Medically Ineffective Intervention

[Buko]

Richard panicked as he stared into her teary eyes and tried to avoid looking at her bloody lips. Baby-blues went over red stains and Dick immediately knew the result of his lack of aim. Two holes and two pools blood, right in the torso, one by a lung and one in the gut. Didn’t need to pass Honors Anatomy and Physiology to spot those points. In the real world the injuries would require a skilled surgeon, a determined ambulance driver and a lucky day of light traffic to get Iris out of this alive. On murder island? The only thing Dick could do was watch it happen. Nobody was getting out of this alive, Iris had just skipped ahead of the line. That was victim blaming a bit though, wasn't it? Iris hadn't skipped in the line at all, Dickie had punched her early ticket.

“Fuck,” he muttered as hot-tears gushed downward onto red-cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, I thought you were something els--fuck! Shit!”

Only exclamations. Only exaggerations. Only cuss words and fake-excuses. Big Dick was supposed to be a leader, that meant he had to lead. Iris was dying and he had shot her. Richard’s “leadership” had cost lives, first passively and now actively. 'Take care of my daughter and get her home safe' had been the instructions of Dr. Waite on Homecoming night. Richard hadn't hesitated to guarantee it. Dickie had spent days worried about himself being able to take a shot, he never really thought it'd be a friend he'd shoot. Dick had trusted Darryl’s instinct on the trigger over his own and this proved why. Dicky was better at passing the buck than taking a shot. Anyone who had ever watched him play basketball could tell you that.

Richard cradled her head with one hand, she jerked and spasmed and coughed and bled onto his dirty Men’s Warehouse suit. He thought of the request made on day one. Be brave for me and I’ll be brave for you. As she bled in his arms, Richard relied on the only medicine he knew. That feel-good, rah-rah spirit that he exuded in the locker room. The magic of manifestation. The power of prayer.

“C’mon I,” he sputtered, “be strong,” he stuttered, “be brave.”

He prayed.

Please God, not her and not like this.

He begged.

[backslash]

"Nnnn- agh-"

No, she wanted to say, I don't want to be brave. I'm tired of being brave, it hurts, I don't want to, I want my Dad, I want to go home please please please I don't want to die-

Iris's lips formed words, but her lungs couldn't power them. All she could do was wheeze and choke on her own blood. Her head pounded, the impact of the floor now and a week ago combined, her body sending frantic signals every which way that couldn't convey anything but hurt.

I don't want to, I don't want to-

She could feel Richard holding her, but distantly, like she was going numb. She couldn't answer him, couldn't do as he asked. All she could do was decide that he hadn't shot her, that somewhere in the noise and chaos and confusion he'd gotten rid of the person who had.

That he'd come to save her, one of her oldest friends, but he couldn't save her she couldn't feel his hands everything was dark but getting darker please please please I don't want to go.

She was cold, she was sorry, she had just wanted to come back, she'd just been scared, it wasn't fair wasn't fair wasn't fair. Iris wanted to grab onto Richard, cling to him for help for life for something but her fingers were numb and she thought she could feel the shards of her own ribs jabbing her when she tried to inhale she was sorry she was sorry she didn't want to didn't want to couldn't

everything a crescendo instead of fading away instead of peace instead of silence she could hear herself breathing and trying and failing to breathe and taste the blood couldn't remember how anything else tasted or smelled couldn't just curl up and die in the cold like a spider had to be crushed like a cockroach and still struggle and squirm and try even though she couldn't and it wasn't fair and someone just needed to help her please why please

I don't want to I'm tired I'm sorry it hurts please I don't I want to go home I can't please I can't I don't want I'm cold I don't

S12 IRIS WAITE: DECEASED

[Buko]

“Fuck,” Richard whispered hoarsely, “what the fuck.”

Exaggerations and exclamations.

