They stopped to listen to the announcements, which gave Wyatt -- and by extension, her -- their new direction. He started to move with purpose to find the person who had killed his brother. Tirzah was more or less along for the ride, but not planning to be a hinderance. She picked up her things and followed briskly after Wyatt.
Tirzah looked back at Conner and gave a short little half wave. There was no need for them to part without a bit of politeness.
Whatever
Day 6; close to immediately pre-announcement. Private for the time being.
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Ruggahissy
- Posts: 2554
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:13 pm
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 2256
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
"Try not to die," Wyatt calmly passed over his shoulder as he left without another look. He wished he'd really meant it. Some part of him still cared about Connor, enough to let him believe the sentiment was genuine, because at some other point or in some other life, it would have been.
But nothing really felt like it mattered anymore, other than this singular goal on the linear path he'd set for himself. Feelings no longer factored into it beyond anger. That was the only thing that drove him.
That counted as anti-bullying, right?
((Wyatt Carter, continued elsewhere))
But nothing really felt like it mattered anymore, other than this singular goal on the linear path he'd set for himself. Feelings no longer factored into it beyond anger. That was the only thing that drove him.
That counted as anti-bullying, right?
((Wyatt Carter, continued elsewhere))
V8 Characters:
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in
Hades Thompson: Scary on the outside, dying on the inside
Ruth Flanagan: Never talk to me or my brother or my brother or my brother or my brother ever again
Vladimir Tepes: Not a vampire, so invite him in
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Ruggahissy
- Posts: 2554
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:13 pm
With that, Wyatt left. And so she would leave too, though she did consider for a moment it might have been good to bring another person along on this quest. Wyatt seemed to disagree though, and that's who she already had an understanding with. Maybe it would have been better to ditch him for this new person who seemed to be a bit more put together, but she didn't have the heart to leave Wyatt like that. But just barely. Tirzah stood staring at Connor for a moment with her saucer eyes.
"Nice seeing you," she said with a shrug and trotted after Wyatt.
((Tirzah Foss continued in You Are Already Dead))
"Nice seeing you," she said with a shrug and trotted after Wyatt.
((Tirzah Foss continued in You Are Already Dead))
As he listened to the latest dispatch from their captors, all it took was one name to make time slow down for Connor Lorenzen. He had yet to hear Madison's name spoken aloud by anyone other than himself for almost a week, and now, it seemed, she had given in to the monstrosity that infected them all, lurking around every corner like a fungus. Even worse, he realized as his body ran cold, her victim had been the one person whom he would have expected her to naturally protect. The pins and needles ran through his body as he tried to fathom just how Madison of all people could have been the one to give Nathan Coleman his deliverance. Considering her history with Cassidy, it made no sense, it —
Claudeson Bademosi.
Bret's demise was detailed with a little joke, sending Connor visibly staggering back a step from his friend, the lone remaining Carter's calm fury building like a typhoon awaiting its release. It still didn't compute for Connor, imagining Bret to be dead. The terrorists had said that it was true, Wyatt had confirmed it, but still, how did that even work? It couldn't be the truth, it had to be some sort of mistake. Just like Madison killing Nathan, those words barely fit together into a sentence that made sense to him.
None of this, it didn't add up. The math was wrong.
Another blow to his sense of right and wrong, reality and fantasy arrived in the form of Erika Stieglitz being the number one killer on the island. He had sat with her and Juliette only days before, and since then, she had... gone on a killing spree? Connor's knees felt weak. He wanted to sit down. That girl that he'd spoken with on the roof, about right and wrong, about Lorenzo and Tyrell, about Artem and what needed to be done — she had seemed so reasonable, so measured. Only days later, she had murdered almost ten people. He had seen it able to excuse one act of defense, but nine?
What the hell was at all measured or reasonable about that?!
The icing on the shit-sandwich that the terrorists were verbally force-feeding them came with the information that the social pariah Lucas Brady, he of Facebook fame, had committed suicide. That was just fucking wonderful. Surely the enormity of the situation had pushed him over the edge; pushed him to murder, but had the social emnity that he had earned contributed to it? Silly question, of course it had. Connor felt guilty — for as much of a mess of a situation that had been, and as much as he had extricated himself from it the second someone had informed school administration, he had turned a blind eye to what happened afterwards. It was unfair; he could have said something, stood up for him in some way. Connor knew he had enough clout that he could have made the ridicule go away, or at least lessened it in some regard. But it hadn't been his problem, hadn't been his issue. Lucas Brady had been a nobody to him, and now he was dead.
