too valuable a resource to discard. Quinn wasn't happy using it, but she had what she had.
Equipment was a concern. What she'd done so far was working imperfectly. She'd had some luck and she'd been willing to execute in the moment. That wouldn't carry through forever, and Quinn still hadn't succeeded at what she really wanted to try. Sooner or later, others would grow wise to her and how she was operating, or she'd encounter someone with better weaponry or preparation, or a sharp spike wouldn't be enough. Sure, Quinn could endlessly replace the wooden stakes and shivs, she was hardly going to run out of trees, but she had no guarantees that they wouldn't break at the wrong time, fail to penetrate, or simply strike at the wrong angle. While readily available, they were very much a one-and-done; she'd essentially brute forced the repeated stabbings of her second victim. So far they'd served her well. They wouldn't always.
Quinn watched the cyclist from just inside the treeline, deliberating, and then he looked up, directly in her direction and the choice slid away from her.
Recognition did not dawn in his eyes. She slowly raised a hand and waved.
Who was it that first compared doing something easy to riding a bicycle? Because Stepney really felt like slapping them right about now.
This was the sort of thing you’d normally have to pay him to do. A mountain bike had two wheels, a thin metal frame, some literal bells and whistles, and that was it. It was a single wheel away from being a unicycle (massive Captain Obvious points there, he knew), and the only people who rode on those death traps were clowns, clown-adjacent fellows, people doing those circus workshop things, or people getting dared to ride them. So how had the bicycle become such a common, perhaps even expected, household item?
His first couple of attempts had already caused him to nearly eat shit twice. The first had been the moment he’d put one foot on the pedal. His entire balance had shifted and he’d almost collapsed in a heap with the bike pinning him to the ground, had it not been for him sticking his foot back out in time to re-steady himself. After a couple of seconds to take a breath, he’d tried again, and managed to actually make it a couple of wobbly feet.
Then he’d attempted the incredibly technical stunt of ‘turning’, and that had been when the second disaster had almost happened. Once again, he’d gone off balance, once again he’d almost toppled, and once again he’d had to throw his leg out to stop himself from collapsing. The difference the second time had been that he’d also yanked hard on the bicycle’s brake lever, almost throwing him over the handlebars and sending a juddering wave of pain through his body as his elbow smacked into the metal frame.
And that was where he currently found himself, hunched over the handlebars of Bichael, rubbing his elbow and hissing through gritted teeth.
He was making progress! Incredibly slow and laborious progress, progress that would take him probably hours to reach anywhere near an acceptable level of bike riding for what he wanted to do, progress that could be better spent actually searching for Nia than pissing around near this sinking old ship.
But hey. Progress. Always look on the bright side of things, right?
He sighed, putting one foot back onto the pedal. He’d keep at it for a little while longer. If he couldn’t feel any major improvements then, he’d just abandon Bichael to the waters and slog it on foot.
Stepney looked up, and locked eyes with somebody in the treeline.
He couldn’t really make them out, not with the shadows from the trees and the relative distance between them; not that it, of course, would have made much difference if they’d been standing a foot in front of him. They were waving at him, though. They’d managed to sneak into the trees without him noticing. Coulda shot him easily from there. Coulda snuck up behind him whilst he was fucking about with Bichael. Maybe it was that whole ‘compassion’ thing he’d had that crisis about earlier, but hey. It had already led him down this path anyway.
Stepney returned the friendly, inviting wave to Quinn Abert.
“How, uh…” he started, smile forming on his face. “How long have you been there? Not that you’d have seen anything embarrassing, y’know, just some wicked sick bike tricks. Yo.”
This was the sort of thing you’d normally have to pay him to do. A mountain bike had two wheels, a thin metal frame, some literal bells and whistles, and that was it. It was a single wheel away from being a unicycle (massive Captain Obvious points there, he knew), and the only people who rode on those death traps were clowns, clown-adjacent fellows, people doing those circus workshop things, or people getting dared to ride them. So how had the bicycle become such a common, perhaps even expected, household item?
His first couple of attempts had already caused him to nearly eat shit twice. The first had been the moment he’d put one foot on the pedal. His entire balance had shifted and he’d almost collapsed in a heap with the bike pinning him to the ground, had it not been for him sticking his foot back out in time to re-steady himself. After a couple of seconds to take a breath, he’d tried again, and managed to actually make it a couple of wobbly feet.
Then he’d attempted the incredibly technical stunt of ‘turning’, and that had been when the second disaster had almost happened. Once again, he’d gone off balance, once again he’d almost toppled, and once again he’d had to throw his leg out to stop himself from collapsing. The difference the second time had been that he’d also yanked hard on the bicycle’s brake lever, almost throwing him over the handlebars and sending a juddering wave of pain through his body as his elbow smacked into the metal frame.
And that was where he currently found himself, hunched over the handlebars of Bichael, rubbing his elbow and hissing through gritted teeth.