She wasn’t ready, she didn’t want to go. Who did? Dick had shot Iris and then watched the very life leave her irises. She didn’t look tranquil in death, she looked terrified. Miss Sure-Thing who never was sure at all. She had sat in front of him in math. She had sat in front of him in math for six consecutive school years. You know, discounting pandemics. In middle school when he was obsessed with AAU basketball and copying Celtics stats as opposed to doing algebra—Iris was there to give him her answers. And they weren’t always right...but they always made it work just the same. They had dated in the eighth grade—where a date mostly meant walking together holding hands from class to class and stealing kisses at lunch. They broke up when the school year ended. Dick told her that he wanted to stay friends. She had kept up her part of the deal better than he had.

He had asked her out to homecoming because he knew she wouldn’t say no. She had come back to them, because Miss Sure-Thing didn't have anywhere else to go. And how'd Big Dick respond?

“No way,” defeat dripped on his tongue. News he had dreaded but never seriously expected. An idea that had never seriously formed and had never been seriously considered. “Of-fuckin’-course.”

He hadn’t wasted anytime pulling the trigger. Not seven goddamn seconds. Richard hadn’t thought through anything. Dick hadn’t been thinking at all. When he had pulled that trigger, he had done so out of reflex and that provoked just as much confusion as it did reflection.

“It was Iris," his voice was weak and pained. "I shot Iris."

He couldn't let her go. He knew she was already gone.

[Maraoone]

She didn't? want? this?

She had wanted the threat to go away, she had wanted Iris to go away because she was going to kill? her? She was going to... she was... she?

Was she going to kill her?

June had long stopped screaming, the sheer sleep-hazed terror of just a few seconds ago completely destroyed by the lights and bangs of the flash grenade and the gunshots, the tinnitus-ringed aftermath now underscored by this more insidious, oozing feeling, a sick sort of nausea creeping up her airway.

Was she going to kill her? She had stood over June in the doorway, all silent and looming, and June had known then that she was going to kill her, it was a certainty. But, in seconds, Iris had gone from standing to moaning and begging on the floor, writhing in Richard's hands. She was writhing and bleeding and gone because June had screamed for help, and Dick had answered her call for help. And so he shot Iris, because when you call for help on this island, someone has to shoot and someone has to be shot. But, if she didn't call for help, then what would Iris have done? But Iris hadn't done anything yet before June had screamed so what if June hadn't screamed? Why did she scream? If she didn't scream would Iris still be alive? But Iris had hurt her before so she had a history of hurting her so she was right to be scared, right? But June had hurt her first so maybe she should've just let it happen? But she didn't want it happen, she didn't want this, but it never ever ever mattered what she wanted, only what happened.

And what happened was that June had called for help, Dick had tried to save her, and Iris died as a result.

June had killed her.

All her panic poured out her throat, and with a screaming moan, green stringy clumps of bile splattered onto the floor next to her bed.

[Deamon]

Darryl was experiencing true powerlessness once again. Their time apart hadn't improved the feeling any. First Letitia had shot...what was her name...Joan and he had stood there and not done anything. Then Richard had shot Iris and he had stood there and not done anything. The rule of three was edging ever closer to Darryl himself and he wasn't a fan of that shit. In the short-term though he'd been left with nothing to do but stand there and watch Iris die while Dick tried everything in his power to force time to rewind. But there was no putting the genie back in the bottle and no putting the blood back in the body.

The good guy with a gun had done what good guys with a gun do—when they actually do something—and shot first and asked questions later. And as always that meant some random innocent ended up getting filled with lead because threat assessment was not a strong suit of people with guns and dreams of heroics. Did that mean Darryl thought Richard was one of those people? Not entirely, but the parallels couldn't be ignored. There was nothing he could do though, Richard had taken the shot and for once in his life had been accurate.

"Okay bro, it's okay," Darryl said, gently placing his hand on his best friends shoulder.

If Darryl was being completely fair, Richard had probably been justified given the actual context everything had happened in. Iris had decided to flashbang them for some fucked up reason. Richard had responded to a threat, and given their goal on the island was to kill each other to be able to leave...his assumption seemed sound.

Then June decided to empty the contents of her guts all over the floor with a loud wail. Darryl looked over, glad he was out of the splash range.

"You doing alright over there June?" He called out.

[Buko]

Tragedy mattered because it provided different lenses to view life.

