Who's To Know If Your Soul Will Fade At All?

[Latin For Dragula]

((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued From deconstruction))

The water felt good on their bare skin. They should not relish it. Familiar impatience urged them towards efficiency; wash what was needed and take a better position up the shore or inside the boat while their clothes dry. It was not as if they could properly enjoy the relief regardless, it was too awkward to attempt to submerge themself without getting their bandages wet. The water splashed over their thighs but did not go much farther unless they carried it themself. A water bottle had been repurposed for a makeshift shower at first, but it was empty in their hand. The axe hung in the other. They did not know what water might do to their rifle so they left it on the shore, close enough that if they heard someone coming they might retrieve it.

Blaise should have retrieved it by now. They had finished washing themself some minutes ago. Little had changed since they brought the empty bottle to their side the last time. Birds flew and called nearby. Small waves crashed within the bay. It all registered, but in the same dulled sense their instincts to hurry up did. Becoming sober...ish...had done little to restore their senses. Fragments of their attention still lagged behind, with Parker. With Megan. With Lorenzo. With Demetri. With Faith. With Dolly. With Dante. Mm. With Dante. The others were recent, fresh either in act or recollection, but the pieces they had left with Dante had never come home. That is why they did not think about him. They had done so well finding new fixation for the past week.

They had no focus nor direction now. A body stood in the surf directing eyes which saw nothing towards a point without function on the horizon.

[Polybius]

((Billy Trevino continued from I Don't Wanna be Myself))

He watched from the shadow of the ruined boat. Waited, as they stripped down and hung their clothes. Waited as they walked out into the water. Getting further and further away from shore. Looking out to the horizon. Away from him.

They'd left the rifle.

It was a foolish mistake. A bit amateur for someone who'd already taken so many lives. But Billy wasn't complaining, of course. This was the biggest stroke of luck he'd had since he woke up in that giant bird cage a week earlier. The fantastic rifle, which Blaise had been awarded for being the terrorists' favorite little asshole, was just sitting there, ripe for the picking.

When Blaise was sufficiently far enough from shore and looking off into the sky, Billy made his move. He strolled through the sand towards the gun. He wasn't trying to make too much noise, but he wasn't trying to sneak around like a ninja either. It didn't matter if Blaise noticed him, as long as it only happened when Billy was closer to the gun than they were. He just had to get his hands on it, and everything would change. He'd finally get a bit of control. And Blaise? Well, they'd get what was coming to 'em.

Holding his bags close, he marched through the sand. It was only a few feet away. Just in reach...

[Latin For Dragula]

Perhaps they had heard him. Perhaps not. It did not feel consequential. He made his move and they were in no hurry to stop it. Speed would not save either of them. In the case of the intruder it might be his undoing. Blaise turned slow to face his footsteps in the sand. The gun was already in his reach. He seemed intent on taking it. Was that all? It would not be so terrible. No. Not if that was all he desired. They did not recognize him as one of the other killers, but there had been so many. They could not be certain.

Blaise began to move forward. They did not rush. With the water weighing them down they were almost in slow motion. They had no eyes for the weapon on the shore, only its would be thief.

"This is a bad plan. I do not recommend it."

They did not know his name. The advice may have seemed more genuine if they did. They were being honest with him though. There were factors he was not considering. Things so obvious they did not need to waste what little attention they had spelling them out. Pause but a moment and they would come to him.

He would not pause though.

The axe swayed at their side with each step. A shame. It was almost clean.

[Polybius]

It was within reach when Blaise called to him. The voice had an annoying self-assuredness to it. Like they knew so much better than him.

Billy looked up. Blaise wasn't panicking or running towards him. They were just walking towards him calmly, like this was all just a minor inconvenience. Billy rolled his eyes. It was astounding that even ass-naked and disarmed they still thought they had any power over what he did. He took the rifle into his hands and immediately pointed it at Blaise's approaching form.

"Thanks for the concern." he said, giving Blaise a smile. "But I think I'm gonna go ahead with it."

Now that he had a plethora of choices in front of him, it was almost a bit much for him to consider. He could end this quickly and brutally, or he could enjoy it a bit more.

"Give me the rest of your stuff, and I might let you go." he said, using the gun to gesture towards Blaise's bag. "It's more than you deserve, but I'm a nice guy."

[Latin For Dragula]

They thought of Parker. How he had spoken on occasion of emotional expression as a thing that required effort rather than a natural impulse. Implications were made that their expression lay along the lines of impulse, and it was not an inaccurate critique. It missed detail though. There was effort in the way they felt as much as impulse. Parker's way of thinking framed emotions as a sort of act or routine lent ease by instinct. When bothered to analyze these thoughts by their mother Blaise had a more specific metaphor. Emotions were a sort of fashion. They could come as impulsively as one throws on a coat to the cold or as deliberately as one designs a wedding dress. They were no more totally thoughtless, totally effortless, with what they felt than with what they wore. Thought did not remove the possibility for mistakes, no, at times it invited them, but it did make it difficult to align with Parker's view. To show nothing at all, even that made some statement yes? As if leaving the house draped in a featureless sheet. The effort in not giving effort.

