Holy shit.
Holy fuck.
Holy… Holy shitfuckshitshit.
Somehow, he was going to make it through this unscathed. Somehow, some way, Arizona was going to walk out of here without any of the three people in the room being hurt. Garren could barely trust himself to breathe as she walked past him, back towards the doorway. He bit the inside of his lip, keeping his mouth firmly clamped shut, just in case his fear took full control of his body and made him yelp out that there was a killer under the bed.
How, though? How had she missed Michael? Garren was, like, 95% sure it hadn’t been his fucking Phoenix Wright-esque defence that had convinced her that bloody handprint was just part of the decor. Had she missed Michael in the dark? Was he that good at hiding? Was he clinging to the underside of the bed like some kinda creepy gecko thing?
“Uh, yeah, no… no problem.”
Whatever, he really didn’t need to question the exact logistics of this. The important part was; Arizona was leaving, and somehow on reasonably good terms with him. For a moment, Garren considered asking her whether he could tag along, team up, help her out, that sort of thing. They both had guns. They both seemed to be looking to do the right thing - at least, that was his interpretation from her single announcement appearance. They could be a pretty potent force.
He opened his mouth, then closed it almost as soon as it had opened. It was tempting. It was really goddamn tempting. But he felt like he was pushing his luck as it was just thinking about it, and, God, he also felt like he was about to throw up, or pass out, or both simultaneously. Maybe once she left, he could give Michael the all clear, then tell him to fuck off, then try and find her again. Yeah. Yeah, that could work.
“And… you too.”
He paused, as the sound of Arizona’s footsteps disappeared down the landing.
“Um. Stay safe. I mean.”
He held his breath until he heard her walk down the stairs, and across the hall, and out the front door, and then held it a little longer, until the only sound left was the radio static in his head. Then he exhaled, closed his eyes, and felt his entire body sag.
“Alright, it’s safe to come out now.”
Look at the Cleanse, look at the moves!
Open - Late Day 9
"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
And then she was gone. It was over. It wasn't the kind of over Michael had wanted it to be. And now what he wanted was to cry and weep and scream and strangle Garren to death with his bear hands but he wasn't even sure if he still fucking knew how to do any of that.
Evil came to him in waves.
"Fine," he choked silently into the floor, before kicking his bag out sideways from under the bed. Then, he pivoted onto his back, took his right hand off the gun, pressed his palm against the outside of the bedframe, and using that as leverage, rotated himself ninety degrees, so that his upper half was sticking out from under the bed.
He opened his eyes. Looked up at the ceiling. Didn't bother looking at Garren. Closed his eyes. Became aware of the layer of floor dust covering his forehead. Sniffled. Jaw clenched.
"Garren. Why the fuck did you do that."
Evil came to him in waves.
"Fine," he choked silently into the floor, before kicking his bag out sideways from under the bed. Then, he pivoted onto his back, took his right hand off the gun, pressed his palm against the outside of the bedframe, and using that as leverage, rotated himself ninety degrees, so that his upper half was sticking out from under the bed.
He opened his eyes. Looked up at the ceiling. Didn't bother looking at Garren. Closed his eyes. Became aware of the layer of floor dust covering his forehead. Sniffled. Jaw clenched.
"Garren. Why the fuck did you do that."
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
“Why did I- Why did I fucking try and save you, you mean?”
Fuckin’, wow. You’re welcome, Mike. Someone tries their best to keep you from harm - and yes, whatever, Garren’s best was jumpy and stuttery and pathetic, but he’d at least tried - and that’s the thanks you give them? Wondering why they’d done it? Wondering why they’d tried to save your ass?
…
Why had he done it?
Garren looked down at the other boy, shaking arms gratefully lowering the shotgun. His breathing was still notably laboured, his brow still slick with sweat. But he was, at least, in a situation of ceasefire for now. He didn’t see Michael getting a good shot off from where he was positioned.
“I, ah… I figured it was the right thing to do.”
And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? The same reason he hadn’t shot Ace, same reason he hadn’t tried to hurl himself or some kinda bludgeon at Nia, the same reason he hadn’t even entertained the idea of seeking Parker for justice. No-one was in a situation they wanted. Nobody was in a situation they deserved. Everyone had the right to some… some leniency, in regards to what they’d done. Right?
“The sorta thing Garren Mortimer wouldn’t do.”
He paused, let the silence wash over them again, before he opened his mouth, asking the question that had been burning away inside of him, one he needed to know the answer to.
“So why was… why is Arizona looking for you?”
Fuckin’, wow. You’re welcome, Mike. Someone tries their best to keep you from harm - and yes, whatever, Garren’s best was jumpy and stuttery and pathetic, but he’d at least tried - and that’s the thanks you give them? Wondering why they’d done it? Wondering why they’d tried to save your ass?
…
Why had he done it?
Garren looked down at the other boy, shaking arms gratefully lowering the shotgun. His breathing was still notably laboured, his brow still slick with sweat. But he was, at least, in a situation of ceasefire for now. He didn’t see Michael getting a good shot off from where he was positioned.
“I, ah… I figured it was the right thing to do.”