Tragedy mattered because it conveyed the struggle between order and excess, between chaos and control. Tragedy mattered because it demanded acceptance and acknowledgement, whether you liked it or not. There was a thin line between tragedy and comedy and people consumed both for the same reasons. It was like the old Tom Petty song said, “even the losers get lucky sometimes” and everybody, in their own twisted ways, wished that they were the lucky loser. That’s why comedy mattered. Delta House pissing off Dean Wormer. Seth Rogen knocking up Katherine Heigl. Ron Burgundy crying over his punted dog. Jack Black teaching elementary schoolers how to rock. Dewey Cox tearing sinks out the wall.

That’s why people consumed comedy and tragedy. To feel something. To come face to face with the world not how it is shown, but how it is known.

Tragedy provided proof for the universal truth; in the end nobody escaped their fate. In the end, everybody died. That was the final act. The game was always the game, whether you decided to play or not. Dicky felt himself lost in the moment. He held onto Iris for what felt like a long time. He didn’t immediately respond to his best friend’s touch or words. The blood continued to seep out of Iris and stain both their clothes. She was dead and there was nothing that could bring her back. Richard had killed one of his oldest friends and he would have to deal with the consequence. He’d have to believe that people were worth more than the worst thing they had ever done.

Because this was the worst thing he had ever done. And so much of his ability to move forward was tied to his self-worth. And so much of his self-worth was tied to how he was seen.

“I fucked up,” he said with a degree of finality. “She’s gone.”

She never had a chance.

It all went back to Iris’ flashbang. No. It all went back to June’s scream. No. It was two days ago, Iris pushing June down and running away after injuring her. No. It was day one with June injuring Iris and stuffing her in a barrel. No. It actually was Danya kidnapping them and putting them in this game. No. It actually went back to them not listening to the crazy SOTF conspiracy kids and going on the ski-trip in the first place. No. It went back to 2005, when these stupid games began and whoever came up with this twisted idea and lit this demented fuse. No. It all went back to when they were born and the fact that it wasn’t a year before or year later, it could've been the next kid...it didn't need to be these kids.

No.

It all came down to the fact that Dickie had pointed the gun, pulled the trigger and shot his bug-eyed, bug-obsessed friend in the chest. Anything else was dishonest. Anything else belittled both Iris' life and Richard's mistakes.

“Homie,” it sounded desperate. A plea. A prayer.

“I need to move her to a bed,” he didn’t know what to do. “We gotta lay her to rest.”

Dick paused. Hesitant. Scared.

“Then we gotta get as far away as possible. As quick as possible.”

When you don’t know what to do, you do what whatever you can.

[Maraoone]

"NO," June rasped back at Darryl, "I'M NOT ALRIGHT."

A few more liquid-flecked gasps, heaves.

And then silence on her part, as Dick processed his own guilt, his more physical, literal.

On some level, June was cognizant of the fact that, of the three of them in this room, it was Dick that had the rights to all the guilt and the self-pity, as it was his fingers that had physically been on the trigger, as it was his close friend that had died. She was just the spark and not the fuse itself. She should get over herself.

But she resented that. All these feelings in her grasp, all these overwhelming, nasty feelings, and they were supposed to stay inside her. June's turn for guilt had been when Jezzie killed Medea three days ago, but she had had to run from the scene after attacking Jezzie, so there was no chance for a neat resolution, no chance to weep over her corpse, no chance for even a small little keepsake to take for herself, nothing. Just the unrealized potential of catharsis and resolution, now forever locked behind one of the danger zones the terrorists had set up. Just a weightless, soundless scream, locked in her ribcage.

June felt sick with guilt now, regarded Iris' corpse with a sort of horror. Her work, indirectly. But this was all just hysteria on her end because she wasn't the main perpetrator, just a co-conspirator. Dick was affected more. June was affected less. Dick killed Iris directly, June indirectly. June grieved enough to keep herself awake, but Dick grieved more. Get over herself. Her guilt was just something to swallow. Dick got to mourn properly, Dick got to have his moment, and part of her resented him for that.