A nobody to him, but maybe he had been a somebody to someone else. Connor had always known that eventually, he would leave George Hunter behind and lose track of nearly all of his current classmates, but his own goals and desires had made that an acceptable compromise. In the grand scheme of his life, they were but a series of bit players.
Yet now, as Wyatt's face hardened into something that he'd never seen before, and walked away from him, he realized just how truly wrong that assertion had been.
"W—Wyatt, wait, I—"
Try not to die, were the words that one might give to an acquaintance, and they were as empty as Connor felt inside at this very moment. Wyatt was leaving him, he was going to find Claude, and he was going to do unspeakably horrible things to him once he did. More than that, he was casting Connor aside. The cuts were in, and he didn't make it.
It was just another blow that staggered him, and he wobbled in place as he watched Wyatt go, barely recognizing the person who now lived within his friend's body. Tirzah, who he'd barely interacted with, gave him an unusually more human farewell, and just like that, the two of them were gone. Wyatt and Tirzah, off to —
Tirzah.
"Oh, hell."
Finally, it dawned upon Connor why he had felt so unusual about seeing the girl and why her name had nagged at him so much — she was already a killer. Tirzah had been staring him in the face, looking him over, and had already taken life.
After all that he'd learned, all that he knew; it was all too much for him, and Connor's long legs gave out. Tumbling backwards, he landed firmly on his bottom, his stomach a chasm, not knowing when the strength would return to bring himself back to his feet.
Wyatt had abandoned him for Tirzah and for vengeance, a shell of whom he had once been.
Ace had abandoned him for Ivy, a two-bit whore lacking a moral compass; his ex, of course.
Bret was dead at the hands of an insane, bible-thumping madman.
Ross was at home, off the table by only the most fortuitous of accidents; Kayden, Beau and nearly the rest of the team as well.
Madison had violently murdered the most innocent member of their whole class, who he knew could never hurt a fly.
For the first time in his entire life, Connor Lorenzen had no answers. He had no plan, he had nothing to fall back upon and nothing to use as a shield for his fear. All of the walls that had been erected were in ruin, all of the shields down, all of the carefully crafted ideas of where his future would lead him in shambles. His friends had left him, deemed him superfluous to their own survival or advancement, and he no longer knew who to rely upon. His father was quite obviously not on his way or was at least unable to find their location. Everyone he knew was either dead or a murderer.
That fact took an uncomfortably long amount of time to register in his mind, as he went through the names and faces of his peers; his friends, and tried to think of who could possibly have retained any semblance of sanity.
Connor couldn't come up with any names.
He sat there for a long time, his hands quivering in the dry heat of the morning sun.
Alone.
When he eventually pulled himself to his feet, Connor had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been minutes, even hours. All he could see through his mind were the faces of classmates, people that he'd barely regarded as peers. Teammates, party-goers, classmates, acquaintances — every one of them registering in some column that dictated how important they were. None of that mattered anymore, and as he staggered up, his legs felt detached from the rest of his body. For someone whose body was their temple, Connor felt as though his temple had been invaded. By the collar around his neck, by the horror that lurked around every corner, behind every tree-trunk, inside of every bush; he felt as though his soul had been defiled.
Turning to look at the garden, his eyes caught the campsite that he had observed before. It was closer now, and a chill ran down his spine as he saw what looked like shoes. Had someone been sleeping outside, witnessing the entire confrontation? Was there someone here, were they injured? He started towards the site, his heart pounding. Maybe it would be a friendly face. Perhaps he could help, perhaps—
"Hey, are y—no!"
His heart stopped.
The quarterback had been searching for a friendly face. Upon most circumstances, the owner of the shoes would have given him a thousand-watt smile and probably pulled him into a hug. Unfortunately, the owner of the shoes no longer had any teeth in their mouth; no longer had any semblance of a mouth left.
