Like they had for so many hours, the boys continued on. They walked.
The more time that elapsed, the closer that inevitability came towards them, Morgan found himself doing an awful lot of thinking. Without friends or any real creature comforts to be found, thinking was the only activity other than surviving that one could do without putting themselves actively in harm's way. Which of course, was a bit of a misnomer. The itchy, metallic, disgusting explosive collars that they had been forced to wear for twelve days now meant that they were constantly acting under duress, each move they made not really their own.
It was a convenient excuse, wasn't it?
((Morgan Dragosavich continued from You Gotta Roll With It, You Gotta Take Your Time))
He may have been a lot of things, but Morgan Dragosavich was not a stupid man. There were days where he acted without any common sense at all, his mouth often moved before his brain had a chance to catch up, and thinking through the consequences of his actions usually became a bit of an afterthought. Those were all harmless qualities in the stew that was life in Chattanooga, but in Survival of the Fittest, they were qualities that went a long way towards making sure you weren't the one person who was left at the end. That he was still standing at this juncture was probably more of a miracle than it was actually his own fault. His friends would have laughed at the idea that Morgan would outlive any of them in this sort of situation.
Each of them had seemingly possessed a quality that Morgan didn't, a reason that they should have still persevered against overwhelming odds.
Lizzie was quick; able to talk her way out of situations. She'd been ostracized, she knew what it felt like to feel alone and have to deal with the consequences of one's actions.
Henry was gentle and brilliant; his goal was to work for NASA and anyone who knew him figured that it was a foregone conclusion. There were few problems that his pal couldn't solve.
Ross was about as easy going as they came, able to get along with anyone who walked along and always ready to lend a helping hand or an ear to anyone who needed it.
Erika was gentle, the sort of person that was always thinking about other people and would always think through a problem before acting on it.
Jonah was a fighter, a survivor already. He'd beaten cancer and come back the same kind, selfless person that he was before he'd gone away.
Michael; of course, Michael. An intellect and an irreverence that matched his at times, coupled with the ability to blend in to most social situations and hide the fact that all he really wanted a lot of the time was to be left alone. Michael cared more than the rest, put together. He was a good person.
Aurelien, his newest friend, had a determination that Morgan knew wasn't a new thing for him. He knew what it felt like to have problems with focus, but he had no doubt that when he was focused, there were fewer better than he at whatever he put his mind to. Morgan had seen that first-hand.
All of them should have been here, still inhabiting a world that didn't want to let them live their lives that way. A world in which madmen were able to run free and inflict unspeakable horrors upon innocent people. What was their crime, what made them the ideal victims? Was it their heritage? Why were they targets for these horrible people? Had someone been watching them the whole time, cataloguing their every movement and collecting information to better exploit and terrorize them with? Had someone solicited it? Was it something that they had done? How could they know?
There was one thing that came to mind and he didn't like it; not even at all.
Had George Hunter's class of 2018 been captured and sentenced to death because Lucas Brady was a fucking idiot and had made a public spectacle of himself — and all of them — on social media?
There were hundreds of questions that he found he asked himself as he walked, but there was no one to be found who could answer them. Instead, the answers that he did have only disturbed and upset him. The answers, of course, to what had become of his seemingly better-equipped friends.
Lizzie had ended her own life to prevent the shadow of her death from falling upon him. It was his stupid mistake, his own bumbling that had gotten her killed. All she'd wanted was to be with him, forget everyone else, enjoy the time they had left.
Henry couldn't solve the problem that lay in front of him; they had sworn vengeance upon people and even though he'd had to take a life himself, it gnawed at him. He had known; there was a moment when everything— and then he was gone.
His final words still gnawed at Morgan.
Ross was perhaps the most fortunate of them all. Were it not for a sudden misfortune, he'd have been in Hell here with the rest of them. His girlfriend had gone, Ariana was dead before they'd even been here five days. His friend would live on, but in a way, he would be more damaged than the rest of them. Forevermore, he'd be a survivor, a label that would dominate his future. Morgan hoped that he wouldn't watch; wouldn't be a witness to the barbarity that he'd learn his friends were capable of.
Speaking of barbarity... Erika was still alive, but whomever she had once been was long dead. The spectre that roamed the island killing people seemingly at will was someone that he wasn't sure he'd recognize even if he did run across her. Where was that thoughtful, gentle soul that had been in the caves with them all that day? The one who started dating scary Tyrell and claimed he was just misunderstood — that girl was gone. Gone forever, no matter what happened to her. Morgan was terrified to come across her and saddened that the person whose friendship he'd once enjoyed was gone forever.
Jonah was gone too, the irony of beating cancer only to fall to terrorists not lost on him at all. The cruel joke that he had died to another familiar face, another of his cave project group members was only another gut punch.
Morgan himself had verbally sworn to kill his best friend. He had truly fallen into the terrorist trap, at least on the surface. It wasn't like Michael Froese was innocent of anything; the opposite was in fact true. Michael had done horrible things in the name of this game. Morgan had seen the anguish, the pain on his bespeckled friend's face as he sat with him in the storeroom. Anyone else would have taken the words at their surface, but Morgan had known exactly what kind of human being Michael was. He had tried to blend in, he had tried to be what he thought would work the best, and in the end?
It had destroyed him and were it not for someone else finding him first, it might have destroyed Morgan, too.
So it was down to the two of them. Morgan and Aurelien.
And so they walked on, searching. Looking.
Trying to find an ending.
"If all of this shit hadn't happened," he hadn't spoken for a bit, but his own mind was starting to become poor company, "what do you think you'd have done? In life, I mean."
Aurelien's hyper-focus had been evident for hours now, but each time they'd engaged one another in discussion, it had been about plans, what to do if they found certain people, who might still be alive — everything related to their current situation and nothing about who they were; who they were supposed to be.
There was a comfort in thinking about that. Thinking about a world where they might have been allowed to have a life.
"I was going to go into science," Morgan stopped, leaning over to tie a dirty shoelace that had worked its way free. "Try and cure diseases and shit like that. Or maybe create chemicals that turn things different colours in the dark."
A memory tugged at him, he smiled a wistful smile.
"Something like that."
And Now Those Days Are Over and We Are All Ghosts
Day 12; late-afternoon. Private.
((Aurelien Valter continued from You Gotta Roll With It, You Gotta Take Your Time))
The silence as they walked was all too familiar.
It had accompanied Aurelien and Morgan at nearly every point since their group had been reduced to a duo. No matter where they were, it surrounded them, encompassed them, as they continued their death march forwards. It dissipated every now and then, but only for seconds at a time, returning to envelope them as soon as they’d finished their strategy talks and discussions for where to go next.
It was, by now, entirely unwelcome.
At some point in the past he had embraced the silence, he was fully aware of that. Maybe it was because he’d known he would detonate if he had opened his mouth, maybe it had been an attempt to replicate something from the past, a desperate attempt to feel like he was back at home in the middle of a particularly long hike back to base camp.
Whatever the initial reason had been, all it had done had let that singular drive and determination take over, and the longer that silence stretched onwards with no reward or goal in sight, the more it gnawed at him, bore into him, tried tearing him to shreds. He could barely sit still anymore, his head was constantly pounding and his blood always at boiling point. Even talking to him was a risk, now; there had been a handful of moments when Morgan had done nothing more than open his mouth, only to have Aurelien snap at him and silence to fall once more.
At his very worst, when he was so wrapped up in the goal and the need to reach it, his mind became fully clouded, and he lost sight of why he was even chasing it.
But never who he was chasing it for.
Aurelien’s gaze snapped across to look at Morgan as the other boy started speaking. He carried on a few more steps before he realised that his companion had stopped, kneeling down to take care of a stray shoelace. He stopped in his tracks, adjusting his balance for the heavy weight in his hands. His brow furrowed.
But he didn’t speak. He waited, listening to Morgan, patient, absorbing his every word. They already needed to stop, after all. Talking wasn’t going to hold them up any longer. And besides, he could feel his expression soften somewhat as Morgan finished speaking, the phantom of a smile flickering across his face.
“I definitely wouldn’t have ended up doing anything like that.”
He let the mace’s handle slide through his fingers, weighted head coming to a full stop as it hit the ground, creating a small crater in the dirt. Any chance he could take to let it rest unaided, he would take.
“Not that I wouldn’t have wanted to help people like that, or to save lives, or just to create something cool. Science was just never really my strong suit. Or anything academic, for that matter.”