And she resented that resentment in and of itself, that on tonight of all nights, that in the literal seconds after disaster, that always, always, she was drowning in herself and her problems. Normal people would find solidarity in this trying time, normal people would offer comfort, normal people could find the strength to set aside their own emotions, yet she found herself so preoccupied with these imagined battles that she couldn't even offer Dick a 'There, there.' All her rot and selfishness clogged her throat.

But was that not what June was? Rotten, selfish?




She couldn't bear herself anymore.

She felt the urge to apologize, though none of these feelings had been verbalized. Sometimes, June thought and felt strongly enough that she felt the people around her had to hear her thoughts, had to detect it somehow. How could a tornado wreck one house and leave the one next door untouched?

Darryl asked how she was, which meant he still cared about her enough to be concerned with her wellbeing. But didn't he blame her for Iris' death? She blamed herself.

There was nothing to apologize for, but June had to apologize. Maybe if she swept the broken vase shards enough times, it would erase all her sins. Maybe if she put away all the shards, people would know how sorry she was, and forgive her for everything she'd done.

June did not have the energy or the wherewithal to verbally answer Dick. Instead, she swung her legs off the bed, and stood woozily for a second. And then, jerkily, hurriedly, she yanked the blanket off her bed with her one working arm, smoothed out the wrinkles in the cover underneath, provided a flat surface to act as Iris' resting place. A few times, she had to step past her own vomit, and her cheeks flared red with shame. And then, when the work was all done, she pointed her gaze up at the two boys, eyes wide, swiveled her head between them and the bed, as if to say, pleading, 'Here you go. Lay her to rest. Please.'

She did not have the energy or the wherewithal to figure out what she felt. But she wanted away as quickly as possible too.

[Deamon]

Alright, goddamn girl, they were all going through it. Darryl shook his head and assumed that since June hadn’t screamed about also being shot there was no imminent danger of her bleeding out. So he didn’t need to actively worry about that.

Darryl had expected to feel more given the circumstances, after all, he hadn’t actually seen Joan die. He’d found out later from the announcement that she’d passed due to her wounds. Iris’ corpse was the first one he had seen created throughout the whole process and all he felt was an emptiness. Maybe that was the effect it was having on him, making him more aware of what had been and what needed to be done. They couldn’t help her anymore after all.

“Alright man,” Darryl said in response to Dickie’s request. June also managed to get herself up out of the bed and set it up for them. He nodded his thanks to her, then using the hand that was already on Richard’s shoulder, he guided his friend towards Iris’ legs. Richard was already going through it, so he could save him having to carry Iris’ still bleeding upper body.

He set his grip under the armpits and looked over at Richard. “Okay, we can do this and then go, before some hyena comes to check out the gunshot.”

“Lift on three.”

[Buko]

“1,” Richard inhaled.

“2,” Dick exhaled.

The three was unspoken, but instead the result of a shared rhythm. A melancholic metronome. Dickie’s ego wanted to lift Iris up by himself. Hold the responsibility and weight of his action within his arms and deal with the consequence and cost. But there was no dignity in that, only made-up duty. Iris was worth more than Richard’s self-image. With a heave and a ho, a few short steps and breaths, Dick and Darryl laid Iris down. Even her dead weight didn’t weigh much. She fit cleanly on the bed. There was even room to snuggle up next to her if someone wanted to. She was a little girl, barely out the confines of girlhood.

She had been shot in a tragic accident and had died, afraid and confused on an island far away from home and distant from anyone who truly loved her.

“You were a better friend to me than I ever was to you,” Dick said solemnly as he wiped his eyes and then his brow. “For that and everything else, thank you.”

The Veep. The captain. The Homecoming King. Always knew what to say, always knew what to do. Clear eyes, full hearts—can’t lose. That feel-good, rah-rah spirit that he exuded in the locker room. The magic of manifestation. The power of prayer.

“And I’m sorry,” it didn't feel like enough. "I didn't mean to," all about him, not about her. "You didn't deserve that Iris."

Who did?

Funerals weren’t for the dead; you couldn’t hear speeches from the ground. The dead need no prayers of healing or guidance from God. All that shit was for the living. Richard swallowed his selfishness.

“See you later, friend.”