The owner of the shoes no longer had a face.
Connor stared down, his mouth moving but no sounds coming out.
His heart frantically tried to remember how to beat.
The gory remnants of what had once been Nathan Coleman stared back at him, the ragged and bloody hole where he used to have a face misshapen and bashed in with great ferocity. Blood was everywhere, the rock the assailant had used still lay beside the body, brain matter and gore splattered around the campsite.
Madison had done this. Madison had destroyed something beautiful. His Madison. Whom he had laughed with, fought with, made love with. The same girl who had lashed out because he couldn't express his feelings; who just wanted to know that she was loved. She had always wanted to know how he felt, she needed to hear the words.
His heart started up once more, thundering in his chest.
Stumbling backwards, Connor knew exactly what he felt about his girlfriend, and as he tripped over his own feet, scraping his palms as he pushed himself back and back to his feet, he couldn't control himself any longer. Turning, he pumped his legs and started to run, full speed in the opposite direction of Nathan's body, letting anyone and everyone know exactly how he felt.
About his classmates.
About the rest of his natural life.
About Survival of the Fittest.
About Madison.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
He may have been a lot of things — star high school quarterback, future NFL star, even a prom king, but right now, all that Connor Lorenzen knew how to be was terrified, and his screams echoed into the jungle as he left the memorial garden behind.
((Connor Lorenzen continued in &Run))
Claudeson Bademosi.
Bret's demise was detailed with a little joke, sending Connor visibly staggering back a step from his friend, the lone remaining Carter's calm fury building like a typhoon awaiting its release. It still didn't compute for Connor, imagining Bret to be dead. The terrorists had said that it was true, Wyatt had confirmed it, but still, how did that even work? It couldn't be the truth, it had to be some sort of mistake. Just like Madison killing Nathan, those words barely fit together into a sentence that made sense to him.
None of this, it didn't add up. The math was wrong.
Another blow to his sense of right and wrong, reality and fantasy arrived in the form of Erika Stieglitz being the number one killer on the island. He had sat with her and Juliette only days before, and since then, she had... gone on a killing spree? Connor's knees felt weak. He wanted to sit down. That girl that he'd spoken with on the roof, about right and wrong, about Lorenzo and Tyrell, about Artem and what needed to be done — she had seemed so reasonable, so measured. Only days later, she had murdered almost ten people. He had seen it able to excuse one act of defense, but nine?
What the hell was at all measured or reasonable about that?!
The icing on the shit-sandwich that the terrorists were verbally force-feeding them came with the information that the social pariah Lucas Brady, he of Facebook fame, had committed suicide. That was just fucking wonderful. Surely the enormity of the situation had pushed him over the edge; pushed him to murder, but had the social emnity that he had earned contributed to it? Silly question, of course it had. Connor felt guilty — for as much of a mess of a situation that had been, and as much as he had extricated himself from it the second someone had informed school administration, he had turned a blind eye to what happened afterwards. It was unfair; he could have said something, stood up for him in some way. Connor knew he had enough clout that he could have made the ridicule go away, or at least lessened it in some regard. But it hadn't been his problem, hadn't been his issue. Lucas Brady had been a nobody to him, and now he was dead.
A nobody to him, but maybe he had been a somebody to someone else. Connor had always known that eventually, he would leave George Hunter behind and lose track of nearly all of his current classmates, but his own goals and desires had made that an acceptable compromise. In the grand scheme of his life, they were but a series of bit players.
Yet now, as Wyatt's face hardened into something that he'd never seen before, and walked away from him, he realized just how truly wrong that assertion had been.
"W—Wyatt, wait, I—"
Try not to die, were the words that one might give to an acquaintance, and they were as empty as Connor felt inside at this very moment. Wyatt was leaving him, he was going to find Claude, and he was going to do unspeakably horrible things to him once he did. More than that, he was casting Connor aside. The cuts were in, and he didn't make it.
It was just another blow that staggered him, and he wobbled in place as he watched Wyatt go, barely recognizing the person who now lived within his friend's body. Tirzah, who he'd barely interacted with, gave him an unusually more human farewell, and just like that, the two of them were gone. Wyatt and Tirzah, off to —
Tirzah.