He ran his hand over the back of his neck, having to push aside matted, dirty hair to do so. His fingers brushed against his chin, usual stubble now replaced with a tangle of steel wire bristles. With that, and his bloodsoaked bandana, and the cuts and bruises and broken bones, he had to wonder if he’d even recognise himself in the mirror anymore.
“I didn’t really have a clue what I wanted to do in the near future, let alone the far future. Was probably gonna take a year off to travel, maybe go backpacking across Europe like my mom did. But, I dunno… I wasn’t skilled enough at soccer or basketball to go pro, and I don’t think there’s a huge career in throwing myself out of planes. Really, what I wanted most was to do something that’d ease the money problems my folks have had all my life, but I didn’t have a clue how to go about doing that.”
He paused for a moment, and a noise that could have been a laugh left his lips.
“And then I met Dante, and I had even less of a clue.”
He tugged at his bandana briefly. He could feel the blood crusted on it, turning the cyan, white and red into only the latter. He felt his shoulders sag, momentarily feeling like he was someone much smaller piloting a 6 foot tall frame.
“I think I would have followed Dante, wherever he’d have gone. I didn’t have any other plans, after all. I just wanted to be where he was. Whether that was still in Chattanooga, or the other side of the country, or a different continent altogether, that didn’t matter. I didn’t give a damn about the place, just who I would be sharing it with.”
He was breathing heavily again as he looked right at Morgan. His tired eyes were blinking faster than they had for days. He wasn’t a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Just one with the weight of a single person.
“I never stop thinking about him. Never.”
The silence as they walked was all too familiar.
It had accompanied Aurelien and Morgan at nearly every point since their group had been reduced to a duo. No matter where they were, it surrounded them, encompassed them, as they continued their death march forwards. It dissipated every now and then, but only for seconds at a time, returning to envelope them as soon as they’d finished their strategy talks and discussions for where to go next.
It was, by now, entirely unwelcome.
At some point in the past he had embraced the silence, he was fully aware of that. Maybe it was because he’d known he would detonate if he had opened his mouth, maybe it had been an attempt to replicate something from the past, a desperate attempt to feel like he was back at home in the middle of a particularly long hike back to base camp.
Whatever the initial reason had been, all it had done had let that singular drive and determination take over, and the longer that silence stretched onwards with no reward or goal in sight, the more it gnawed at him, bore into him, tried tearing him to shreds. He could barely sit still anymore, his head was constantly pounding and his blood always at boiling point. Even talking to him was a risk, now; there had been a handful of moments when Morgan had done nothing more than open his mouth, only to have Aurelien snap at him and silence to fall once more.
At his very worst, when he was so wrapped up in the goal and the need to reach it, his mind became fully clouded, and he lost sight of why he was even chasing it.
But never who he was chasing it for.
Aurelien’s gaze snapped across to look at Morgan as the other boy started speaking. He carried on a few more steps before he realised that his companion had stopped, kneeling down to take care of a stray shoelace. He stopped in his tracks, adjusting his balance for the heavy weight in his hands. His brow furrowed.
But he didn’t speak. He waited, listening to Morgan, patient, absorbing his every word. They already needed to stop, after all. Talking wasn’t going to hold them up any longer. And besides, he could feel his expression soften somewhat as Morgan finished speaking, the phantom of a smile flickering across his face.
“I definitely wouldn’t have ended up doing anything like that.”
He let the mace’s handle slide through his fingers, weighted head coming to a full stop as it hit the ground, creating a small crater in the dirt. Any chance he could take to let it rest unaided, he would take.
“Not that I wouldn’t have wanted to help people like that, or to save lives, or just to create something cool. Science was just never really my strong suit. Or anything academic, for that matter.”
He ran his hand over the back of his neck, having to push aside matted, dirty hair to do so. His fingers brushed against his chin, usual stubble now replaced with a tangle of steel wire bristles. With that, and his bloodsoaked bandana, and the cuts and bruises and broken bones, he had to wonder if he’d even recognise himself in the mirror anymore.
“I didn’t really have a clue what I wanted to do in the near future, let alone the far future. Was probably gonna take a year off to travel, maybe go backpacking across Europe like my mom did. But, I dunno… I wasn’t skilled enough at soccer or basketball to go pro, and I don’t think there’s a huge career in throwing myself out of planes. Really, what I wanted most was to do something that’d ease the money problems my folks have had all my life, but I didn’t have a clue how to go about doing that.”
He paused for a moment, and a noise that could have been a laugh left his lips.
“And then I met Dante, and I had even less of a clue.”
He tugged at his bandana briefly. He could feel the blood crusted on it, turning the cyan, white and red into only the latter. He felt his shoulders sag, momentarily feeling like he was someone much smaller piloting a 6 foot tall frame.
“I think I would have followed Dante, wherever he’d have gone. I didn’t have any other plans, after all. I just wanted to be where he was. Whether that was still in Chattanooga, or the other side of the country, or a different continent altogether, that didn’t matter. I didn’t give a damn about the place, just who I would be sharing it with.”
He was breathing heavily again as he looked right at Morgan. His tired eyes were blinking faster than they had for days. He wasn’t a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Just one with the weight of a single person.
“I never stop thinking about him. Never.”
"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
Having quickly dealt with the untidy shoelace, Morgan kept on kneeling, intently listening as Aurelien's serious exterior cracked a little bit. Obviously, Morgan knew of Dante. The guy was a fixture around school, the kind of guy who was hard to hate. They'd spoken, chummed around whenever he was hanging with Ross and that crew. Dante was a good guy — the kind that didn't at all deserve his fate. The pain was evident on Aurelien's face as he spoke, and Morgan felt his own pain bubble back up to the surface. There were so many losses, each more painful than the last, but the ones that left the lasting holes were the ones they were closest to. Fighting against his emotions, Morgan leaned forward on his knee and looked down at the ground. He didn't know what to say, but he tried anyway.
"That's love for you, right?" He looked back up having successfully battled his own emotions, for once. "When someone finds a place in your heart, you don't ever stop worrying about them or thinking about them."
In a nutshell, that had been Morgan's problem all along. While not an overly sentimental guy on most occasions, his emotions bubbled strongly beneath the surface. He could thank his mother for that, obviously. In this situation, it probably would have paid for him to be more like his father; stolid and stern. Being like that might have made him more prepared to face the horrors of Survival of the Fittest.
He was so glad that he wasn't like his father.
"When I woke up here, all I could think about," Morgan hesitated for a moment. When he'd first awoken, he'd screamed himself raw. His face fell. "The only thing that mattered was finding Lizzie. Just knowing what kinds of things were going to happen to us, it... I knew it wasn't like I could stop any of them, but I just thought that being together might help."
It hadn't. Lord knew, it hadn't.
"But that's love, right?" Morgan repeated and absently tapped his knee a few times. "Love means that you have to try. Even when it's probably a stupid idea and it means you're going to get yourself beaten up or killed, you have to try."
Gingerly, he leaned back and pulled himself to his feet with a weary grunt. After almost two weeks, his broken ribs still ached, a pain that had outlived the guy who had given it to him. Reaching up, he wiped his forehead with the back of his palm, pushing a greasy bang out of the way. His hair, already shaggy, was greasy and unkempt and was starting to push into his peripheral vision. Unfortunately, there were no more haircuts in his future. It was an inconvenience, hashtag first world problems.
"I should have done what she wanted," he rubbed his ribs, the formerly orange 8-bit cat on his shirt hissing in return. "Lizzie just wanted to stay hidden. But — love. I was in love with her, but I had love in my heart for someone else, too."
"That's love for you, right?" He looked back up having successfully battled his own emotions, for once. "When someone finds a place in your heart, you don't ever stop worrying about them or thinking about them."
In a nutshell, that had been Morgan's problem all along. While not an overly sentimental guy on most occasions, his emotions bubbled strongly beneath the surface. He could thank his mother for that, obviously. In this situation, it probably would have paid for him to be more like his father; stolid and stern. Being like that might have made him more prepared to face the horrors of Survival of the Fittest.
He was so glad that he wasn't like his father.
"When I woke up here, all I could think about," Morgan hesitated for a moment. When he'd first awoken, he'd screamed himself raw. His face fell. "The only thing that mattered was finding Lizzie. Just knowing what kinds of things were going to happen to us, it... I knew it wasn't like I could stop any of them, but I just thought that being together might help."
It hadn't. Lord knew, it hadn't.
"But that's love, right?" Morgan repeated and absently tapped his knee a few times. "Love means that you have to try. Even when it's probably a stupid idea and it means you're going to get yourself beaten up or killed, you have to try."