And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? The same reason he hadn’t shot Ace, same reason he hadn’t tried to hurl himself or some kinda bludgeon at Nia, the same reason he hadn’t even entertained the idea of seeking Parker for justice. No-one was in a situation they wanted. Nobody was in a situation they deserved. Everyone had the right to some… some leniency, in regards to what they’d done. Right?
“The sorta thing Garren Mortimer wouldn’t do.”
He paused, let the silence wash over them again, before he opened his mouth, asking the question that had been burning away inside of him, one he needed to know the answer to.
“So why was… why is Arizona looking for you?”
"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
"I mean, isn't it the sort of thing Garren Mortimer would do? Because," Michael cleared his throat of the phlegm that had accumulated in it while he was under the bed, "if he wasn't who did it, then who was? Who are you, if you aren't Garren Mortimer."
Garren was still asking questions, though that was okay, since his last question was one Michael actually knew how to answer.
Michael Froese had done to Arizona the kind of thing Michael Froese wouldn't have done.
"I murdered the person Arizona loved," he stated, still staring into his own eyelids. "Jonah Heartgrave. I was trying to shoot the girl Arizona mentioned. You wouldn't know her. I hit Jonah three times in the chest."
He lifted the back of his head a few inches off of the ground and let it slam down into the floorboards.
Before this — before the island — Darlene had basically not existed. Nobody knew who the fuck she was. If she'd just up and jumped off a bridge one day, nobody would even know. Nobody would be bothered. Michael had always been jealous of that.
Then, she'd shot Beryl Mahelona, and let Nick Ogilvie mercy kill her.
Usually, things happened because other things happened before them. Butterfly effect. Right man in the wrong place. Et cetera. Beryl's death, and Nick Ogilvie being the one who'd gotten the blame for it, was one of, if not the most made-things-happen events on the island. And then, everything that it had made happen had made other things happen, and so on. But if Darlene had been the one on the announcements, most of it would have never fucking happened. Furthermore, getting the blame was a hit she could have taken, since literally only Michael knew what a Darlene Silva was. She could have just gone by a different name and gotten off pretty much scot-free.
So, if they ever met again, he'd ask her why the fuck she hadn't shot Beryl twice.
Michael exhaled out softly through his nostrils and cracked his eyelids open, just barely.
"Jonah - I - he was just fucking laying there on the ground bleeding to death, and he -" he stuttered, "- he was just like - he was just fucking talking to me like I was who'd just gotten shot."
Garren was still asking questions, though that was okay, since his last question was one Michael actually knew how to answer.
Michael Froese had done to Arizona the kind of thing Michael Froese wouldn't have done.
"I murdered the person Arizona loved," he stated, still staring into his own eyelids. "Jonah Heartgrave. I was trying to shoot the girl Arizona mentioned. You wouldn't know her. I hit Jonah three times in the chest."
He lifted the back of his head a few inches off of the ground and let it slam down into the floorboards.
Before this — before the island — Darlene had basically not existed. Nobody knew who the fuck she was. If she'd just up and jumped off a bridge one day, nobody would even know. Nobody would be bothered. Michael had always been jealous of that.
Then, she'd shot Beryl Mahelona, and let Nick Ogilvie mercy kill her.
Usually, things happened because other things happened before them. Butterfly effect. Right man in the wrong place. Et cetera. Beryl's death, and Nick Ogilvie being the one who'd gotten the blame for it, was one of, if not the most made-things-happen events on the island. And then, everything that it had made happen had made other things happen, and so on. But if Darlene had been the one on the announcements, most of it would have never fucking happened. Furthermore, getting the blame was a hit she could have taken, since literally only Michael knew what a Darlene Silva was. She could have just gone by a different name and gotten off pretty much scot-free.
So, if they ever met again, he'd ask her why the fuck she hadn't shot Beryl twice.
Michael exhaled out softly through his nostrils and cracked his eyelids open, just barely.
"Jonah - I - he was just fucking laying there on the ground bleeding to death, and he -" he stuttered, "- he was just like - he was just fucking talking to me like I was who'd just gotten shot."
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
Goddamnit. God fucking damnit. He’d made this mistake before. Why was he still making the exact same one?
That mistake being ‘thinking he had the killers all figured out’. He’d been wrestling with that thought for ages now, ever since his encounter with Nia, really. Her inability to communicate properly hadn’t exactly been a shit-ton of help in that regard, so he’d kept on tussling with it. And then. And then.
And then he’d had to deal with the fallout of Myles and Declyn. And then the fallout of Ivy and Tirzah. And then he’d met Ace, and just now he’d met Michael, and he’d just talked to Michael, and, more fucking fool him, he thought he’d gotten some semblance of an idea as to what the deal was with the killers out here.
Innocent people. Impossible situations. Same as he’d just been thinking.
He was pretty sure he would already need to rethink that.
Because, like - it was painfully obvious Michael was real fucking cut up about Jonah’s death. He hadn’t moved from his position halfway out from under the bed, his voice was low and stuttery, he looked up through the ceiling rather than at it. He had killed a boy he hadn’t meant to. There was a swarm of regrets inside his head, Garren was certain of that. He didn’t believe for one second that Michael was putting on an act.