"Oh, hell."
Finally, it dawned upon Connor why he had felt so unusual about seeing the girl and why her name had nagged at him so much — she was already a killer. Tirzah had been staring him in the face, looking him over, and had already taken life.
After all that he'd learned, all that he knew; it was all too much for him, and Connor's long legs gave out. Tumbling backwards, he landed firmly on his bottom, his stomach a chasm, not knowing when the strength would return to bring himself back to his feet.
Wyatt had abandoned him for Tirzah and for vengeance, a shell of whom he had once been.
Ace had abandoned him for Ivy, a two-bit whore lacking a moral compass; his ex, of course.
Bret was dead at the hands of an insane, bible-thumping madman.
Ross was at home, off the table by only the most fortuitous of accidents; Kayden, Beau and nearly the rest of the team as well.
Madison had violently murdered the most innocent member of their whole class, who he knew could never hurt a fly.
For the first time in his entire life, Connor Lorenzen had no answers. He had no plan, he had nothing to fall back upon and nothing to use as a shield for his fear. All of the walls that had been erected were in ruin, all of the shields down, all of the carefully crafted ideas of where his future would lead him in shambles. His friends had left him, deemed him superfluous to their own survival or advancement, and he no longer knew who to rely upon. His father was quite obviously not on his way or was at least unable to find their location. Everyone he knew was either dead or a murderer.
That fact took an uncomfortably long amount of time to register in his mind, as he went through the names and faces of his peers; his friends, and tried to think of who could possibly have retained any semblance of sanity.
Connor couldn't come up with any names.
He sat there for a long time, his hands quivering in the dry heat of the morning sun.
Alone.
When he eventually pulled himself to his feet, Connor had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been minutes, even hours. All he could see through his mind were the faces of classmates, people that he'd barely regarded as peers. Teammates, party-goers, classmates, acquaintances — every one of them registering in some column that dictated how important they were. None of that mattered anymore, and as he staggered up, his legs felt detached from the rest of his body. For someone whose body was their temple, Connor felt as though his temple had been invaded. By the collar around his neck, by the horror that lurked around every corner, behind every tree-trunk, inside of every bush; he felt as though his soul had been defiled.
Turning to look at the garden, his eyes caught the campsite that he had observed before. It was closer now, and a chill ran down his spine as he saw what looked like shoes. Had someone been sleeping outside, witnessing the entire confrontation? Was there someone here, were they injured? He started towards the site, his heart pounding. Maybe it would be a friendly face. Perhaps he could help, perhaps—
"Hey, are y—no!"
His heart stopped.
The quarterback had been searching for a friendly face. Upon most circumstances, the owner of the shoes would have given him a thousand-watt smile and probably pulled him into a hug. Unfortunately, the owner of the shoes no longer had any teeth in their mouth; no longer had any semblance of a mouth left.
The owner of the shoes no longer had a face.
Connor stared down, his mouth moving but no sounds coming out.
His heart frantically tried to remember how to beat.
The gory remnants of what had once been Nathan Coleman stared back at him, the ragged and bloody hole where he used to have a face misshapen and bashed in with great ferocity. Blood was everywhere, the rock the assailant had used still lay beside the body, brain matter and gore splattered around the campsite.
Madison had done this. Madison had destroyed something beautiful. His Madison. Whom he had laughed with, fought with, made love with. The same girl who had lashed out because he couldn't express his feelings; who just wanted to know that she was loved. She had always wanted to know how he felt, she needed to hear the words.
His heart started up once more, thundering in his chest.
Stumbling backwards, Connor knew exactly what he felt about his girlfriend, and as he tripped over his own feet, scraping his palms as he pushed himself back and back to his feet, he couldn't control himself any longer. Turning, he pumped his legs and started to run, full speed in the opposite direction of Nathan's body, letting anyone and everyone know exactly how he felt.
About his classmates.
About the rest of his natural life.
About Survival of the Fittest.
About Madison.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
He may have been a lot of things — star high school quarterback, future NFL star, even a prom king, but right now, all that Connor Lorenzen knew how to be was terrified, and his screams echoed into the jungle as he left the memorial garden behind.
((Connor Lorenzen continued in &Run))