Gingerly, he leaned back and pulled himself to his feet with a weary grunt. After almost two weeks, his broken ribs still ached, a pain that had outlived the guy who had given it to him. Reaching up, he wiped his forehead with the back of his palm, pushing a greasy bang out of the way. His hair, already shaggy, was greasy and unkempt and was starting to push into his peripheral vision. Unfortunately, there were no more haircuts in his future. It was an inconvenience, hashtag first world problems.
"I should have done what she wanted," he rubbed his ribs, the formerly orange 8-bit cat on his shirt hissing in return. "Lizzie just wanted to stay hidden. But — love. I was in love with her, but I had love in my heart for someone else, too."
Sometimes, during those moments when he was wrapped up painfully tightly in the thoughts of his own lost love, it was easy to forget that he wasn’t alone in that regard. Lizzie, of course, was Morgan’s dearly departed, the person he’d been spending each second of every day and night thinking about and loving and missing with all his heart. They had, at least, managed to meet each other, spend a few precious moments with each other, before everything had been destroyed. Was that a worthwhile tradeoff for seeing your partner’s demise before your very eyes?
Of course, there was more to Morgan’s words than that. There were a handful of poly relationships that Aurelien was aware of, back at school, but he didn’t recall Morgan being part of any of those. Odds were, then, that he was referring to a friend of his, a close friend, a best friend, and if the odds were in his favour, then he was in all likelihood talking about Michael. That was another person he’d lost, even before he had been killed. That was another deep, aching hole in Morgan’s heart, another occupant of his mind gone forever.
It also occurred to Aurelien that he couldn’t think of anybody like that in his life. He had plenty of friends, he had good relationships with the majority of people on the soccer and basketball teams and in the GSA, but he couldn’t honestly say he had a friend who he’d follow to the ends of the earth, who he would kill or die or live for.
He couldn’t feel the same way that Morgan was feeling, he couldn’t share in this particular sorrow. So he stayed silent, watching over the other boy, trying to force his expression back to neutrality again.
“I think… I think you’re right,” he muttered eventually, keeping himself still, trying to look, at the very least, like he could keep himself together. “About love, I mean. That, if you love somebody, you’ll do anything you can to try and protect them and keep them safe, and keep them happy, even when it’s impossible.”
His vision had shifted as he’d been talking, and he found himself unable to look at his companion anymore, gazing instead off at the horizon, acknowledging but not absorbing what he saw.
“When I first woke up, I… I didn’t want to find Dante. It was the last thing I wanted, actually. I didn’t… You know Dante, he’s the most trusting person I’ve ever met, he wouldn’t hurt a fucking fly, even if it was pointing a gun at him. He wasn’t… He wasn’t built for something like this. Even if he lasted this long, the island would have crushed him under its heel, it would have fucking broken him.”
And he spoke the words like he himself was fully intact, like he hadn’t started shaking, like his eyes weren’t stinging and raw.
“I didn’t want to see that, and I didn’t want to see him get killed, and I didn’t want… I didn’t want him to see what the island would do to me. But all that meant was that I never got to spend another moment with him, and I didn’t get to even see him before he died, and the last I ever got to experience of him was swearing I could hear him crying out in fear in that goddamn auditorium, and it… fuck.”
He turned away fully, pressing the sleeve of his bomber jacket against his eyes.
“Sorry.”
He took a deep breath in, and felt it get caught in his throat.
“Sorry dude.”
Of course, there was more to Morgan’s words than that. There were a handful of poly relationships that Aurelien was aware of, back at school, but he didn’t recall Morgan being part of any of those. Odds were, then, that he was referring to a friend of his, a close friend, a best friend, and if the odds were in his favour, then he was in all likelihood talking about Michael. That was another person he’d lost, even before he had been killed. That was another deep, aching hole in Morgan’s heart, another occupant of his mind gone forever.
It also occurred to Aurelien that he couldn’t think of anybody like that in his life. He had plenty of friends, he had good relationships with the majority of people on the soccer and basketball teams and in the GSA, but he couldn’t honestly say he had a friend who he’d follow to the ends of the earth, who he would kill or die or live for.
He couldn’t feel the same way that Morgan was feeling, he couldn’t share in this particular sorrow. So he stayed silent, watching over the other boy, trying to force his expression back to neutrality again.
“I think… I think you’re right,” he muttered eventually, keeping himself still, trying to look, at the very least, like he could keep himself together. “About love, I mean. That, if you love somebody, you’ll do anything you can to try and protect them and keep them safe, and keep them happy, even when it’s impossible.”
His vision had shifted as he’d been talking, and he found himself unable to look at his companion anymore, gazing instead off at the horizon, acknowledging but not absorbing what he saw.
“When I first woke up, I… I didn’t want to find Dante. It was the last thing I wanted, actually. I didn’t… You know Dante, he’s the most trusting person I’ve ever met, he wouldn’t hurt a fucking fly, even if it was pointing a gun at him. He wasn’t… He wasn’t built for something like this. Even if he lasted this long, the island would have crushed him under its heel, it would have fucking broken him.”
And he spoke the words like he himself was fully intact, like he hadn’t started shaking, like his eyes weren’t stinging and raw.
“I didn’t want to see that, and I didn’t want to see him get killed, and I didn’t want… I didn’t want him to see what the island would do to me. But all that meant was that I never got to spend another moment with him, and I didn’t get to even see him before he died, and the last I ever got to experience of him was swearing I could hear him crying out in fear in that goddamn auditorium, and it… fuck.”
He turned away fully, pressing the sleeve of his bomber jacket against his eyes.
“Sorry.”
He took a deep breath in, and felt it get caught in his throat.
“Sorry dude.”
"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
Aurelien's stoic facade breaking away caused Morgan a visceral reaction; his shoulders tensed and he felt a pang in his stomach that wasn't the result of any physical wound. Most of the time, physical wounds healed. Aurelien was suffering from the kind of pain that would always be with him, no matter how long he lived — hours, days, decades? It didn't matter. What he had lost would always weigh on him more than anything he could possibly gain.
Morgan knew, he understood that particular pain all too well.
The distance between the two of them was negligible, but he cleared it slowly, purposeful but reticent. This was the most emotion he'd seen Aurelien show since they'd started travelling together. Neither Lizzie's death nor Henry's had caused him that much pause, yet the shadow that Dante cast over him was near-impenetrable. As Morgan found himself standing next to his friend, his thoughts were selfishly on the people he had lost. Everyone left had someone, didn't they?
Reaching over, he put his hand on the back of Aurelien's shoulder. It was a token gesture, but aside from vengeance, they were one another's only remaining companion. They were in this together, no matter what happened. "Don't apologize, man. You don't — I'm sure he was thinking of you, just like you are of him."
He only let his hand linger for long enough to convey support before he took it away. There would be time for feelings later — or there wouldn't. They needed one another's strength rather than a shoulder to cry on.
"Dante was a good dude," Morgan agreed, taking a step towards the trees. "In a way, the people who died quickly were spared, you know?"
That didn't make their trek for vengeance any less valid than it had been before. Nor did it change how morally dubious it was. He ignored that particular fact, even though it gnawed at him.
"Just think about it. People like —" He stopped, the sadness and frustration kicking him in the side. "Like Michael, they were changed by this shit. This kind of stress, it does things to your mind, it," he turned, throwing his hands up in the air, "it makes normal people do completely insane, fucked-up things."
Sighing, Morgan's voice got quieter.
"I loved Mike, you know?" Fuck. His eyes glassed over. "He was a fucking twat half of the time, but he was like the brother I never had. You hear people say that — 'I loved him like a brother'? Well, I actually did. So when I found him all messed up like he was, it—"
Reaching up, he wiped his eyes, trying his damndest to regain his composure. He couldn't finish that sentence, but he was sure that Aurelien knew. He knew.
"I'm so sorry that you had to see Dante the way you did. I can't imagine how that must have been and you guys spared me having to go through it too." Seeing Lizzie shoot herself would have been devastating to what remained of his psyche. "But seeing him the way that Michael was, broken and fucked-up and having to live through the idea that he'd done horrible things just to survive another day?"
It wasn't right. It would have been awful.
"Look at us, man. This shit changes you."
Morgan may have still been alive, but he wasn't entirely sure that he liked the person that he'd become while doing so.
Morgan knew, he understood that particular pain all too well.
The distance between the two of them was negligible, but he cleared it slowly, purposeful but reticent. This was the most emotion he'd seen Aurelien show since they'd started travelling together. Neither Lizzie's death nor Henry's had caused him that much pause, yet the shadow that Dante cast over him was near-impenetrable. As Morgan found himself standing next to his friend, his thoughts were selfishly on the people he had lost. Everyone left had someone, didn't they?