But.
Why had he shot Jonah? Because he’d been aiming for a completely different target instead. A girl who - if Darlene really was an actual person and not some collective fever dream - hadn’t turned up on the announcements yet. Either she’d done something insanely heinous to get on Mikey’s shitlist, or… or the truth was even simpler than that.
And there was something even more damning, something that had thrown Garren’s thoughts further into flux, something that was, again, ridiculously simple, yet complicated everything nonetheless. Say Jonah’s death had been an accident. And say Darlene had done something worth being shot for. Say that was all true.
Jonah hadn’t been Michael’s first kill. Not by a longshot.
Garren realised he’d been quiet for a while, now. He thought he had barely moved, but he realised, as his eyes refocused, no longer staring through Michael, like the other boy was doing to the ceiling, that his arms had slumped to his sides, shotgun listlessly hanging from his right hand. There was nobody around but the two of them, but he could feel his heart ramping up again, returning to its previous mile-a-minute pace.
“You. Uh.”
He breathed in through his nose.
“You killed… Catherine, too. Was that the same deal? Were you aiming for Darlene again, then?”
That mistake being ‘thinking he had the killers all figured out’. He’d been wrestling with that thought for ages now, ever since his encounter with Nia, really. Her inability to communicate properly hadn’t exactly been a shit-ton of help in that regard, so he’d kept on tussling with it. And then. And then.
And then he’d had to deal with the fallout of Myles and Declyn. And then the fallout of Ivy and Tirzah. And then he’d met Ace, and just now he’d met Michael, and he’d just talked to Michael, and, more fucking fool him, he thought he’d gotten some semblance of an idea as to what the deal was with the killers out here.
Innocent people. Impossible situations. Same as he’d just been thinking.
He was pretty sure he would already need to rethink that.
Because, like - it was painfully obvious Michael was real fucking cut up about Jonah’s death. He hadn’t moved from his position halfway out from under the bed, his voice was low and stuttery, he looked up through the ceiling rather than at it. He had killed a boy he hadn’t meant to. There was a swarm of regrets inside his head, Garren was certain of that. He didn’t believe for one second that Michael was putting on an act.
But.
Why had he shot Jonah? Because he’d been aiming for a completely different target instead. A girl who - if Darlene really was an actual person and not some collective fever dream - hadn’t turned up on the announcements yet. Either she’d done something insanely heinous to get on Mikey’s shitlist, or… or the truth was even simpler than that.
And there was something even more damning, something that had thrown Garren’s thoughts further into flux, something that was, again, ridiculously simple, yet complicated everything nonetheless. Say Jonah’s death had been an accident. And say Darlene had done something worth being shot for. Say that was all true.
Jonah hadn’t been Michael’s first kill. Not by a longshot.
Garren realised he’d been quiet for a while, now. He thought he had barely moved, but he realised, as his eyes refocused, no longer staring through Michael, like the other boy was doing to the ceiling, that his arms had slumped to his sides, shotgun listlessly hanging from his right hand. There was nobody around but the two of them, but he could feel his heart ramping up again, returning to its previous mile-a-minute pace.
“You. Uh.”
He breathed in through his nose.
“You killed… Catherine, too. Was that the same deal? Were you aiming for Darlene again, then?”
"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
Catherine Zier.
Michael remembered everything he'd done to her. He didn't remember the reason why he'd done any of it.
She meant something to Garren — or at least, her name meant more than Camila's or Roxie's to him.
Michael pursed his lips and exhaled. His voice got less shaky, all of a sudden. His eyes lost focus. As he spoke, he saw everything again. Felt the better kind of hurt. Not guilt or regret. Just empty self-hatred, begging to be sustained.
"I fired at her twice. Hit her twice. First one was in the leg, through two walls. I didn't even know it hit. She yells at me to shoot straight, and I say -
"I say -"
He sucked on his own teeth.
"- I said 'Hey, if that's what you want, y'know'. And I shot her in the chest. Tried to patch her up. Didn't know how. Panicked. Injected her with what I thought would be enough insulin to kill her in a few hours. Botched that too. Took more than a day."
...
"I'd tell you I'm sorry, but I think if I was actually sorry, I probably wouldn't have done any of it in the first place, so."
He just shrugged and kept staring at the ceiling.
"I dunno."
Michael remembered everything he'd done to her. He didn't remember the reason why he'd done any of it.
She meant something to Garren — or at least, her name meant more than Camila's or Roxie's to him.
Michael pursed his lips and exhaled. His voice got less shaky, all of a sudden. His eyes lost focus. As he spoke, he saw everything again. Felt the better kind of hurt. Not guilt or regret. Just empty self-hatred, begging to be sustained.
"I fired at her twice. Hit her twice. First one was in the leg, through two walls. I didn't even know it hit. She yells at me to shoot straight, and I say -
"I say -"
He sucked on his own teeth.