He was making progress! Incredibly slow and laborious progress, progress that would take him probably hours to reach anywhere near an acceptable level of bike riding for what he wanted to do, progress that could be better spent actually searching for Nia than pissing around near this sinking old ship.
But hey. Progress. Always look on the bright side of things, right?
He sighed, putting one foot back onto the pedal. He’d keep at it for a little while longer. If he couldn’t feel any major improvements then, he’d just abandon Bichael to the waters and slog it on foot.
Stepney looked up, and locked eyes with somebody in the treeline.
He couldn’t really make them out, not with the shadows from the trees and the relative distance between them; not that it, of course, would have made much difference if they’d been standing a foot in front of him. They were waving at him, though. They’d managed to sneak into the trees without him noticing. Coulda shot him easily from there. Coulda snuck up behind him whilst he was fucking about with Bichael. Maybe it was that whole ‘compassion’ thing he’d had that crisis about earlier, but hey. It had already led him down this path anyway.
Stepney returned the friendly, inviting wave to Quinn Abert.
“How, uh…” he started, smile forming on his face. “How long have you been there? Not that you’d have seen anything embarrassing, y’know, just some wicked sick bike tricks. Yo.”
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
Quinn revised her previous assessment of 'riding a bicycle' to 'there was an attempt'.
The unfolding disaster neatly encapsulated the reason that Quinn wouldn't have bothered with the bike, were it in her possession. Why was he bothering with a mode of transportation he clearly had no aptitude for, in a hostile environment with difficult terrain, particularly when a single error could be fatal? Even if he had to reach somewhere quickly, Quinn hadn't passed through any area of the island where riding a bike around would be preferable to walking except to perhaps a mountain biking expert. At best, it would make the town easier to navigate, and in doing so completely forfeit any kind of stealth or other attempt to keep a low profile.
If she cared to give advice, it would have been to ditch the bike immediately and just proceed to his destination on foot.
He'd seen her now. She didn't bristle. He wasn't reacting with suspicion, so perhaps he didn't recognise her. He could be doing a very good job of keeping it under wraps; Quinn wasn't good enough at reading emotions to tell when someone was hiding a reaction. Still, it would be quite the poker face to have no reaction at all to seeing that she was watching him. Even the supremely confident would surely flinch, if only a little.
He cracked a joke. Quinn took a beat. Oh right, she remembered how this should go, social interaction. It already felt rusty and disused. She smiled mechanically.
"I saw a few things, sure."
She stepped out of the treeline and took a few steps towards him, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie. She let the smile grow a little bit, wondering if it looked natural. Still no recognition, still no fear. How strange.
"Sorry, I don't think I recognise you," she added after a moment. "I'm Taylor, Taylor Ball," Colin's surname, easy lie.
The unfolding disaster neatly encapsulated the reason that Quinn wouldn't have bothered with the bike, were it in her possession. Why was he bothering with a mode of transportation he clearly had no aptitude for, in a hostile environment with difficult terrain, particularly when a single error could be fatal? Even if he had to reach somewhere quickly, Quinn hadn't passed through any area of the island where riding a bike around would be preferable to walking except to perhaps a mountain biking expert. At best, it would make the town easier to navigate, and in doing so completely forfeit any kind of stealth or other attempt to keep a low profile.
If she cared to give advice, it would have been to ditch the bike immediately and just proceed to his destination on foot.
He'd seen her now. She didn't bristle. He wasn't reacting with suspicion, so perhaps he didn't recognise her. He could be doing a very good job of keeping it under wraps; Quinn wasn't good enough at reading emotions to tell when someone was hiding a reaction. Still, it would be quite the poker face to have no reaction at all to seeing that she was watching him. Even the supremely confident would surely flinch, if only a little.
He cracked a joke. Quinn took a beat. Oh right, she remembered how this should go, social interaction. It already felt rusty and disused. She smiled mechanically.
"I saw a few things, sure."
She stepped out of the treeline and took a few steps towards him, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie. She let the smile grow a little bit, wondering if it looked natural. Still no recognition, still no fear. How strange.
"Sorry, I don't think I recognise you," she added after a moment. "I'm Taylor, Taylor Ball," Colin's surname, easy lie.
Stepney paused, cocking his head, looking at Taylor as they gave their name.
It wasn’t a long pause. Not long at all. Certainly not long enough. But, for a couple of seconds, he had to dig up the mental list containing the names of his classmates, because he sure as hell couldn’t remember spending math class or sitting in the cafeteria with a ‘Taylor’. They were well armed, too, a gun compared to his mountain bike. They had splotches of blood scattered across their clothes, mingling and merging with the patches of rainwater.
The moment passed, and he shook his head, raindrops spiralling from his hair, as he returned Taylor’s smile. He couldn’t remember the names of everybody in his class, after all; it was especially hard when you couldn’t match any of those names to faces. And he wasn’t free of blood, either; there was splatter dried onto his jeans from when he’d been playing nurse for Erika.