The boy smiled and spoke with a smug confidence. It did not suit him. He had showed up to their metaphorical door and invited them out in a gaudy, ill-fitting waste of materials unworthy to be addressed as a suit, and in response?

"No."

Blaise did not have the energy to dress themself. Not in the literal sense as they came for him bald and bare without so much as the suggestion of flush in their cheeks, but not more intangibly either. Their voice had gone flat. If it sounded of anything, it was fatigue. Their eyes kept on his but in a dull manner that suggested laziness before focus.

"This is all I will give you."

The axe started to come up at their side. They were closing in on the shore now. No attempt to speed up followed.

"Put the gun down and go away."

Mm. Charity fit them no better than confidence on him. It was a blatant forgery, a thing too brazen to be missed. This was as much of a plan as they allowed themself credit; it was not expected or required that he take their goodwill to heart, only that he focused on them. They would keep him talking until he fired. Then it would be over.

[Polybius]

Billy scoffed.

"Yeah, I'm gonna keep the gun, thanks."

Billy shifted the gun, pointing it straight at Blaise's bare chest. They kept walking closer, slowly and calmly. It was like they had no understanding of the situation they were in. Maybe they'd just gone completely nuts. Hell, they were probably nuts to begin with. Didn't take them long at all to start killing.

"But I'd advise you not to come any closer if you want to keep breathing."

Billy was serious about the threat. It was strange, this was the first time he'd really had the ability to kill someone. He didn't want to do it- really, he didn't. But any empathy he might have felt for Blaise as a human being was long gone. He knew he was fully capable of pulling the trigger, and he knew that he sure as hell wouldn't feel bad afterwards.

[Latin For Dragula]

"You make a bold asssumption."

The smile that came over their face was jagged, lopsided. Akin to paralysis more than indecision; as if half of them had come to some empty mockery of emotion while the other could not be bothered to rouse. When they felt it there was a moment of surprise and they could not be sure which side it came from, but it suited the moment. They did not try to force harmony. The more bizarre a spectacle they made the better. Dry land soaked under their feet. Unless he ran they would be upon him soon.

"Perhaps I am not attached to my breath."

Unhinged on their end, enraptured on his. He would not pull the trigger until it was too late so long as they gave him something to stare at, the freak driven wild by the weight of all they'd done. Too broken to defend their own existence.

"I would prefer yours."

Like all good lies, it was not so far from the truth.

The axe went up.

[Polybius]

Blaise started speaking nonsense, and Billy had to roll his eyes. This idiot had completely lost any sense they might have had. They were walking closer and closer. No chance to miss at this range. Just a pull of the trigger, and they'd be dead. It almost felt too easy.

Then the axe came up.

Billy swore and stepped back. He gripped the rifle tightly, staring right down the barrel toward's Blaise's chest. There was no more time for any consideration, hesitation, or guilt. It was him or them. Billy pulled the trigger.

There was a click.

Confused, Billy's eyes darted down to the gun.

[Latin For Dragula]

It hurt to join their left hand with their right around the axe handle, but this was the critical moment. They would have one swing and it was only with aid of his confusion that they had a fatal window. The boy was stupid. Moreso than many who had come before him yet they could not find the venom to dig into him more creatively. It was not an insult. It was an observation of fact. He had stolen a weapon he did not understand and chose to play cowboy with a known murderer instead of shooting them where they stood. Had he escalated before they noticed him, well, the first shot would not have been much more effective. He would have known the gun did not fire before they were mere inches from him though, and he seemed so sure of himself.

Perhaps if that confidence did not shake he would have been able to locate the safety. If not his panic might have at least inspired him to drop the weapon and run back where he came from to die elsewhere. Neither would have been as beneficial as checking the weapon before attempting to take their life, but both were better than losing his own. So many mistakes to be made to lead to this moment. There was something resonant in that line of thought. A pang of sympathy, now would that not be unbelievable? Enough to move them to mercy?

It could not be granted. They could not reach far enough for a clean shot at his neck. The blade drove deep into his shoulder instead as they aimed to bring him down and shake the gun from his grasp.

[Polybius]

The axe sank into his shoulder. He screamed. Billy dropped the gun, stepping back as grabbed onto the axe. He wrestled it free from his shoulder, free from Blaise's grasp. Blood flowed from his shoulder. Looking down, he could already see it trickle down to his torso and soak into his hoodie. He hurt, and he felt dizzy and nauseous. But, above all, he was pissed.

"F-fuck you..." Billy rasped. He couldn't think of anything else. He still wasn't sure what happened, why the gun hadn't fired like it was supposed to. It was unloaded of something. Blaise probably thought they'd pulled one over on him. That they'd just kill him and laugh about it afterwards. Well fuck that, he wasn't dead yet.

Gripping the bloody axe, Billy dashed towards Blaise. He swung in a horizontal motion, hoping to catch the neck. With any luck, he'd separate that smug face from its shoulders.