"- I said 'Hey, if that's what you want, y'know'. And I shot her in the chest. Tried to patch her up. Didn't know how. Panicked. Injected her with what I thought would be enough insulin to kill her in a few hours. Botched that too. Took more than a day."
...
"I'd tell you I'm sorry, but I think if I was actually sorry, I probably wouldn't have done any of it in the first place, so."
He just shrugged and kept staring at the ceiling.
"I dunno."
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
And there it was. There was the rub, the catch, the big fuck-off issue that had been staring him directly in the face, spoken straight from the horse’s mouth. Something had hit Michael hard during the early days of this bullshit, he’d felt remorseful and regretful over shooting Jonah, he’d tried to patch Catherine up after doing the same to her. He could tell that was all true, he didn’t need fucking Phoenix Wright deduction prowess to figure that out.
So why had he done it all in the first place, as stated? Why had he started to kill people? Well. It could have been a mercy kill. It could have been an accident. It could have been a misfire, or self defence, or any number of things that led to one person being dead, and your name being read out on the announcements. One kill, now that didn’t tell you anything.
But if you truly, truly felt overwhelmingly remorseful for your actions… surely your name would stop turning up on the announcements? Right?
Garren looked at Michael, then looked some more. Then he turned around, and walked back over to the window, watching the last remnants of light disappear over the horizon. A question to sleep on, perhaps? In a sense. More that he already knew the answer. He just needed to let it sink in properly first.
“If you’re not planning on moving out from under there,” Garren muttered, not turning around as he spoke. “Then you can take this room. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.”
He didn’t think that Michael would shoot him, not now. Michael was, to put it politely, all kinds of fucked up, but if he’d wanted to kill Garren, he would have done it before slipping under a bed and staying tucked up out of sight. He’d had plenty of opportunities to pull the trigger. He hadn’t taken a single one. For tonight, Garren felt sure he could be safe.
And so it proved true, as he heard the sound of scrambling and shuffling behind him, the early morning stars slowly fading into view above his head. He heard the sound of footsteps. He heard them leave the room. He heard them trudge down the stairs.
If he’d figured out the answer to his question a day earlier, maybe he’d have stopped those footsteps from going any further.
Instead, Garren waited until they stopped, before walking over to the door to the bedroom, closing it with a soft click. He sat on the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding both the weapons he’d thrown down onto it and the blood handprint dried into the sheets. He sat, nestled between them, and looked up and out the window, as the stars grew brighter and brighter.
He woke up, sprawled half-on the bed, half-dangling off of it. He blinked, trying to lever his eyes open and kick his brain into gear again. It took a few minutes, but he managed it, and immediately fucking regretted it, his neck, his throat, and his goddamn spine all punching him in the dick with pain simultaneously. It was a bright morning, and you know fucking what, he hadn’t expected there to be anything more infuriating than an alarm clock to wake you up, but turns out? Having the fucking sun trying to force its way into your eyes gave it a real good run for its money.
Garren sat on the edge of the bed again, letting his body do its level best to reset back to some semblance of feeling ‘okay’. His foot tapped against the floor. His hands lay flat on the sheets. They balled up, scrunching them up in his fists, then released them again.
He wondered if Michael was still somewhere in the manor.
He sifted back through his thoughts from the previous day. His hand found itself resting on top of the shotgun. It still felt alien to the touch, wrong in his hands. He shouldn’t be holding it. He shouldn’t even be looking at it. He knew this. He knew this. Slowly, it found its way back into his arms, and he found his way back to his feet.
He needed to find out.
So why had he done it all in the first place, as stated? Why had he started to kill people? Well. It could have been a mercy kill. It could have been an accident. It could have been a misfire, or self defence, or any number of things that led to one person being dead, and your name being read out on the announcements. One kill, now that didn’t tell you anything.
But if you truly, truly felt overwhelmingly remorseful for your actions… surely your name would stop turning up on the announcements? Right?
Garren looked at Michael, then looked some more. Then he turned around, and walked back over to the window, watching the last remnants of light disappear over the horizon. A question to sleep on, perhaps? In a sense. More that he already knew the answer. He just needed to let it sink in properly first.
“If you’re not planning on moving out from under there,” Garren muttered, not turning around as he spoke. “Then you can take this room. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.”
He didn’t think that Michael would shoot him, not now. Michael was, to put it politely, all kinds of fucked up, but if he’d wanted to kill Garren, he would have done it before slipping under a bed and staying tucked up out of sight. He’d had plenty of opportunities to pull the trigger. He hadn’t taken a single one. For tonight, Garren felt sure he could be safe.
And so it proved true, as he heard the sound of scrambling and shuffling behind him, the early morning stars slowly fading into view above his head. He heard the sound of footsteps. He heard them leave the room. He heard them trudge down the stairs.
If he’d figured out the answer to his question a day earlier, maybe he’d have stopped those footsteps from going any further.
Instead, Garren waited until they stopped, before walking over to the door to the bedroom, closing it with a soft click. He sat on the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding both the weapons he’d thrown down onto it and the blood handprint dried into the sheets. He sat, nestled between them, and looked up and out the window, as the stars grew brighter and brighter.