“Stepney,” he replied, swinging himself off of Bichael. He noticed, for the first time, a kickstand, real close to the pedals. Which would have been a nice discovery before all the rests he’d needed to make on the way here, but, hey, if that was the worst thing he was complaining about, he was probably doing pretty all right for himself.
“Stepney Cruz, that is,” he continued, knocking the stand down and walking closer to Taylor. “Just so you don’t mix me up with all the other Stepneys in our year.”
His foot splashed through a mud-tinged puddle. Out here, without the hum of machinery or pipes in the background, or the steady rush of traffic and footfall in the distance, the sound of the rain grew louder, wrapping him and Taylor and the abandoned ship up in their own little sphere of existence.
“Lovely weather for it, huh, Taylor? Running scared on murder island, that is.”
It wasn’t a long pause. Not long at all. Certainly not long enough. But, for a couple of seconds, he had to dig up the mental list containing the names of his classmates, because he sure as hell couldn’t remember spending math class or sitting in the cafeteria with a ‘Taylor’. They were well armed, too, a gun compared to his mountain bike. They had splotches of blood scattered across their clothes, mingling and merging with the patches of rainwater.
The moment passed, and he shook his head, raindrops spiralling from his hair, as he returned Taylor’s smile. He couldn’t remember the names of everybody in his class, after all; it was especially hard when you couldn’t match any of those names to faces. And he wasn’t free of blood, either; there was splatter dried onto his jeans from when he’d been playing nurse for Erika.
“Stepney,” he replied, swinging himself off of Bichael. He noticed, for the first time, a kickstand, real close to the pedals. Which would have been a nice discovery before all the rests he’d needed to make on the way here, but, hey, if that was the worst thing he was complaining about, he was probably doing pretty all right for himself.
“Stepney Cruz, that is,” he continued, knocking the stand down and walking closer to Taylor. “Just so you don’t mix me up with all the other Stepneys in our year.”
His foot splashed through a mud-tinged puddle. Out here, without the hum of machinery or pipes in the background, or the steady rush of traffic and footfall in the distance, the sound of the rain grew louder, wrapping him and Taylor and the abandoned ship up in their own little sphere of existence.
“Lovely weather for it, huh, Taylor? Running scared on murder island, that is.”
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
The deceit was a whim more than any kind of elaborate scheme. It was easier for Quinn if she wasn't recognised, but she hadn't put much more thought into the lie than that. What did Taylor do at school? Hobbies? Family? Quinn had no idea whatsoever. The ruse wasn't intended to hold up for the long term, an improvised, simplistic scheme to be used precisely as long as she needed it and then discarded.
How long? Another ten steps. Fewer, if Stepney walked further towards her.
She genuinely didn't really recognise him. The name rang a vague bell or two, but press her for detail and she would turn up blanks. That made this no easier and no harder. Regardless, she was moving more slowly than she had the last time she was in a similar situation. Violet, Quinn figured, had grown spooked because of how she'd borne down on her without pause, twigging that there was something suspicious. This was a more natural coming together, or so she hoped.
Nine. Eight.
Quinn continued wearing her smile, raking urgently through her limited repertoire of small talk. Stepney made it much easier by contextualising the conversation onto the island.
"Oh you know. It's been fun racing around trying to survive," she answered. "It's just like a video game. Or not."
Seven.
How long? Another ten steps. Fewer, if Stepney walked further towards her.
She genuinely didn't really recognise him. The name rang a vague bell or two, but press her for detail and she would turn up blanks. That made this no easier and no harder. Regardless, she was moving more slowly than she had the last time she was in a similar situation. Violet, Quinn figured, had grown spooked because of how she'd borne down on her without pause, twigging that there was something suspicious. This was a more natural coming together, or so she hoped.
Nine. Eight.
Quinn continued wearing her smile, raking urgently through her limited repertoire of small talk. Stepney made it much easier by contextualising the conversation onto the island.
"Oh you know. It's been fun racing around trying to survive," she answered. "It's just like a video game. Or not."
Seven.
“Heh. I guess so, huh?”
Despite the Hearthstone t-shirt now lying in a heap near the entrance to the ship, Stepney knew very little about most video games. He knew Hearthstone. He knew the computer version of Magic. And he knew a shocking amount about Super Smash Bros. from the time Abel had dared him to enter a tournament and play every match blindfolded.
He’d come 17th, for the record, which was better than he had any right to have done.
The memory widened his grin momentarily, but then he started thinking about Abel again, and it faltered, hard. He kept the smile on his face, just about, just so that Taylor wouldn’t twig that anything was wrong, but, quelle surprise, thinking about the fact that his friend was lying dead somewhere, body beaten to a pulp wasn’t the most comforting or pleasant thing he could do.
And how close had he come to being like Paloma? To forcing himself to turn away from everyone, to inevitably taking someone else’s life in order to fulfill the terrorists’ insane requirement for ‘victory’? Every time he had managed to convince himself that it was the right thing to do, it had been a Herculean effort to do so, and then yet again to reason that it would all be worth it in the end.