Reaching over, he put his hand on the back of Aurelien's shoulder. It was a token gesture, but aside from vengeance, they were one another's only remaining companion. They were in this together, no matter what happened. "Don't apologize, man. You don't — I'm sure he was thinking of you, just like you are of him."
He only let his hand linger for long enough to convey support before he took it away. There would be time for feelings later — or there wouldn't. They needed one another's strength rather than a shoulder to cry on.
"Dante was a good dude," Morgan agreed, taking a step towards the trees. "In a way, the people who died quickly were spared, you know?"
That didn't make their trek for vengeance any less valid than it had been before. Nor did it change how morally dubious it was. He ignored that particular fact, even though it gnawed at him.
"Just think about it. People like —" He stopped, the sadness and frustration kicking him in the side. "Like Michael, they were changed by this shit. This kind of stress, it does things to your mind, it," he turned, throwing his hands up in the air, "it makes normal people do completely insane, fucked-up things."
Sighing, Morgan's voice got quieter.
"I loved Mike, you know?" Fuck. His eyes glassed over. "He was a fucking twat half of the time, but he was like the brother I never had. You hear people say that — 'I loved him like a brother'? Well, I actually did. So when I found him all messed up like he was, it—"
Reaching up, he wiped his eyes, trying his damndest to regain his composure. He couldn't finish that sentence, but he was sure that Aurelien knew. He knew.
"I'm so sorry that you had to see Dante the way you did. I can't imagine how that must have been and you guys spared me having to go through it too." Seeing Lizzie shoot herself would have been devastating to what remained of his psyche. "But seeing him the way that Michael was, broken and fucked-up and having to live through the idea that he'd done horrible things just to survive another day?"
It wasn't right. It would have been awful.
"Look at us, man. This shit changes you."
Morgan may have still been alive, but he wasn't entirely sure that he liked the person that he'd become while doing so.
Aurelien jolted as he felt the hand upon his shoulder, the comforting touch that in his current state of mind could just as easily have been a threat or an attack. He was on the verge of spinning around and ripping the mace out of the ground, fight once against seizing control over flight, when his thoughts fell back into place again, and he settled once more, blood rush simmering back down until he was able to hear what Morgan was saying.
It was just him and Morgan out here. All alone, once again. If he could take any small comfort from this - and really, small comforts were all they had left now - it was that he still had someone by his side. Still somebody after all this time to lean on. Someone he knew he could trust without a second thought. Someone who would be with him, right up to the very end.
His arm fell back to his side, and he squinted, blinking again, eyes stinging and red. There was a damp stain on the sleeve of his jacket, but it could have been dirt, or sweat, or blood, for all the layers of filth he was caked in. It was Morgan’s turn now to hide his eyes and wipe his tears and try and fail to stop himself from cracking under the weight resting on him, and so Aurelien stayed close, and kept quiet, and gave the boy the same level of respect and understanding that he had been offered.
His educated guess had been right on the money; it had been Michael that Morgan had been talking about. The turn of phrase that Morgan used intrigued him, the knowledge that Michael had been even more than a best friend - a brother was a brother, regardless of whether blood was shared or not. Aurelien had no siblings; with his family’s finances the way they were, his parents really couldn’t afford to have another child. But for a brief, fraction of a second, he imagined what he’d do if he ran into his mom or his dad or his grandparents, blood on their hands, rambling and incoherent and half-suicidal, half-maniacal.
The thought sent a chill straight down his spine, and he immediately extinguished it from his mind. He had enough in there, enough to concern him and worry him and infuriate him, without adding the fuel of hypotheticals to the fire.
“Yeah,” Aurelien said, turning back towards Morgan, voice hoarse. He put his own hand on the other boy’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “It does. I don’t think anybody could make it this far without being changed in some way, fuck, I’d be more concerned if they hadn’t. And that means… that means Lizzie got to go out how she was as a person. Dante got to.... He got to die as Dante. I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to know, what might have happened to him if he was still standing here.”
He didn’t know, either, what Dante might think of him now, and whether he’d approve of how much he had changed, and whether he’d approve of, whether he’d agree with, whether he’d want this goal that Aurelien had sacrificed everything for, whether he’d want him to succeed or not.
Aurelien had to believe that he did, had to force himself to think that he was doing exactly what Dante wanted. He couldn’t confront a universe where that wasn’t true. Not now. Not after all that had happened.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that he never should have died. He never should have been in this position, none of these innocent victims should have been, and the fact that Blaise and Erika and all those other fucking murderers think they can justify what they’ve done to themselves despite that?”
He looked into Morgan’s eyes, fixing him with a steely, unmoving look.
“We’ve changed. And we’ll never get back who we were before. So… we both know there’s only one path from here on out.”
His hand slipped from Morgan’s shoulder, and hung in the air, ready for the other boy to take, an affirmation.
“To the end.”
It was just him and Morgan out here. All alone, once again. If he could take any small comfort from this - and really, small comforts were all they had left now - it was that he still had someone by his side. Still somebody after all this time to lean on. Someone he knew he could trust without a second thought. Someone who would be with him, right up to the very end.
His arm fell back to his side, and he squinted, blinking again, eyes stinging and red. There was a damp stain on the sleeve of his jacket, but it could have been dirt, or sweat, or blood, for all the layers of filth he was caked in. It was Morgan’s turn now to hide his eyes and wipe his tears and try and fail to stop himself from cracking under the weight resting on him, and so Aurelien stayed close, and kept quiet, and gave the boy the same level of respect and understanding that he had been offered.
His educated guess had been right on the money; it had been Michael that Morgan had been talking about. The turn of phrase that Morgan used intrigued him, the knowledge that Michael had been even more than a best friend - a brother was a brother, regardless of whether blood was shared or not. Aurelien had no siblings; with his family’s finances the way they were, his parents really couldn’t afford to have another child. But for a brief, fraction of a second, he imagined what he’d do if he ran into his mom or his dad or his grandparents, blood on their hands, rambling and incoherent and half-suicidal, half-maniacal.
The thought sent a chill straight down his spine, and he immediately extinguished it from his mind. He had enough in there, enough to concern him and worry him and infuriate him, without adding the fuel of hypotheticals to the fire.
“Yeah,” Aurelien said, turning back towards Morgan, voice hoarse. He put his own hand on the other boy’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “It does. I don’t think anybody could make it this far without being changed in some way, fuck, I’d be more concerned if they hadn’t. And that means… that means Lizzie got to go out how she was as a person. Dante got to.... He got to die as Dante. I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to know, what might have happened to him if he was still standing here.”
He didn’t know, either, what Dante might think of him now, and whether he’d approve of how much he had changed, and whether he’d approve of, whether he’d agree with, whether he’d want this goal that Aurelien had sacrificed everything for, whether he’d want him to succeed or not.
Aurelien had to believe that he did, had to force himself to think that he was doing exactly what Dante wanted. He couldn’t confront a universe where that wasn’t true. Not now. Not after all that had happened.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that he never should have died. He never should have been in this position, none of these innocent victims should have been, and the fact that Blaise and Erika and all those other fucking murderers think they can justify what they’ve done to themselves despite that?”
He looked into Morgan’s eyes, fixing him with a steely, unmoving look.
“We’ve changed. And we’ll never get back who we were before. So… we both know there’s only one path from here on out.”
His hand slipped from Morgan’s shoulder, and hung in the air, ready for the other boy to take, an affirmation.
“To the end.”
"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
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Latin For Dragula
- Posts: 1802
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
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((Blaise And Carl D'Aramitz Continued From The Details In The Devil))
One could be forgiven for mistaking this 'garden' for something more akin to a garage sale at first glance. The plants still surviving with seams fit to burst in their no longer accommodating jars spoke to the chic of suburban neglect well enough to set ambiance. Smatterings of crude items well past their usefulness laid displayed in what was clearly meant as reverence here and there, spotlights drawn to highlight prized possessions now parted for reasons their owners could not adequately justify if plied. Certainly not if the markers they left behind were to be any indication. It was a cryptic effort. A mishmash of incongruous garbage dedicated to drawing the eye but with nothing more interesting to say than 'I Matter.' Utterly useless. Blaise found the entire affair contemptible for its indulgence so much as its sentimentality. Surely not even its creators could find such a thing pleasing? There was no theme, yet it did not seem to lean fully into chaos either. Half-steps in every world so galling that they seemed almost intended to irritate the unaware of observer, to alienate and other, and there was a certain entertaining purpose there. Was there meaning to this rubbish lost along with the island's previous inhabitants? If one parsed through the impulse to turn away in disgust might clues be strung together to reveal something that was at least at one time deeply important in the micro-culture that birthed it?