He woke up, sprawled half-on the bed, half-dangling off of it. He blinked, trying to lever his eyes open and kick his brain into gear again. It took a few minutes, but he managed it, and immediately fucking regretted it, his neck, his throat, and his goddamn spine all punching him in the dick with pain simultaneously. It was a bright morning, and you know fucking what, he hadn’t expected there to be anything more infuriating than an alarm clock to wake you up, but turns out? Having the fucking sun trying to force its way into your eyes gave it a real good run for its money.
Garren sat on the edge of the bed again, letting his body do its level best to reset back to some semblance of feeling ‘okay’. His foot tapped against the floor. His hands lay flat on the sheets. They balled up, scrunching them up in his fists, then released them again.
He wondered if Michael was still somewhere in the manor.
He sifted back through his thoughts from the previous day. His hand found itself resting on top of the shotgun. It still felt alien to the touch, wrong in his hands. He shouldn’t be holding it. He shouldn’t even be looking at it. He knew this. He knew this. Slowly, it found its way back into his arms, and he found his way back to his feet.
He needed to find out.
"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
Michael spent the night in court.
Haha no he didn't. He spent the night in an approximation of a courtroom, presumably thrown together by some now-dead folks back before vigilantism came into style.
He just kinda mulled about. Didn't sleep. Occasionally had thoughts.
Said a few things to whoever was watching.
"Want to know why I did it?
"I'm afraid of the way that I live my life. I'm afraid of the way I don't. I'm afraid of the things that I wanna do but I won't. I'm afraid of God. I'm afraid to believe. And I'm afraid of all the loved ones that I made leave. I'm afraid that my dog doesn't love me anymore.
"I plagiarized all of that. Fuck you.
"I always found it funny, the saying 'in your own words', because like... well, they aren't your own words, are they? You didn't fucking coin them."
He sighed.
"We think too big. We think of ourselves as one whole thing, and we claim this collection has a name and is a being, but deep inside, when every cell divides, they set upon the rule that states self-interest is divine. This Too Shall Pass, by Danny Schmidt."
...
"I keep falling in love with anyone who bothers with talking to me,
"I don't know how to empathize with myself,
"and I don't know what right is."
...
"At least I fucking waited until it didn't have any long-term effect on anyone else to start being an asshole. Y'all -
"- You're the kind of people who watch Taxi Driver and cheer for Travis Bickle."
...
"Yooooooooooou talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? 'Cus I don't see anyone else heeeere. Fuck you, honestly. You think you know me. You don't know shit. Fuck you. Everything you think you know about me, you got from me."
The sun went up. Classic sun. It was day eleven now. Michael'd been too busy doing... something he didn't remember at all, to mentally remark on the ninth announcement. He'd done a pod change right then, he remembered. Didn't know if it was before or after arriving at the manor. He wasn't sure how long he'd even been in the manor. He found himself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife (AKA. Garren). And he asked himself, well, how did he get here? Or whatever.
He'd moved to the living room, curled up in the corner of the big purple couch. The tenth announcement had passed. Not since the first one had it hurt this bad.
The parts that mattered:
Lori killed someone. Then Lori killed someone again. He knew she'd collapsed under the weight of her own mind the way he had. He knew, if they'd stayed together, maybe they would have been able to keep each other from completely slipping away. Instead he'd abandoned her with Claude, because Violet had reminded him of Beryl. Speaking of Violet, Violet was dead. Killed by Teresa. Teresa was probably wearing the white robe Michael had helped her find. Violet was probably wearing the black robe. She'd been drowned. That meant something to Michael. Made him feel guilty, for some reason. Teresa was dead too, shot by Blaise. He felt conflicted, but he didn't mourn for Teresa at all. Not anymore. Justin killed another two people. Lori got shot. Someone blew up Henry.
He just sat there and wept silently in the fetal position.
Haha no he didn't. He spent the night in an approximation of a courtroom, presumably thrown together by some now-dead folks back before vigilantism came into style.
He just kinda mulled about. Didn't sleep. Occasionally had thoughts.
Said a few things to whoever was watching.
"Want to know why I did it?
"I'm afraid of the way that I live my life. I'm afraid of the way I don't. I'm afraid of the things that I wanna do but I won't. I'm afraid of God. I'm afraid to believe. And I'm afraid of all the loved ones that I made leave. I'm afraid that my dog doesn't love me anymore.
"I plagiarized all of that. Fuck you.
"I always found it funny, the saying 'in your own words', because like... well, they aren't your own words, are they? You didn't fucking coin them."
He sighed.
"We think too big. We think of ourselves as one whole thing, and we claim this collection has a name and is a being, but deep inside, when every cell divides, they set upon the rule that states self-interest is divine. This Too Shall Pass, by Danny Schmidt."
...
"I keep falling in love with anyone who bothers with talking to me,
"I don't know how to empathize with myself,
"and I don't know what right is."
...
"At least I fucking waited until it didn't have any long-term effect on anyone else to start being an asshole. Y'all -
"- You're the kind of people who watch Taxi Driver and cheer for Travis Bickle."
...