He always played to win. But this, as he’d thought to himself earlier, was a game with no winner, and no incentive for him to play.
“Wish there was some kinda checklist to tell me what to do now.”
He still thought that Bryan was way off base, but there had to be something else they could do to survive. It was just, ‘just’, a matter of finding it. Daunting, to be sure. As ever, he was up for this brand new challenge. That was just the Stepney Cruz way.
“Or, like, a map with locations and objectives and shit marked on it. Would make it way easier to find people.”
Stepney ran his hand through his hair, shaking it free of the water that clung to his fingertips. His smile turned hopeful as he looked at Taylor.
“Actually, that’s a thought. Have you seen Nia anywhere? Or Alexander? Alex is probably easier to spot, he’s got, like, a suit and sunglasses on and all that.”
Despite the Hearthstone t-shirt now lying in a heap near the entrance to the ship, Stepney knew very little about most video games. He knew Hearthstone. He knew the computer version of Magic. And he knew a shocking amount about Super Smash Bros. from the time Abel had dared him to enter a tournament and play every match blindfolded.
He’d come 17th, for the record, which was better than he had any right to have done.
The memory widened his grin momentarily, but then he started thinking about Abel again, and it faltered, hard. He kept the smile on his face, just about, just so that Taylor wouldn’t twig that anything was wrong, but, quelle surprise, thinking about the fact that his friend was lying dead somewhere, body beaten to a pulp wasn’t the most comforting or pleasant thing he could do.
And how close had he come to being like Paloma? To forcing himself to turn away from everyone, to inevitably taking someone else’s life in order to fulfill the terrorists’ insane requirement for ‘victory’? Every time he had managed to convince himself that it was the right thing to do, it had been a Herculean effort to do so, and then yet again to reason that it would all be worth it in the end.
He always played to win. But this, as he’d thought to himself earlier, was a game with no winner, and no incentive for him to play.
“Wish there was some kinda checklist to tell me what to do now.”
He still thought that Bryan was way off base, but there had to be something else they could do to survive. It was just, ‘just’, a matter of finding it. Daunting, to be sure. As ever, he was up for this brand new challenge. That was just the Stepney Cruz way.
“Or, like, a map with locations and objectives and shit marked on it. Would make it way easier to find people.”
Stepney ran his hand through his hair, shaking it free of the water that clung to his fingertips. His smile turned hopeful as he looked at Taylor.
“Actually, that’s a thought. Have you seen Nia anywhere? Or Alexander? Alex is probably easier to spot, he’s got, like, a suit and sunglasses on and all that.”
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
A little piece of genuine and unexpected amusement broke through at the thought of checkpoints and saved games, quests in a journal, a minimap. Quinn huffed out a small laugh, smile becoming something much more natural for a moment.
Six five four.
"I can relate," Quinn lied. She'd had her own checklist more or less since she woke up. No need for anyone to point her in one direction or another.
Three.
"Imagine if that was a weapon or something," she continued. "A treasure map." Was some of the liveliness dripping out of her tone? Maybe Quinn's disinterest in conversation was coming through. It felt like an appropriate thing so say, but Quinn had never been an expert. Anyway, she'd had her fill of talking with Daria earlier, and even thinking about the girl refreshed her irritation like she was right there in front of her. Stepney wasn't Daria, but he didn't need to be.
She shook her head, would have done even if she'd seen the people or knew who they were.
Two one.
Quinn's hand cleared her pocket, clenched around a shiv.
Zero
She lunged with her final step, driving it into his torso. There was a scrape, then a snap, and she came away with half a shiv and just a few flecks of blood. He yelled out in alarm, stumbled back, started to turn—
The second stake tore through his side in a bloody trench.
Six five four.
"I can relate," Quinn lied. She'd had her own checklist more or less since she woke up. No need for anyone to point her in one direction or another.
Three.
"Imagine if that was a weapon or something," she continued. "A treasure map." Was some of the liveliness dripping out of her tone? Maybe Quinn's disinterest in conversation was coming through. It felt like an appropriate thing so say, but Quinn had never been an expert. Anyway, she'd had her fill of talking with Daria earlier, and even thinking about the girl refreshed her irritation like she was right there in front of her. Stepney wasn't Daria, but he didn't need to be.
She shook her head, would have done even if she'd seen the people or knew who they were.
Two one.
Quinn's hand cleared her pocket, clenched around a shiv.
Zero
She lunged with her final step, driving it into his torso. There was a scrape, then a snap, and she came away with half a shiv and just a few flecks of blood. He yelled out in alarm, stumbled back, started to turn—
The second stake tore through his side in a bloody trench.