Blaise did not know which was more pathetic; undertaking such an effort in the first place or being desperate enough to restructure it after the fact. At least if it was only meant to offend them it did its job properly. There was pride in being nothing but an adversary with the reliability of singular dimension.
I ain't even gonna ask what all that's 'sposed to mean.
Good.
Got other business on my mind.
It is not sharing time. That was not an invitation. I do not care.
Reckon you will in a minute or so if you was to keep walking that way.
Of course they kept walking.
I do not recall the last time your advice pointed to the correct path.
If you'd listen just a minute now-
In fact as i recall you were conjured as a reminder of supplication to my most base and pathetic impulses, meaning your guidance points the exact opposite direction I should follow.
Alright Freud, you have fun explaining that to them fellas up the way then.
The obvious question that hung over these internal conversations where both halves were acknowledged as fiction is why they continued at all. Entertainment could only explain so far, and the number of times one side withheld crucial information from the other outweighed any plausible benefit. The armchair psychology they invoked against themself might suppose that this mutually hostile relationship was a sort of karmic release valve, faux admonishment in lieu of the repercussions even they could not deny they deserved yet continually escaped from scot free. There had never been a moment of truly credible consequence hanging over their head, much less one they would acknowledge, banish the idea of one actually coming to pass with lasting result. They escaped, time and time again they escaped by happenstance, second rate trickery, the stupidity of others, the contortion of reality around their health and prosperity, name it what you would. Outside of their own head(and perhaps slightly to each of its sides) Blaise remained relatively untouched.
So perhaps even now as the spectre of consequence loomed over their path with a mace larger than their skull in the dirt beside him they could not resist the twin arrogance in believing Aurelien would prove one more doom they would slip away from smirking and that if they mocked themself well enough in passing it would be enough to trick whatever cosmic hand measured the scales of their moral burdens into believing they were still balanced.
That there's an awful obtuse way of saying we're fucked.
Not one of the three men earned the dignity of acknowledgement. They simply froze with their hands in their pockets. It was admittedly a longshot that would be challenging to delude themself into, but perhaps if they stood very, vey, very still, Aurelien and his companion would be too lost in whatever reverie drew them together to notice them.
One could be forgiven for mistaking this 'garden' for something more akin to a garage sale at first glance. The plants still surviving with seams fit to burst in their no longer accommodating jars spoke to the chic of suburban neglect well enough to set ambiance. Smatterings of crude items well past their usefulness laid displayed in what was clearly meant as reverence here and there, spotlights drawn to highlight prized possessions now parted for reasons their owners could not adequately justify if plied. Certainly not if the markers they left behind were to be any indication. It was a cryptic effort. A mishmash of incongruous garbage dedicated to drawing the eye but with nothing more interesting to say than 'I Matter.' Utterly useless. Blaise found the entire affair contemptible for its indulgence so much as its sentimentality. Surely not even its creators could find such a thing pleasing? There was no theme, yet it did not seem to lean fully into chaos either. Half-steps in every world so galling that they seemed almost intended to irritate the unaware of observer, to alienate and other, and there was a certain entertaining purpose there. Was there meaning to this rubbish lost along with the island's previous inhabitants? If one parsed through the impulse to turn away in disgust might clues be strung together to reveal something that was at least at one time deeply important in the micro-culture that birthed it?
Blaise did not know which was more pathetic; undertaking such an effort in the first place or being desperate enough to restructure it after the fact. At least if it was only meant to offend them it did its job properly. There was pride in being nothing but an adversary with the reliability of singular dimension.
I ain't even gonna ask what all that's 'sposed to mean.
Good.
Got other business on my mind.
It is not sharing time. That was not an invitation. I do not care.
Reckon you will in a minute or so if you was to keep walking that way.
Of course they kept walking.
I do not recall the last time your advice pointed to the correct path.
If you'd listen just a minute now-
In fact as i recall you were conjured as a reminder of supplication to my most base and pathetic impulses, meaning your guidance points the exact opposite direction I should follow.
Alright Freud, you have fun explaining that to them fellas up the way then.
The obvious question that hung over these internal conversations where both halves were acknowledged as fiction is why they continued at all. Entertainment could only explain so far, and the number of times one side withheld crucial information from the other outweighed any plausible benefit. The armchair psychology they invoked against themself might suppose that this mutually hostile relationship was a sort of karmic release valve, faux admonishment in lieu of the repercussions even they could not deny they deserved yet continually escaped from scot free. There had never been a moment of truly credible consequence hanging over their head, much less one they would acknowledge, banish the idea of one actually coming to pass with lasting result. They escaped, time and time again they escaped by happenstance, second rate trickery, the stupidity of others, the contortion of reality around their health and prosperity, name it what you would. Outside of their own head(and perhaps slightly to each of its sides) Blaise remained relatively untouched.
So perhaps even now as the spectre of consequence loomed over their path with a mace larger than their skull in the dirt beside him they could not resist the twin arrogance in believing Aurelien would prove one more doom they would slip away from smirking and that if they mocked themself well enough in passing it would be enough to trick whatever cosmic hand measured the scales of their moral burdens into believing they were still balanced.
That there's an awful obtuse way of saying we're fucked.
Not one of the three men earned the dignity of acknowledgement. They simply froze with their hands in their pockets. It was admittedly a longshot that would be challenging to delude themself into, but perhaps if they stood very, vey, very still, Aurelien and his companion would be too lost in whatever reverie drew them together to notice them.
Their shared grief told Morgan one important thing, as Aurelien returned the gesture and countered with one of his own. It was actually nice to feel a genuine friendship after so many days of hell. It was good to know that you could still establish an actual connection with another human being in circumstances that didn't engender it. Plus, he was right. Their friends had died as themselves, not whatever twisted persona the explosive collars had inferred upon them. They would never set their eyes upon Dante or Lizzie and see a stranger in their place.
"It's not something that needs to be thought about. We have to hold on to what's important."
Morgan didn't need to go through that again. The stranger that Michael had become in his final days was one that he hoped his friend's family would remain ignorant of. Looking up, he saw that Aurelien had moved in front of him and was looking him dead in the eyes. As he spoke, Morgan saw the determination in him, the fire that burned to make those who were responsible pay. That was such a broad term; responsible. The terrorists were at fault, their classmates were at fault — hell, even they were at fault in a manner of speaking. There was more than enough blame to go around. All they could do now was try and use the changes they saw within themselves to try and affect some sort of positive change.
Even if that positive change meant wiping some of their classmates off of the face of the planet.
Morgan hated that. He hated every single second of it; he wasn't a fighter. His shoulders sunk as he allowed himself to truly accept and understand what needed to be done. Violence was the last option, it was the worst option and it wasn't a mentality that he understood. But it was all they had left, now. That and each other.
Aurelien knew that too, his hand extended in front of him.
Listen, there's a moment when everything—
There sure was, Henry. There sure was.
Morgan grasped Aurelien's hand with his own, trying to lend whatever power he had left while osmosing the strength that his companion radiated.
"I'm with you. To the end."
Whatever had to be done now, it was on the both of them. There was no hesitation, no more feeling bad about it. Morgan knew that he would have to become something that he wasn't sure he could just to try and earn the right to live another day. He hoped his mother would forgive him for having to walk down this path. It was—
"Jesus," he breathed.
His eyes widened as he glanced away from Aurelien for a moment and saw a figure in the bushes. He had recognized them immediately; it was as if they were on cue. Morgan's hand went right to the pistol in his pocket and he gestured with his head.
"Aurelien," a chill went down his spine, "it's Blaise."
"It's not something that needs to be thought about. We have to hold on to what's important."
Morgan didn't need to go through that again. The stranger that Michael had become in his final days was one that he hoped his friend's family would remain ignorant of. Looking up, he saw that Aurelien had moved in front of him and was looking him dead in the eyes. As he spoke, Morgan saw the determination in him, the fire that burned to make those who were responsible pay. That was such a broad term; responsible. The terrorists were at fault, their classmates were at fault — hell, even they were at fault in a manner of speaking. There was more than enough blame to go around. All they could do now was try and use the changes they saw within themselves to try and affect some sort of positive change.
Even if that positive change meant wiping some of their classmates off of the face of the planet.