"Yooooooooooou talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? 'Cus I don't see anyone else heeeere. Fuck you, honestly. You think you know me. You don't know shit. Fuck you. Everything you think you know about me, you got from me."
The sun went up. Classic sun. It was day eleven now. Michael'd been too busy doing... something he didn't remember at all, to mentally remark on the ninth announcement. He'd done a pod change right then, he remembered. Didn't know if it was before or after arriving at the manor. He wasn't sure how long he'd even been in the manor. He found himself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife (AKA. Garren). And he asked himself, well, how did he get here? Or whatever.
He'd moved to the living room, curled up in the corner of the big purple couch. The tenth announcement had passed. Not since the first one had it hurt this bad.
The parts that mattered:
Lori killed someone. Then Lori killed someone again. He knew she'd collapsed under the weight of her own mind the way he had. He knew, if they'd stayed together, maybe they would have been able to keep each other from completely slipping away. Instead he'd abandoned her with Claude, because Violet had reminded him of Beryl. Speaking of Violet, Violet was dead. Killed by Teresa. Teresa was probably wearing the white robe Michael had helped her find. Violet was probably wearing the black robe. She'd been drowned. That meant something to Michael. Made him feel guilty, for some reason. Teresa was dead too, shot by Blaise. He felt conflicted, but he didn't mourn for Teresa at all. Not anymore. Justin killed another two people. Lori got shot. Someone blew up Henry.
He just sat there and wept silently in the fetal position.
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
Garren had one foot on the top of the staircase when the announcement started playing. And, like. There was no such thing as an easy announcement. But everything he heard, everything Danya was telling him, it was all pointing back to the answer in his head as being the correct one, the answer he’d been sleeping on and mulling over and trying to properly grapple with.
The same names. Over and over. Blaise. Justin. Diego. Once they started, they refused to stop. One new name, Lori, putting herself on the board twice in one day before someone took her down. One new name that… that Garren would have to keep close tabs on. Some accidents. Some people taking their fate into their own hands. No real surprises.
Well, maybe there were no surprises for him, maybe to the greasy loner loser with no friends, no real connections, nothing but surface level knowledge of the people surrounding him. Maybe, say, Justin going down this path would have been much more of a shock if Garren had known even a single thing about him beforehand. Or perhaps the opposite, maybe there’d always been something threatening to snap within the guy, something he would have noticed if he’d been paying a modicum of attention. He didn’t know. He’d never know.
God, it was barely worth mentioning at this point, but this was all such a barrel of horseshit. No matter how you sliced it or tried to look at it, he was being painted into a corner where he had to look at classmates and peers and kids like him as ‘goodies or baddies’.
He still couldn’t tell what side people would see him on.
Slowly, as softly as his exhausted legs and dumb clumping feet could muster, Garren made his way down the stairs, ears pricked, listening for any sorta Michael-y noises. Maybe he was like a Pokemon and could only say his own name until you caught him. Or maybe he was, like, waffling facts about squids and clams to himself, or something.
Garren stood in the middle of the manor entrance, shotgun in hand, silence surrounded. He waited a little longer. Then he, uh. Waited some more.
He could have just left, the previous night, or first thing that morning. That was a real, distinct possibility. It would definitely make Garren’s life a fuck load easier. It would mean one less shitty, difficult decision to make. He could force himself to believe that, yeah, Michael was gonezo, vanished off into the sunset, and wander back upstairs to grab his stuff before taking his own leave. It would be easy as shit.
He was well aware by now that the easy choice more often than not hurt him and everyone around him in the long run.
“Yo, Michael?” Garren called out. “You still here?”
He moved into one of the ground floor corridors, pulling his shirt collar up and over his mouth and nose, the smell of stale sweat and dirt preferable to that of death and decay.
The same names. Over and over. Blaise. Justin. Diego. Once they started, they refused to stop. One new name, Lori, putting herself on the board twice in one day before someone took her down. One new name that… that Garren would have to keep close tabs on. Some accidents. Some people taking their fate into their own hands. No real surprises.
Well, maybe there were no surprises for him, maybe to the greasy loner loser with no friends, no real connections, nothing but surface level knowledge of the people surrounding him. Maybe, say, Justin going down this path would have been much more of a shock if Garren had known even a single thing about him beforehand. Or perhaps the opposite, maybe there’d always been something threatening to snap within the guy, something he would have noticed if he’d been paying a modicum of attention. He didn’t know. He’d never know.
God, it was barely worth mentioning at this point, but this was all such a barrel of horseshit. No matter how you sliced it or tried to look at it, he was being painted into a corner where he had to look at classmates and peers and kids like him as ‘goodies or baddies’.
He still couldn’t tell what side people would see him on.
Slowly, as softly as his exhausted legs and dumb clumping feet could muster, Garren made his way down the stairs, ears pricked, listening for any sorta Michael-y noises. Maybe he was like a Pokemon and could only say his own name until you caught him. Or maybe he was, like, waffling facts about squids and clams to himself, or something.
Garren stood in the middle of the manor entrance, shotgun in hand, silence surrounded. He waited a little longer. Then he, uh. Waited some more.