Taylor hadn’t seen Nia, or Alexander, then. Damnit, but also, ah well. It had been yet another longshot, and he’d fallen short once more. Shit sucked, shit happened. If anything, the continued failures made him more determined to find his friends. And Taylor seemed friendly enough. Now that he wasn’t plotting on pushing everybody he encountered away, he was glad to have another ally by his side.
“Maybe that’s the whole point of this stupid ‘game’. Maybe there’s, like, buried treasure somewhere, and once we find it the terrorists will let us all go home.”
Stepney started to laugh as Taylor stepped forwards. She pulled her hand from her pocket, and the noise cut out, replaced with a gasp of shock. He had enough time for his eyes to widen and his smile to fall, before she lunged, makeshift wooden shiv gripped tight in her hand, slashing into his stomach.
He heard a cracking noise over his own panicked yell, felt the burning gash in his side. There was a pitter patter on the ground that could have been more rain if he hadn’t caught the red splotches out of the corner of his eye. He locked eyes with Taylor for a split second before he turned to run. Wooden daggers weren’t much, but they were more than bare fists. Maybe he could make it to the bike, maybe the adrenaline and fear rushing through him would actually let him ride the stupid thing to safety.
He made it two more steps before Taylor struck again, carving an even deeper gash into his side. A strangled cry left his mouth, before he staggered forwards, painfully close to the bike. Another few steps and he could touch it.
His legs gave way, and he fell to his knees, and moment later pitched forwards facedown. Stepney could taste dirt and grit, feel the deep red mark scored into his side. His t-shirt was clinging to him around the wound, and he could feel blood pooling underneath him.
‘Taylor’. What a crock of shit. The prepared wooden shivs, the blood on her clothes - blood on her hands already, no doubt. Someone who’d already been on the announcements, looking for another victim, and anybody watching would have seen it coming, anybody except for him and his stupid fucked up eyes.
He’d never even know who killed him.
The thought sent a flash of anger through his body, and he rolled himself over onto his back, ready to push himself up and react, resist, do something other than lay down and bleed out.
Too late. She was already upon him, ready to finish him off, grabbing hold of his shirt with one hand and swinging her other down towards his neck. Stepney jerked his head out of the way, and the shiv buried itself into his shoulder. He howled in pain, paralyzed by the shock, unable to kick out or fight back or even to look at her in the eye.
Unable to move when she swung down again and buried the stake into his neck.
“Gh… kh…”
Blood flooded him. His mind scrambled. The dark grey sky overhead looked like it was rushing away from him. He choked and spluttered, coughing up blood. Thoughts whirled through his mind, about his family, about all the worthless money safe in his bank account at home, snippets of jazz music, of chlorinated water, scabbed knees, chipped fingernails, cards, coin, classrooms, sunglasses, hand signals, all moving too fast for him to focus on, growing fainter and more hazy by the second.
He saw Ming, standing in the middle of the dancefloor at prom, and he tried desperately to hold onto the image.
He blinked. His arm was outstretched, reaching up above him, shaking violently. He still had the image in his mind. He tried to smile. Tried not to be scared. Tried to think of her.
His arm fell, and he stopped trying.
B006 - STEPNEY CRUZ: DECEASED
“Maybe that’s the whole point of this stupid ‘game’. Maybe there’s, like, buried treasure somewhere, and once we find it the terrorists will let us all go home.”
Stepney started to laugh as Taylor stepped forwards. She pulled her hand from her pocket, and the noise cut out, replaced with a gasp of shock. He had enough time for his eyes to widen and his smile to fall, before she lunged, makeshift wooden shiv gripped tight in her hand, slashing into his stomach.
He heard a cracking noise over his own panicked yell, felt the burning gash in his side. There was a pitter patter on the ground that could have been more rain if he hadn’t caught the red splotches out of the corner of his eye. He locked eyes with Taylor for a split second before he turned to run. Wooden daggers weren’t much, but they were more than bare fists. Maybe he could make it to the bike, maybe the adrenaline and fear rushing through him would actually let him ride the stupid thing to safety.
He made it two more steps before Taylor struck again, carving an even deeper gash into his side. A strangled cry left his mouth, before he staggered forwards, painfully close to the bike. Another few steps and he could touch it.
His legs gave way, and he fell to his knees, and moment later pitched forwards facedown. Stepney could taste dirt and grit, feel the deep red mark scored into his side. His t-shirt was clinging to him around the wound, and he could feel blood pooling underneath him.
‘Taylor’. What a crock of shit. The prepared wooden shivs, the blood on her clothes - blood on her hands already, no doubt. Someone who’d already been on the announcements, looking for another victim, and anybody watching would have seen it coming, anybody except for him and his stupid fucked up eyes.
He’d never even know who killed him.
The thought sent a flash of anger through his body, and he rolled himself over onto his back, ready to push himself up and react, resist, do something other than lay down and bleed out.
Too late. She was already upon him, ready to finish him off, grabbing hold of his shirt with one hand and swinging her other down towards his neck. Stepney jerked his head out of the way, and the shiv buried itself into his shoulder. He howled in pain, paralyzed by the shock, unable to kick out or fight back or even to look at her in the eye.