Morgan hated that. He hated every single second of it; he wasn't a fighter. His shoulders sunk as he allowed himself to truly accept and understand what needed to be done. Violence was the last option, it was the worst option and it wasn't a mentality that he understood. But it was all they had left, now. That and each other.
Aurelien knew that too, his hand extended in front of him.
Listen, there's a moment when everything—
There sure was, Henry. There sure was.
Morgan grasped Aurelien's hand with his own, trying to lend whatever power he had left while osmosing the strength that his companion radiated.
"I'm with you. To the end."
Whatever had to be done now, it was on the both of them. There was no hesitation, no more feeling bad about it. Morgan knew that he would have to become something that he wasn't sure he could just to try and earn the right to live another day. He hoped his mother would forgive him for having to walk down this path. It was—
"Jesus," he breathed.
His eyes widened as he glanced away from Aurelien for a moment and saw a figure in the bushes. He had recognized them immediately; it was as if they were on cue. Morgan's hand went right to the pistol in his pocket and he gestured with his head.
"Aurelien," a chill went down his spine, "it's Blaise."
He fixed Morgan with a grim smile, their hands clutched together. A ‘tennis handshake’, he remembered that was called. Information he’d picked up as he’d travelled through life, their origin long forgotten, even as the facts remained in his head. Information that was soon to vanish into thin air, information and facts and knowledge and thoughts and opinions and feelings all gone, forever.
It was too late, now, to let his emotions get to him in this way, to get cold feet at the prospect of dying. There was nothing he could do to change his fate, after all. Even if he hadn’t chosen this path, death was almost completely certain; the only difference was that it’s hour was ever so slightly more uncertain.
This island was going to kill him. Better he went out swinging.
He felt Morgan tense up, his grip tightening, and he knew something was about to go down even before the other boy said anything. He let go and turned around, following Morgan’s line of sight, towards the bushes.
There they were.
His blood froze for a single moment, then it shattered and bubbled as it boiled and raged inside of him, the mere sight of his target flicking a switch inside of him and making him see red. He breathed heavily through his nose. His throat felt dry. His head had started pounding.
His hands moved by instinct, ignoring the gun in his pocket, moving past the crossbow. Slowly, the mace raised up, coming to rest in his hands, knuckles white against the handle. There was nothing in the universe except for the three people standing in this garden.
He took one, slow step forwards.
It was too late, now, to let his emotions get to him in this way, to get cold feet at the prospect of dying. There was nothing he could do to change his fate, after all. Even if he hadn’t chosen this path, death was almost completely certain; the only difference was that it’s hour was ever so slightly more uncertain.
This island was going to kill him. Better he went out swinging.
He felt Morgan tense up, his grip tightening, and he knew something was about to go down even before the other boy said anything. He let go and turned around, following Morgan’s line of sight, towards the bushes.
There they were.
His blood froze for a single moment, then it shattered and bubbled as it boiled and raged inside of him, the mere sight of his target flicking a switch inside of him and making him see red. He breathed heavily through his nose. His throat felt dry. His head had started pounding.
His hands moved by instinct, ignoring the gun in his pocket, moving past the crossbow. Slowly, the mace raised up, coming to rest in his hands, knuckles white against the handle. There was nothing in the universe except for the three people standing in this garden.
He took one, slow step forwards.
"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
((Diego Larrosa continues from Beyond Human (Barely Human)))
The silence insisted itself now. It always surrounded Diego in these forever nothing days, like the last time he’d been alone, but it was an active presence, now that the rain had stopped. Leaves crinkled beneath his foot, and the rustling immediately subsided into nothing as soon as it arrived. He inhaled and exhaled as he made his trek downhill towards somewhere, anywhere, and his breath faded into nothing. He had turned away the ocean, the lake, he could not return to the manor, so he was back in the woods, his own personal purgatory.
The straps of his bag, his grenade launcher embedded themselves further in his shoulder, almost as if they would tear through him. There were more scavenged scraps from departed companions now, more weight on his back. Same old company, the grenade launcher, the bag, the gun, and new company, Marceline's gun, zipped up in the bag, insisted on bringing him closer and closer to the dirt, each step laborious, an endeavor thanks to them, and yet Diego pushed on regardless. There was nothing left for him but to push on.
The woods cleared, and yet Diego felt no relief once he saw what laid beneath the trees.
If he squinted, he could swear he still saw his own dried streaks of blood on the stone bench, self-inflicted. His forehead itched. If he squinted further, he could pretend to see the silhouette of a six-foot man haunched on the bench, looking at him. Put in the work.
Ty wasn’t around anymore, of course. He was just one ghost of dozens scattered around the island. There wasn’t really any escaping them, given that, aside from the forever woods, the only available places were in the south of the island. Diego’s desire to go anywhere other than the manor had brought him back here.
The apparition remained on the bench for a few more seconds. The idea of someone who regarded him positively felt nice. He opened his eyes properly, and the apparition faded. They all went away anyways.
He had arrived at his destination of anywhere else now. He had not planned beyond that. So, he wandered among steel-wire approximations of human outlines and discarded toy cars and overgrown potted plants. Maybe he’d set himself up in the temple, he thought idly.
He ended up walking past an opening, a path in between two rows of plants. There were figures in the distance, roughly twenty meters from him, he paused. The closest of them was faced away from him, small, pale, the build vaguely familiar. They had red hair, wore a jacket. It all seemed familiar, but disparate. He did not know who it was. He put his hand on his gun regardless.
And, in the further distance, five meters further, there were two men facing him. Diego’s attention was momentarily preoccupied by the red-haired person turned away from him. He did not recognize the flash of recognition, anger, on one of their faces.
There were some ghosts Diego had forgotten about.
The silence insisted itself now. It always surrounded Diego in these forever nothing days, like the last time he’d been alone, but it was an active presence, now that the rain had stopped. Leaves crinkled beneath his foot, and the rustling immediately subsided into nothing as soon as it arrived. He inhaled and exhaled as he made his trek downhill towards somewhere, anywhere, and his breath faded into nothing. He had turned away the ocean, the lake, he could not return to the manor, so he was back in the woods, his own personal purgatory.
The straps of his bag, his grenade launcher embedded themselves further in his shoulder, almost as if they would tear through him. There were more scavenged scraps from departed companions now, more weight on his back. Same old company, the grenade launcher, the bag, the gun, and new company, Marceline's gun, zipped up in the bag, insisted on bringing him closer and closer to the dirt, each step laborious, an endeavor thanks to them, and yet Diego pushed on regardless. There was nothing left for him but to push on.
The woods cleared, and yet Diego felt no relief once he saw what laid beneath the trees.
If he squinted, he could swear he still saw his own dried streaks of blood on the stone bench, self-inflicted. His forehead itched. If he squinted further, he could pretend to see the silhouette of a six-foot man haunched on the bench, looking at him. Put in the work.
Ty wasn’t around anymore, of course. He was just one ghost of dozens scattered around the island. There wasn’t really any escaping them, given that, aside from the forever woods, the only available places were in the south of the island. Diego’s desire to go anywhere other than the manor had brought him back here.
The apparition remained on the bench for a few more seconds. The idea of someone who regarded him positively felt nice. He opened his eyes properly, and the apparition faded. They all went away anyways.
He had arrived at his destination of anywhere else now. He had not planned beyond that. So, he wandered among steel-wire approximations of human outlines and discarded toy cars and overgrown potted plants. Maybe he’d set himself up in the temple, he thought idly.
He ended up walking past an opening, a path in between two rows of plants. There were figures in the distance, roughly twenty meters from him, he paused. The closest of them was faced away from him, small, pale, the build vaguely familiar. They had red hair, wore a jacket. It all seemed familiar, but disparate. He did not know who it was. He put his hand on his gun regardless.
And, in the further distance, five meters further, there were two men facing him. Diego’s attention was momentarily preoccupied by the red-haired person turned away from him. He did not recognize the flash of recognition, anger, on one of their faces.
There were some ghosts Diego had forgotten about.
-
Latin For Dragula
- Posts: 1802
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
Shoot him.
Blaise had been caught on the wrong side of a number of weapons Their first memories of this place involved a gun pointed in their general direction and a number of others had actually taken shots. Those did not count some portion of the attempts to turn their own weapons against them or the cruder implements brought to bear against them. Fists, bats, the like. Any one of them could have killed them. Perhaps they should have, but Blaise treated so few as legitimate threats. How had he, meaning they, meaning we, put it over the waterfall? ’Craziest part is that it worked out. It just...worked out, 'cuz that's what bein' Blaise D'Aramitz is like.’ The notion stroked their ego nicely, and if it were to hold true then they had nothing to fear from the boy approaching them now. They should smirk, draw their gun, and
Just shoot him.