He could have just left, the previous night, or first thing that morning. That was a real, distinct possibility. It would definitely make Garren’s life a fuck load easier. It would mean one less shitty, difficult decision to make. He could force himself to believe that, yeah, Michael was gonezo, vanished off into the sunset, and wander back upstairs to grab his stuff before taking his own leave. It would be easy as shit.
He was well aware by now that the easy choice more often than not hurt him and everyone around him in the long run.
“Yo, Michael?” Garren called out. “You still here?”
He moved into one of the ground floor corridors, pulling his shirt collar up and over his mouth and nose, the smell of stale sweat and dirt preferable to that of death and decay.
"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
He could still remember Violet. How she seemed so composed. How, to her, this place actually made sense. He remembered how Lori had used her owl suit as a protective shell. He remembered the owl puns. He remembered how he'd actually almost felt okay before Claude showed up. He felt Jonah's hand as everything he'd ever been faded away and he saw the blood pouring from Lizzie's face and he saw how Roxie's eyes were still moving after he'd blown her brains out and he heard Catherine screaming in agony and he heard the seawater draining from Beryl's skull and he saw everyone else he'd lost and everyone else he'd hurt.
Michael winced as Garren's voice rang out. He exhaled sharply; inhaled shakily. Coughed. The tears dried up a little. He screamed into his knees. The ceiling was starting to swirl. He rubbed his eyes. It was only when he felt something wet left behind on his face that he noticed his hand was still bleeding. His entire body felt like it was on fire. No more tears. Just a twisted mass of blood and foam.
"FUCK OFF, GARREN," he shouted.
Michael winced as Garren's voice rang out. He exhaled sharply; inhaled shakily. Coughed. The tears dried up a little. He screamed into his knees. The ceiling was starting to swirl. He rubbed his eyes. It was only when he felt something wet left behind on his face that he noticed his hand was still bleeding. His entire body felt like it was on fire. No more tears. Just a twisted mass of blood and foam.
"FUCK OFF, GARREN," he shouted.
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
Well at least he had a nice, simple answer for once.
Garren flinched as Michael’s harsh yell echoed down the halls and corridors of the manor. There were at least two, maybe three rooms separating them, but he could still hear the tears in the other boy’s voice. Perhaps there was something on the announcements that had gotten to him, something Michael knew that Garren didn’t. Maybe he’d woken up from a particularly vivid and shitty nightmare. Or, hell, was there a chance he’d finally broken down under the weight of all the shit that he’d done and that had happened to him, and he was just a quivering wreck on the floor?
None of those options really made Garren feel real good, to be fucking honest.
He could just, y’know. Do as Michael said. Fuck off, leave, go somewhere else and do… what, exactly? Survive on just his meagre remnants of food? Try and latch onto another group and keep to the shadows, stay out of the way, out of sight, out of view as anyone worth targeting while the group splintered around him? Exist, just for the sake of existing?
He’d kinda gone and answered his own question as to what he should do next, hadn’t he?
“Fuck off where, Michael? Somewhere else in this house?”
Garren walked as he spoke, raising his voice so he could be heard through the fabric of his shirt, traipsing down the corridor in the direction he thought he’d heard Michael’s voice.
“Or somewhere I can’t keep tabs on you anymore?”
Garren flinched as Michael’s harsh yell echoed down the halls and corridors of the manor. There were at least two, maybe three rooms separating them, but he could still hear the tears in the other boy’s voice. Perhaps there was something on the announcements that had gotten to him, something Michael knew that Garren didn’t. Maybe he’d woken up from a particularly vivid and shitty nightmare. Or, hell, was there a chance he’d finally broken down under the weight of all the shit that he’d done and that had happened to him, and he was just a quivering wreck on the floor?
None of those options really made Garren feel real good, to be fucking honest.
He could just, y’know. Do as Michael said. Fuck off, leave, go somewhere else and do… what, exactly? Survive on just his meagre remnants of food? Try and latch onto another group and keep to the shadows, stay out of the way, out of sight, out of view as anyone worth targeting while the group splintered around him? Exist, just for the sake of existing?
He’d kinda gone and answered his own question as to what he should do next, hadn’t he?
“Fuck off where, Michael? Somewhere else in this house?”
Garren walked as he spoke, raising his voice so he could be heard through the fabric of his shirt, traipsing down the corridor in the direction he thought he’d heard Michael’s voice.
“Or somewhere I can’t keep tabs on you anymore?”
"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
"FUCK YOU, GARREN. I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING BURDEN."
...
"NOW JUST REALLY ISN'T A GOOD TIME, OKAY?"
...
"NOW JUST REALLY ISN'T A GOOD TIME, OKAY?"
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
((Arizona Butler continued from Can't Cry Nxw))
About halfway to the manor Arizona nearly changed her mind. There was every chance Garren had moved on or something else had happened. She had no guarantee that he would stay put. If she was being completely honest, that was the most likely option. It wouldn't have been a surprise if she entered the manor to find a new batch of people had taken up residence. But she still decided to return, she couldn't shake the weirdness of the first encounter. She felt an urge to find out whatever had been going on.