Unable to move when she swung down again and buried the stake into his neck.
“Gh… kh…”
Blood flooded him. His mind scrambled. The dark grey sky overhead looked like it was rushing away from him. He choked and spluttered, coughing up blood. Thoughts whirled through his mind, about his family, about all the worthless money safe in his bank account at home, snippets of jazz music, of chlorinated water, scabbed knees, chipped fingernails, cards, coin, classrooms, sunglasses, hand signals, all moving too fast for him to focus on, growing fainter and more hazy by the second.
He saw Ming, standing in the middle of the dancefloor at prom, and he tried desperately to hold onto the image.
He blinked. His arm was outstretched, reaching up above him, shaking violently. He still had the image in his mind. He tried to smile. Tried not to be scared. Tried to think of her.
His arm fell, and he stopped trying.
B006 - STEPNEY CRUZ: DECEASED
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
(CW: Gore. Gorey gore).
Quinn panted, hands slick with blood, still positioned in their final spot, heel of her left palm hammering home the stake in her right hand.
He lay still.
She shivered. Yes yes, oh yes. This was Katelynne and then some. Brilliant, almost perfect. Her hands trembled, her body trembled, a smile sketching its way across her face. Quick little breaths puffed out into the rain and she twisted the wood around in his neck, watching the blood bubble up around it.
A thought hit her suddenly.
Her heart skitter-stuttered. She looked around. Nothing. No-one. She was alone.
The confrontation hadn't made much noise. Stepney had managed a single shout and it had fallen dead in the air. If anybody with any inclination to interfere had heard they would already be here. She scanned the trees nonetheless. Nothing emerged into the bay. Seconds ticked by. Nobody.
Quinn leapt to her feet and grabbed Stepney's body by the ankles, dragging it towards the yacht, leaving a blood-speckled furrow in her wake. A couple of feet back, she let him go and then darted inside via the hole in the hull. Quickly, she swept around the interior, finding the cabins to be deserted. There was one dead body which she checked out of idle curiosity and was vaguely surprised to note she recognised him. Ron Kiser, he'd been on the announcement. She'd only particularly cared insomuch as she'd felt a small degree of disappointment it hadn't been her. She'd always hated him, always ready to join the dogpile when she was getting mocked at school. He'd been shot. Quinn would have done it better. Here, though, his presence was good news, signalling that she was indeed alone.
She idly kicked the corpse in the head to hear the crunch and then exited the vessel. Retrieving Stepney, Quinn hauled him inside, positioning him in such a way that she could look out over above him to see through the hole and keep an eye on anything coming towards her. The rain was a distraction and she wanted this moment to herself, so taking shelter was a must, but she still needed to show some caution, lest she be caught off guard.
Kneeling down alongside him, Quinn took a few deep breaths, trying to steady herself. No such luck, her heart was pounding a million miles an hour, excitement thrumming in her veins. This was it. Finally it. Her nerves couldn't quite settle. She checked her gear over; a half dozen shivs remained after the scuffle with Stepney, each of the ones she'd actually used to attack him having broken in the process. That was fine, she'd probably be replacing all of them afterwards, she didn't expect them to survive this. She took off her hoodie, tossing it onto a dry-looking section of floor. She considered the rest of her clothing for a moment; it too would likely be a total loss after this, but she'd already been splattered with blood a number of times and it was getting that way already. The only reason she hadn't swapped outfits was that she only had a couple of changes of clothes, and it was difficult to say how long this would last. What if she ran out? She decided to leave it on, if only because getting interrupted while improperly dressed sounded like an idiotic way to die. Stepney's though, they were fair game. She wrangled his arms out of his overshirt, which was more difficult than she expected, and then peeled his other top off too, which was similarly irritating. Deadweight was deadweight. She set both articles to one side, paused, then ripped off both sleeves of the checkered shirt, tearing them into strips, which she wrapped around each of her hands. Quinn looked at his bare torso, gouged and bloodstained in places from her attack, wearing a red neckscarf that trickled down to the top of his chest, glistening beneath the metal collar.
Then she buried her stake in his stomach and ripped it open.
She tore and tore at the flesh, ravaging his innards with a single-minded intensity. Greedy fingers grabbed at whatever she could get purchase on, scrabbling, squeezing, pulling, ripping and tearing. Piece by piece, Stepney came apart underneath her as she touched organs, vessels, flesh. She touched something hard and felt an electric thrill as she traced her thumb around his spinal cord. Blood and foul liquids splattered her hands, the reeking stench of death and offal assaulting her nostrils.
Incredible.