[Latin For Dragula]

The axe was out of hand and out of mind. In a physical contest the boy had nearly a foot on them and more bulk than they had the impropriety to consider at the moment. The thought did occur though. As they inevitable conclusion of their struggle grew ever closer Blaise felt more themself. That was not correct. It was not the self they were accustomed to, but the phrasing felt correct regardless. They did not pause to consider further, or they would be considering nothing at all soon enough. The gun was in their hands where it belonged within a moment, but he had not gone down as cleanly as they might have hoped. He paused to steal from them for a second time and for the second time it damned him. In a pure rush they might not have been ready. He had to retort, though, and he had to arm himself when his hands could have snapped their slender neck all on their own, so when he came they were prepared.

His wild swing found nothing but air. Blaise had fallen to the ground on their back, the rifle he surely thought was harmless aimed up at his chest.

The lever above the pistol grip that he failed to notice pointed to a tiny inscription. "Safe." Blaise flicked it to its counter-part, "Semi." They offered him no parting words or warnings. Only a look of contempt as three shots bucked across his chest.

[Polybius]

The force knocked Billy off of his feet. He hit the ground, the axe flying to the side and blood spattering the sand.

Billy stared blankly at the clear sky as his life left him. He spent his last seconds of awareness silently cursing Blaise, the terrorists, himself, and everyone else who came to mind.

Until finally, mercifully, he passed on.

B063: Guillermo Trevino - DECEASED

[Latin For Dragula]

It had felt certain, that urge when they pulled the trigger. Certain in a way they could not recall any of the others had felt. They did not know the boy sputtering to his death in the sand across from them, they did not lash out in insecurity as with Dante or Megan. It was not like Alexander where they had fabricated some goal, nor an invented threat like Dolly. His offense was much the same as Joanne's but they could fake no forethought in drawing him into a trap or vitriol in judging him inferior. There had been contempt but it came from a place more basic, or perhaps essential, than social superiority. They did not understand why. The vitality that had flooded them during the fight was ebbing away.

Adrenaline faded to be replaced by the pain of sand-filled scrapes they did not have the awareness to count. The death rasps disappeared and took any fear of reprisal with them, but their gun remained at attention. There was nothing to turn it on. It burned their arm to hold the position but it stayed. If they held the pose, the grimace, the intent, they might grasp that sudden burst of purpose once more.

They were wet again.

Strange that they chose that phrasing. As if they could draw a veil in word play that would change the sensation slowly sliding down their cheeks. Other stimulus seemed distant as the clouds but it would not dull. How many times must you feel fresh blood splash against your skin in one day before you become numb to it?

They found Dolly's voice in response.

"I don't think you care about justice but I know you're good for retribution."

It sounded cleaner than the first time. The slur of a gutshot did not distort her words. Was that all that was off?

Another picked up for her.

"I had you on a short list of people who'd probably shoot up the school."

It too did not match one to one. It did not grate like he had. The tone was flat where he was snide. But Demetri came all the same.

"Not only have you always been like this, you've always been pretty proud of it too."

Something fresher rose to follow.

"You were my first love." Her voice, like everything else about her, had always seemed so fragile. It is why Blaise did not push her. They took advantage of her but in ways that did not risk breaking her, it did not make it right but perhaps

A delirious giggle.

"Fuck you."

A shift to a tone less strained but more in pain, drawn through hissed teeth.

"Fuck you. You know perfectly well why I was...what was the word you used. Distressed. You know."

They did.

"I don’t want to see you running away again."

Though the words came from their mouth it was as if she was here, face pressed to theirs, breath on their skin.

"It’s already your responsibility. Only difference is whether you accept it or not."

It was not lost to them that this was the first and most cliche sign of madness. But it was not so mad a thing if you knew it was mad, no? The voices were not hallucinations when you made them yourself in isolation. They knew they were only mimicry. No delusion, no crime. Yes. Only a replay of words they'd tried to forget but still found blazing every time they lashed out. You could find few so easily at odds as the chorus that haunted them which only made their unified conclusion stronger. They were not victim, not judge, not liberator, not villain, they wore these labels for a time as it pleased them and discarded them when it did not. But they could not discard the nature they had honed. They curated distance by asserting that nothing could hurt them if they did not care for it again and again so that even at their most intimate they could vanish in the next moment without care, they had hammered the obvious, childish, unenforceable lie with such determination that it became truth and for their reward they found themself vulnerable to the inverse: they could care for nothing or it would hurt them.

Blaise destroyed everything they touched because otherwise it might destroy them.

Underneath all the bullshit, that was what they were.

So why pretend to be anything else?

They would, as requested, take responsibility. They would confess. They had nothing. They deserved nothing. They knew only how to prey upon desires they would not allow themselves to admit until they spoiled. They were a monster. They accepted it.

Because it felt relieving to lift the denial. They had sunk so low there was no reality worth rewriting anymore. The surest moment they had felt was the moment when they caught a nameless man's eye and knew without any waxing pretense that if they did not kill him, he would kill them.

They wanted to explore that more.

Raw, without any veil or distance.

It was all they had left.

((Blaise D'Aramitz Coontinued In All Eyes On We))