Their hands remained frozen in their pockets. Because it was not so simple as throwing care to the four corners and doing whatever they wanted. Neither was it advanced intuition on the nature of conflict that ensured they were always one step ahead of their opponents. In truth it was no such ephemeral a thing as luck either. At root their actions were guided by reading the actions of others. Their strategies revolved around the gamble that every person they encountered and escalated in conflict with lacked either means or will to harm them to a significant degree. They were as certain of this as they were certain they would win against weak hands at the table. It came down to the amount of damage one was willing to take and to deal. Everyone else they encountered was playing for an objective. To win, to save someone, to obtain something, the details were unimportant. All of them had something greater beyond the task at hand guiding them. Blaise’s goals were bullshit. They never mattered as more than set dressing to the task at hand. That is why they won so often; they didn’t want to, so they took risks that would leave others flinching at the cost.
But you don’t gotta if you just shoot him.
As much as Aurelien and Blaise did not approve of each other they were creatures of the same impulses. Aurelien had no goal, and while his lack of longevity stemmed more from an absence of intellect than of concern the functions were not so different. He set his sight on a task and carried it to completion. Nothing swayed him. Nothing slowed him. If it were important enough he would be consumed until he had no more effort to put forth. Yes, they could be certain. There was a measure to his step. Steadiness in his gaze. Quickening pulse in the veins sticking out of his forehead. Knuckles that would go white around the metal below them. There would be no hesitation. There was no game of chicken Blaise could play that would throw him off of his course. Given the opportunity Aurelien was absolutely going to kill them.
Which is why you gotta shoot him.
Their hands remained frozen in their pockets.
Shoot him.
Aurelien was going to kill them.
Lord Almighty.
Yes.
Shoot. Him.
They could work with that.
The garden was plotted to the side of a large, wooden building. Some sort of center of worship. Certainly he would have greater difficulty following him through its moldering trappings than he would in the open field. The right motivation, the proper angles...yes. They could separate him from his companion. Then he would play on their terms.
Blaise began to wander to the left, matching Aurelien’s steady pace to keep distance. “He was looking for you, you know,” they called out without bothering to offer greeting. It was clear enough what they were discussing. “Shame. You never were there when he really needed you.” A vague insult. It had no memory backing it up. Blaise could not recall any heartfelt confidence Dante shared about Aurelien’s absence here or elsewhere, but the truth was not their aim. Aurelien was going to kill them. They could say anything and it would only fuel that fire. All they required was his focus bleeding into careless rage to keep him off balance.
Dante would not complain. Blaise was about to broker their reunion.
Blaise had been caught on the wrong side of a number of weapons Their first memories of this place involved a gun pointed in their general direction and a number of others had actually taken shots. Those did not count some portion of the attempts to turn their own weapons against them or the cruder implements brought to bear against them. Fists, bats, the like. Any one of them could have killed them. Perhaps they should have, but Blaise treated so few as legitimate threats. How had he, meaning they, meaning we, put it over the waterfall? ’Craziest part is that it worked out. It just...worked out, 'cuz that's what bein' Blaise D'Aramitz is like.’ The notion stroked their ego nicely, and if it were to hold true then they had nothing to fear from the boy approaching them now. They should smirk, draw their gun, and
Just shoot him.
Their hands remained frozen in their pockets. Because it was not so simple as throwing care to the four corners and doing whatever they wanted. Neither was it advanced intuition on the nature of conflict that ensured they were always one step ahead of their opponents. In truth it was no such ephemeral a thing as luck either. At root their actions were guided by reading the actions of others. Their strategies revolved around the gamble that every person they encountered and escalated in conflict with lacked either means or will to harm them to a significant degree. They were as certain of this as they were certain they would win against weak hands at the table. It came down to the amount of damage one was willing to take and to deal. Everyone else they encountered was playing for an objective. To win, to save someone, to obtain something, the details were unimportant. All of them had something greater beyond the task at hand guiding them. Blaise’s goals were bullshit. They never mattered as more than set dressing to the task at hand. That is why they won so often; they didn’t want to, so they took risks that would leave others flinching at the cost.
But you don’t gotta if you just shoot him.
As much as Aurelien and Blaise did not approve of each other they were creatures of the same impulses. Aurelien had no goal, and while his lack of longevity stemmed more from an absence of intellect than of concern the functions were not so different. He set his sight on a task and carried it to completion. Nothing swayed him. Nothing slowed him. If it were important enough he would be consumed until he had no more effort to put forth. Yes, they could be certain. There was a measure to his step. Steadiness in his gaze. Quickening pulse in the veins sticking out of his forehead. Knuckles that would go white around the metal below them. There would be no hesitation. There was no game of chicken Blaise could play that would throw him off of his course. Given the opportunity Aurelien was absolutely going to kill them.
Which is why you gotta shoot him.
Their hands remained frozen in their pockets.
Shoot him.
Aurelien was going to kill them.
Lord Almighty.
Yes.
Shoot. Him.
They could work with that.
The garden was plotted to the side of a large, wooden building. Some sort of center of worship. Certainly he would have greater difficulty following him through its moldering trappings than he would in the open field. The right motivation, the proper angles...yes. They could separate him from his companion. Then he would play on their terms.
Blaise began to wander to the left, matching Aurelien’s steady pace to keep distance. “He was looking for you, you know,” they called out without bothering to offer greeting. It was clear enough what they were discussing. “Shame. You never were there when he really needed you.” A vague insult. It had no memory backing it up. Blaise could not recall any heartfelt confidence Dante shared about Aurelien’s absence here or elsewhere, but the truth was not their aim. Aurelien was going to kill them. They could say anything and it would only fuel that fire. All they required was his focus bleeding into careless rage to keep him off balance.
Dante would not complain. Blaise was about to broker their reunion.
Aurelien didn't say much of anything; he didn't need to. Everything that was worth saying had been conveyed by the menacing steps he took in Blaise's general direction. Morgan caught it all loud and clear, and by the way that their lithe classmate spat a retort back in their general direction, so did Blaise. Yet still, Aurelien stalked them wordlessly. His was a singular mind dominated by the need to avenge one love. In some situations, silence was louder than words.
Problem was? Morgan had never been much for silence; often his mouth moved first while his brain followed behind.
"Shut up, just shut the fuck up, you psycho-murdering bitch!" Morgan appeared behind Aurelien, his finger pointed in fury at the murderer before them. It was a raw nerve, but he found offense for his friend. With each expletive, he jabbed in their direction, his heart pumping and the blood rushing to his face.
Pointing the pistol might have been a better idea, but anger got the best of him.
So this was it; the moment that Aurelien had been waiting for since the very moment he had found his boyfriend's lifeless body. The very moment that Morgan had been dreading ever since the boys had made their agreement, back before Henry—
Something moved in the trees and once his eyes left Blaise and settled on the second figure standing frozen before them, Morgan let his finger fall to his side.
"Holy shit," he muttered, anger giving way to an almost bemused shock.
The pistol came out of his pocket now, though he kept his right hand limp; the weapon remained pointed at the ground. Frustration boiled up once more in Morgan's chest, but this frustration, this feeling of required vengeance belonged to him. Clenching his teeth, he exhaled through his nose, trying to calm himself. His heart thundered in his ears; all he could hear were the words that had haunted him for days.
Morgan tilted his head back and laughed out loud. Fate, it seemed, had a sense of humour. He finally understood the joke. Raising his left hand in a greeting, he waved at the fourth occupant of the garden, his voice inappropriately jovial while white-hot rage seethed just beneath the surface.
"Diego! Hey, what's up buddy! Long time no see!"
They weren't buddies; they were barely even friends, but now all of the players had arrived and Aurelien would have a face to put to the name.
Just in case.
Problem was? Morgan had never been much for silence; often his mouth moved first while his brain followed behind.
"Shut up, just shut the fuck up, you psycho-murdering bitch!" Morgan appeared behind Aurelien, his finger pointed in fury at the murderer before them. It was a raw nerve, but he found offense for his friend. With each expletive, he jabbed in their direction, his heart pumping and the blood rushing to his face.
Pointing the pistol might have been a better idea, but anger got the best of him.
So this was it; the moment that Aurelien had been waiting for since the very moment he had found his boyfriend's lifeless body. The very moment that Morgan had been dreading ever since the boys had made their agreement, back before Henry—
Something moved in the trees and once his eyes left Blaise and settled on the second figure standing frozen before them, Morgan let his finger fall to his side.