Quinn wasn't sure how long she was there, wrist and elbow deep in Stepney's torso. She didn't have the right tools for the job, but even that minor amount of frustration couldn't dull the thrill arcing through her system, standing her every hair on end as she broke out in goosebumps. Tear, and tear, and gouge, and gouge, and see what came out. Eventually, she emerged from the haze. Keeping watch out of the hole had been pointless; as soon as she'd started she couldn't have taken her eyes away for a moment. Everything around her was awash with blood, Stepney innards pilled up in a heap alongside her. She hadn't got everything out, but everything south of his ribcage had been thoroughly excavated, leaving a cavity which looked as though a wild animal had been at it. She sighed wistfully, eyeing the upper half of his torso. If only she had a way to break through... but no, she'd stretched what she had as far as she could, trying to stomp her way through bone with improvised tools wouldn't get her anywhere.
She stood up and grabbed Stepney by the wrists, dragging him back outside with considerably greater ease. Huh. She hadn't expected him to feel so much lighter, especially with the fatigue of her exertions.
Quinn stopped outside, pulling the only surviving shiv out of her pocket, then making a face. Unsuitable. She'd spent n awful lot of time here and as much fun as she was having, she couldn't stay here forever. She'd just have to be quick. To the treeline it was then, scanning the shore as she went, noting a couple of likely-looking rocks. Actually...Quinn stooped and picked one up, feeling its heft in her hand. Good weight and a flat side, just right. Quinn studied the branches of the nearest trees, testing one or two of them with her hand. She could afford to think a bit bigger than the normal shivs; she didn't need to be able to grip this in her hand for long. Ah, there. Quinn measured, then struck the wood with her rock, snapping it off in her hand and leaving her with a wicked spike worthy of being called a stake. She snapped off another, nodded in a moment's satisfaction, and then returned to the yacht and Stepney.
Leaning down, Quinn got the body under the armpits and dragged it upright, pushing it back against the yacht's hull. There was enough of an angle that it stayed upright for a moment, long enough for Quinn to grab it by the wrist and stretch it out. She shifted one of her stakes into that hand, awkwardly positioning the sharp end against the wrist while keeping the pressure on with her forearm. Stepney started to slide, she scowled, dragged him back up again, resecured her grip, repositioned the stake, having to press her shoulder hard up against Stepney's chest to anchor him as best she could. In her other hand she lifted the rock and brought it back, slammed it home.
There was a squelching sound coupled with splintering, wood and bone. The stake pierced through Stepney's wrist and narrowly into the wooden hull beyond. Quickly, Quinn started to hammer with the rock, pushing the stake further in, pinning it in place. She tested it, and it barely moved. Excellent. Quinn grabbed the free wrist and pulled it out to the side, spreadeagling Stepney. She positioned the second stake, pushing her body up against his again, then brought the rock back a second time. Same squelch, same splinter. Hammer, hammer, hammer.
She leaned back to study her handiwork. The pinioned corpse didn't move, though the head slumped as she moved back. Her lips fluttered into a smile.
Quinn changed her clothes, gathering her possessions along with her pick of Stepney's rations, medical supplies, and a shirt or two. Then she left him there, a little spring in her step.
((Quinn continued in Yonder, a glint of gold...))
Quinn panted, hands slick with blood, still positioned in their final spot, heel of her left palm hammering home the stake in her right hand.
He lay still.
She shivered. Yes yes, oh yes. This was Katelynne and then some. Brilliant, almost perfect. Her hands trembled, her body trembled, a smile sketching its way across her face. Quick little breaths puffed out into the rain and she twisted the wood around in his neck, watching the blood bubble up around it.
A thought hit her suddenly.
Her heart skitter-stuttered. She looked around. Nothing. No-one. She was alone.
The confrontation hadn't made much noise. Stepney had managed a single shout and it had fallen dead in the air. If anybody with any inclination to interfere had heard they would already be here. She scanned the trees nonetheless. Nothing emerged into the bay. Seconds ticked by. Nobody.
Quinn leapt to her feet and grabbed Stepney's body by the ankles, dragging it towards the yacht, leaving a blood-speckled furrow in her wake. A couple of feet back, she let him go and then darted inside via the hole in the hull. Quickly, she swept around the interior, finding the cabins to be deserted. There was one dead body which she checked out of idle curiosity and was vaguely surprised to note she recognised him. Ron Kiser, he'd been on the announcement. She'd only particularly cared insomuch as she'd felt a small degree of disappointment it hadn't been her. She'd always hated him, always ready to join the dogpile when she was getting mocked at school. He'd been shot. Quinn would have done it better. Here, though, his presence was good news, signalling that she was indeed alone.
She idly kicked the corpse in the head to hear the crunch and then exited the vessel. Retrieving Stepney, Quinn hauled him inside, positioning him in such a way that she could look out over above him to see through the hole and keep an eye on anything coming towards her. The rain was a distraction and she wanted this moment to herself, so taking shelter was a must, but she still needed to show some caution, lest she be caught off guard.