As it turned out, the answer came to her quickly as she approached the building for the second time.
Namely, a voice she didn't recognize yelling at Garren.
That explained a lot.
Arizona swung the pancor off her shoulder and gripped it in her hands as she approached the door.
There were definitely two voices she could make out through the wood. One of them sounded like Garren—the other she wasn't sure of.
Of course, there was an obvious answer for who the second voice belonged to.
Arizona took a deep breath, as tempting as it would be to kick the door down she had to be smarter than that.
Instead, she crouched to one side of the door and whistled.
About halfway to the manor Arizona nearly changed her mind. There was every chance Garren had moved on or something else had happened. She had no guarantee that he would stay put. If she was being completely honest, that was the most likely option. It wouldn't have been a surprise if she entered the manor to find a new batch of people had taken up residence. But she still decided to return, she couldn't shake the weirdness of the first encounter. She felt an urge to find out whatever had been going on.
As it turned out, the answer came to her quickly as she approached the building for the second time.
Namely, a voice she didn't recognize yelling at Garren.
That explained a lot.
Arizona swung the pancor off her shoulder and gripped it in her hands as she approached the door.
There were definitely two voices she could make out through the wood. One of them sounded like Garren—the other she wasn't sure of.
Of course, there was an obvious answer for who the second voice belonged to.
Arizona took a deep breath, as tempting as it would be to kick the door down she had to be smarter than that.
Instead, she crouched to one side of the door and whistled.
Garren grit his teeth. He narrowed his eyes. His fingers drummed, once, against the side of the shotgun, squeezing the handle tightly, finger carefully well away from the trigger, just in case. He watched the dust hang in the air for a moment, pulled his t-shirt tighter around the lower half of his face, took a breath to steady himself. Then he kept slowly walking forwards.
Okay, dude, this was a bad time for you? Sure, he’d come back later, at some time when there weren’t people getting killed, and names you recognised on the announcement on either side of the fence, and over a week’s worth of trauma piling up in your mind. Oh, wait, hang on a fucking second.
Quinn firing potshots at him on the beach hadn’t happened at a great time for him, and yet. Parker robbing him and Aoi hadn’t happened at an optimal time for him, and yet. Hell, Michael wandering into the manor and making his business all kinda Garren’s business hadn’t happened at a fucking fantastic time, and yet.
And as for the other part. Well. That really wasn’t true, to be honest. He kinda was his burden, now. And Arizona’s. And everybody else’s on the island. He’d become their burden to deal with ever since he’d spread his name across multiple announcements.
Garren was about to open his mouth to say this, when he heard something from behind him. And he froze, and he stopped in his tracks, and he turned, painstakingly slowly around to look back down the corridor. Because that was a very, very familiar sound. And that meant that either two people on this island had the bright idea to whistle before walking into a new place. Or… uh…
Fuck.
Okay, dude, this was a bad time for you? Sure, he’d come back later, at some time when there weren’t people getting killed, and names you recognised on the announcement on either side of the fence, and over a week’s worth of trauma piling up in your mind. Oh, wait, hang on a fucking second.
Quinn firing potshots at him on the beach hadn’t happened at a great time for him, and yet. Parker robbing him and Aoi hadn’t happened at an optimal time for him, and yet. Hell, Michael wandering into the manor and making his business all kinda Garren’s business hadn’t happened at a fucking fantastic time, and yet.
And as for the other part. Well. That really wasn’t true, to be honest. He kinda was his burden, now. And Arizona’s. And everybody else’s on the island. He’d become their burden to deal with ever since he’d spread his name across multiple announcements.
Garren was about to open his mouth to say this, when he heard something from behind him. And he froze, and he stopped in his tracks, and he turned, painstakingly slowly around to look back down the corridor. Because that was a very, very familiar sound. And that meant that either two people on this island had the bright idea to whistle before walking into a new place. Or… uh…
Fuck.
"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
And just like that, all the rage drained away from Michael's eyes. He stood slowly, and walked over to a window. Cracked it open, flinching as fresh air rushed in and hit him.
This time, he had a way out, and that meant he wouldn't just lay down and die. He could run, if he needed.
He moved over to the couch and crouched down behind it. He figured it would make decent cover; at least as long as it wasn't actually getting shot. He glanced down at the Ballester-Molina still in his hand. Made sure the safety was off. Jonah's gun, honestly, would be more useful as a bludgeon than as a gun, so it stayed in Michael's pocket.
The stage was set. Someone was gonna do something someone else would regret.
Something here would eventually have to explode.
This time, he had a way out, and that meant he wouldn't just lay down and die. He could run, if he needed.
He moved over to the couch and crouched down behind it. He figured it would make decent cover; at least as long as it wasn't actually getting shot. He glanced down at the Ballester-Molina still in his hand. Made sure the safety was off. Jonah's gun, honestly, would be more useful as a bludgeon than as a gun, so it stayed in Michael's pocket.
The stage was set. Someone was gonna do something someone else would regret.
Something here would eventually have to explode.
none of you can prove im in v8
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.