"Holy shit," he muttered, anger giving way to an almost bemused shock.
The pistol came out of his pocket now, though he kept his right hand limp; the weapon remained pointed at the ground. Frustration boiled up once more in Morgan's chest, but this frustration, this feeling of required vengeance belonged to him. Clenching his teeth, he exhaled through his nose, trying to calm himself. His heart thundered in his ears; all he could hear were the words that had haunted him for days.
Listen, there's a moment when everything—
Morgan tilted his head back and laughed out loud. Fate, it seemed, had a sense of humour. He finally understood the joke. Raising his left hand in a greeting, he waved at the fourth occupant of the garden, his voice inappropriately jovial while white-hot rage seethed just beneath the surface.
"Diego! Hey, what's up buddy! Long time no see!"
They weren't buddies; they were barely even friends, but now all of the players had arrived and Aurelien would have a face to put to the name.
Just in case.
They opened their mouth and they spoke, because that was what Blaise did, that was how they kept themselves amused. They talked, and they tempted, and they suggested. Lies, ranging from little white ones to complete untruths that nonetheless made you stop, and pause, and consider. Insults and put-downs in the name of “friendship”, of bettering the target through destructive criticism - or so they claimed, after the fact. Aurelien had seen it all, exposed to what made Blaise themselves through his time spent with Dante. He expected it. It would have been more of a shock if they hadn’t tried to taunt him.
The words hit him like a tidal wave against a rock. They engulfed him, surrounded him, forced him to listen to them. He stood firm against them. He stayed standing. He kept walking.
But the erosion within, the saltwater sting of their insults, had already started eating away at what little remained of his self-control.
Because he hadn’t been there for Dante, when it mattered most. And it didn’t matter that the implications in Blaise’s words, that he was unreliable, untrustworthy, the wrong guy for a good man, were all a heaping pile of bullshit. He hadn’t been there when Dante was in peril, and he had let the wolves in, let Blaise find him first, let them prey on his kind heart, his good nature, his trust.
He tasted blood in his mouth. He could almost feel the indents in his mace where his hands were squeezing it. He saw the red flag, understood it for what it was. He prepared to charge anyway.
There was just enough self-control within him for Aurelien to hear Morgan behind him, though. He heard the name that left the other boy’s lips, and his feet took root, forcing him to a standstill. He turned to look at the second new arrival, the other murderer on the scene. He looked straight at Diego, the red mist visible in his eyes.
Two targets. Two murderers. And two men with nothing more to lose and an endless stretch of reasons to hate the two people in front of them.
Aurelien glanced backwards, catching Morgan’s eye. He pulled his bloodsoaked bandana down to his neck, before tugging it up until it covered his nose and mouth. He nodded at Morgan, knowing this might be the last time he saw the other boy still breathing.
He turned back around, and started moving again. His pace quickened, mirrored by his pulse.
The words hit him like a tidal wave against a rock. They engulfed him, surrounded him, forced him to listen to them. He stood firm against them. He stayed standing. He kept walking.
But the erosion within, the saltwater sting of their insults, had already started eating away at what little remained of his self-control.
Because he hadn’t been there for Dante, when it mattered most. And it didn’t matter that the implications in Blaise’s words, that he was unreliable, untrustworthy, the wrong guy for a good man, were all a heaping pile of bullshit. He hadn’t been there when Dante was in peril, and he had let the wolves in, let Blaise find him first, let them prey on his kind heart, his good nature, his trust.
He tasted blood in his mouth. He could almost feel the indents in his mace where his hands were squeezing it. He saw the red flag, understood it for what it was. He prepared to charge anyway.
There was just enough self-control within him for Aurelien to hear Morgan behind him, though. He heard the name that left the other boy’s lips, and his feet took root, forcing him to a standstill. He turned to look at the second new arrival, the other murderer on the scene. He looked straight at Diego, the red mist visible in his eyes.
Two targets. Two murderers. And two men with nothing more to lose and an endless stretch of reasons to hate the two people in front of them.
Aurelien glanced backwards, catching Morgan’s eye. He pulled his bloodsoaked bandana down to his neck, before tugging it up until it covered his nose and mouth. He nodded at Morgan, knowing this might be the last time he saw the other boy still breathing.
He turned back around, and started moving again. His pace quickened, mirrored by his pulse.
"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
Who was he?
What did he do to him?
Diego had definitely done something to him, but what?
He had sinned against so many people over his time on the island. He had robbed Justin, was complicit in Dane’s death. He slit Mike’s throat on impulse, dug his shovel into Cam, injured, potentially disfigured, impaired Ace, Sakurako, the two others at the lake, literally exploded Henry, desecrated Lorenzo’s corpse. This was where he’d gotten to in life. There were many ghosts that tugged at Diego. He wasn’t even sure which one was coming to collect.
Morgan was the guy calling out to him, he decided, the guy grinning yet walking towards him inexorably. Mike did baseball, his friends probably did sports too, Morgan didn’t. Henry probably, he probably knew Henry. He wasn’t one of the people at the lake maybe, none of them were white, tall. Henry, he knew Henry.
It didn’t even matter what specific reason Morgan had. What mattered was that Morgan had a gun in his hand right now, what mattered was that Morgan was making his way towards him, laughing, what mattered was that there was a glimmer in Morgan’s eyes that fucking terrified Diego.
He shouldn’t have come here. He should’ve stayed in the manor. He’d known this would happen, he knew people hated him, he knew he would never find another ally, so why had he left? What was the point of heading to anywhere else?
He caught a glimpse of the red-haired person’s face. The structure was familiar, they felt important. But Diego was more preoccupied with other things right now. He’d figure them out later.
Without a reply, he started taking slow, careful steps backwards out the garden path, maintaining their distance, visibly pulling the gun out of his waistband.
What did he do to him?
Diego had definitely done something to him, but what?
He had sinned against so many people over his time on the island. He had robbed Justin, was complicit in Dane’s death. He slit Mike’s throat on impulse, dug his shovel into Cam, injured, potentially disfigured, impaired Ace, Sakurako, the two others at the lake, literally exploded Henry, desecrated Lorenzo’s corpse. This was where he’d gotten to in life. There were many ghosts that tugged at Diego. He wasn’t even sure which one was coming to collect.
Morgan was the guy calling out to him, he decided, the guy grinning yet walking towards him inexorably. Mike did baseball, his friends probably did sports too, Morgan didn’t. Henry probably, he probably knew Henry. He wasn’t one of the people at the lake maybe, none of them were white, tall. Henry, he knew Henry.
It didn’t even matter what specific reason Morgan had. What mattered was that Morgan had a gun in his hand right now, what mattered was that Morgan was making his way towards him, laughing, what mattered was that there was a glimmer in Morgan’s eyes that fucking terrified Diego.
He shouldn’t have come here. He should’ve stayed in the manor. He’d known this would happen, he knew people hated him, he knew he would never find another ally, so why had he left? What was the point of heading to anywhere else?
He caught a glimpse of the red-haired person’s face. The structure was familiar, they felt important. But Diego was more preoccupied with other things right now. He’d figure them out later.
Without a reply, he started taking slow, careful steps backwards out the garden path, maintaining their distance, visibly pulling the gun out of his waistband.
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Latin For Dragula
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Aurelien advanced on them with the slack-jawed focus of a man whose rage had all but blinded and deafened him to the rest of the world. His only acknowledgement of his partner's predicament was a nod; it seemed no strain on their relationship to divide and be conquered. The malice in the other boy's tone suggested they had scores to settle with Blaise and an unseen Diego, whoever that was, but rather than collapse on one target they split their vengeance down the middle. Greedy. Thoughtlessly greedy.
Once again they escaped consequences because of the stupidity of others.
Everything was working out in their favor.
That was what it meant to be Blaise D'Aramitz.
They pulled the musty letterman jacket over their face and mimicked Aurelien's nod back to him before dropping it to reveal their smirk. "No looking back. What's one more man left to die?"
And they ran.
((Blaise And Carl D'Aramitz Continued In You'll Never Walk Alone))
Once again they escaped consequences because of the stupidity of others.
Everything was working out in their favor.
That was what it meant to be Blaise D'Aramitz.
They pulled the musty letterman jacket over their face and mimicked Aurelien's nod back to him before dropping it to reveal their smirk. "No looking back. What's one more man left to die?"
And they ran.
((Blaise And Carl D'Aramitz Continued In You'll Never Walk Alone))