Kneeling down alongside him, Quinn took a few deep breaths, trying to steady herself. No such luck, her heart was pounding a million miles an hour, excitement thrumming in her veins. This was it. Finally it. Her nerves couldn't quite settle. She checked her gear over; a half dozen shivs remained after the scuffle with Stepney, each of the ones she'd actually used to attack him having broken in the process. That was fine, she'd probably be replacing all of them afterwards, she didn't expect them to survive this. She took off her hoodie, tossing it onto a dry-looking section of floor. She considered the rest of her clothing for a moment; it too would likely be a total loss after this, but she'd already been splattered with blood a number of times and it was getting that way already. The only reason she hadn't swapped outfits was that she only had a couple of changes of clothes, and it was difficult to say how long this would last. What if she ran out? She decided to leave it on, if only because getting interrupted while improperly dressed sounded like an idiotic way to die. Stepney's though, they were fair game. She wrangled his arms out of his overshirt, which was more difficult than she expected, and then peeled his other top off too, which was similarly irritating. Deadweight was deadweight. She set both articles to one side, paused, then ripped off both sleeves of the checkered shirt, tearing them into strips, which she wrapped around each of her hands. Quinn looked at his bare torso, gouged and bloodstained in places from her attack, wearing a red neckscarf that trickled down to the top of his chest, glistening beneath the metal collar.
Then she buried her stake in his stomach and ripped it open.
She tore and tore at the flesh, ravaging his innards with a single-minded intensity. Greedy fingers grabbed at whatever she could get purchase on, scrabbling, squeezing, pulling, ripping and tearing. Piece by piece, Stepney came apart underneath her as she touched organs, vessels, flesh. She touched something hard and felt an electric thrill as she traced her thumb around his spinal cord. Blood and foul liquids splattered her hands, the reeking stench of death and offal assaulting her nostrils.
Incredible.
Quinn wasn't sure how long she was there, wrist and elbow deep in Stepney's torso. She didn't have the right tools for the job, but even that minor amount of frustration couldn't dull the thrill arcing through her system, standing her every hair on end as she broke out in goosebumps. Tear, and tear, and gouge, and gouge, and see what came out. Eventually, she emerged from the haze. Keeping watch out of the hole had been pointless; as soon as she'd started she couldn't have taken her eyes away for a moment. Everything around her was awash with blood, Stepney innards pilled up in a heap alongside her. She hadn't got everything out, but everything south of his ribcage had been thoroughly excavated, leaving a cavity which looked as though a wild animal had been at it. She sighed wistfully, eyeing the upper half of his torso. If only she had a way to break through... but no, she'd stretched what she had as far as she could, trying to stomp her way through bone with improvised tools wouldn't get her anywhere.
She stood up and grabbed Stepney by the wrists, dragging him back outside with considerably greater ease. Huh. She hadn't expected him to feel so much lighter, especially with the fatigue of her exertions.
Quinn stopped outside, pulling the only surviving shiv out of her pocket, then making a face. Unsuitable. She'd spent n awful lot of time here and as much fun as she was having, she couldn't stay here forever. She'd just have to be quick. To the treeline it was then, scanning the shore as she went, noting a couple of likely-looking rocks. Actually...Quinn stooped and picked one up, feeling its heft in her hand. Good weight and a flat side, just right. Quinn studied the branches of the nearest trees, testing one or two of them with her hand. She could afford to think a bit bigger than the normal shivs; she didn't need to be able to grip this in her hand for long. Ah, there. Quinn measured, then struck the wood with her rock, snapping it off in her hand and leaving her with a wicked spike worthy of being called a stake. She snapped off another, nodded in a moment's satisfaction, and then returned to the yacht and Stepney.
Leaning down, Quinn got the body under the armpits and dragged it upright, pushing it back against the yacht's hull. There was enough of an angle that it stayed upright for a moment, long enough for Quinn to grab it by the wrist and stretch it out. She shifted one of her stakes into that hand, awkwardly positioning the sharp end against the wrist while keeping the pressure on with her forearm. Stepney started to slide, she scowled, dragged him back up again, resecured her grip, repositioned the stake, having to press her shoulder hard up against Stepney's chest to anchor him as best she could. In her other hand she lifted the rock and brought it back, slammed it home.
There was a squelching sound coupled with splintering, wood and bone. The stake pierced through Stepney's wrist and narrowly into the wooden hull beyond. Quickly, Quinn started to hammer with the rock, pushing the stake further in, pinning it in place. She tested it, and it barely moved. Excellent. Quinn grabbed the free wrist and pulled it out to the side, spreadeagling Stepney. She positioned the second stake, pushing her body up against his again, then brought the rock back a second time. Same squelch, same splinter. Hammer, hammer, hammer.
She leaned back to study her handiwork. The pinioned corpse didn't move, though the head slumped as she moved back. Her lips fluttered into a smile.
Quinn changed her clothes, gathering her possessions along with her pick of Stepney's rations, medical supplies, and a shirt or two. Then she left him there, a little spring in her step.
((Quinn continued in Yonder, a glint of gold...))