He turned around, picked up his pistol from the ground and began gathering his things.

[Maraoone]

June added nothing. Should a killer be allowed to speak at their victim's funeral? Dick had spoken just now, yes, but Iris had meant more to him.

Funerals were meant to be held in the memory of the deceased, in honor. To commemorate their life, to lay the rest the shared history you, the living, and they, the dead, had together.

What were June and Iris to each other?

Before all this? Iris was just a name, lightly defined by what the gossip had passed down to June. A name and a story. And June was sure that that was what she was to Iris as well.

Now?

Iris laid serenely, slightly bloodied gauze wrapped around her forehead, matching her now heavily bloodied shirt. June's arm pulsed still with pain, despite all the chaos and panic of the past coupe of minutes.

Iris' last action had been to throw a grenade at her. June's last action had been to scream down at her. They wore each other's scars and damage.

There was nothing else to it. Every single time they had meaningfully interacted, they both came out worse for it. They were nothing but the hurt they'd done to each other. And now that Iris was gone, all that was really left of their relationship was the regret that June held.

There were a million ways things could have gone better, a million ways they could've been better to each other, been friends to each other even, and June had managed none of it. Not even when she tried had she been able to manage any of it.

So, when Dick left, June followed, and she followed swiftly and silently. No spare glance, even.

It's not like Iris would've wanted it.

((June Madison continues in no one knows where the ladder goes))

[Deamon]

Well, it was done, they'd moved Iris, so Darryl stepped away and left Dick to it. It wasn't his place to be involved in a goodbye, not that he wasn't friends with Iris or anything but Richard was the one going through it. Darryl by contrast, had just served as a textbook example of the bystander effect given he sat there doing nothing while Iris died.

He didn't head over to June either because it didn't seem like his place. Whatever had been going down between the two girls could wait, there'd be time for that talk, but doing it right after one of them had died didn't seem like the time or place. It was the same deal with the gun. Darryl wasn't sure if it was best to leave it in Dickie's hands, accidental shooting or no, his finger was itchy and there was a solid chance he'd go hard in the other direction and hesitate the next time a potential threat emerged. The only safe option was to take the gun off of him until he'd worked his way through what had happened.

But again, a conversation for later, once the wound wasn't red raw and bleeding. Maybe during the next planning discussion they had, whenever that game. Darryl didn't want to have to force that conversation, but he was realistic, he knew it would have to happen. They needed a plan, a real plan, but the options weren't appealing. They could either try and convince everyone to lay down arms—unrealistic, immature, likely to get them shot in the face—or try to escape—also unrealistic, required advanced skills, likely to get their necks blown up.

Not good options.

So yeah, it would be a fun talk.

As Dick packed his things and June sorted herself out, Darryl did the only thing for Iris he realistically could and picked up the discarded bedsheet, shaking it out first, he laid it over her body.

"Sorry girl," He offered, not knowing what else to say.

Then he also grabbed his things and made his way out.

((Darryl Smith Jr. continued elsewhere...))

[Buko]

Basketball was Richard’s favorite game.

They called it a game of runs, characterized by teams trading stretches of control. You didn’t play against your opponent, you played with your teammates. You executed the moves you knew as you always executed, no matter who you were in front of and no matter what time was left on the clock. In basketball when you inevitably found yourself stumbling, inert or losing ground, the only option was to read and react appropriately. And that was hard because there was always struggle and there was never enough ground to go around. It was the challenge the game was built around and what were challenges if not challenging? Dick had no choice but to keep running, if only to try and keep the game from running him.

Because sometimes it would. That was just how it went. That just how the game worked. Whether Dick liked it or not.

"Sorry, Dr. Waite," he choked and echoed his friend. "I didn't mean to," he struggled to find the words. "I didn't want to," he shook his head and mumbled to himself. "She was my friend, I wanted to bring her back home. I just wanted us all to go back home."

Oh, was that all? Just that teensy-tiny dream? Just that one itty-bitty, little-widdle stroke of luck?

Basketball was Richard’s favorite game because of the beauty and skill, the rhythm and magic, the strength and speed, the athleticism and attitude…but also because there was an undercurrent and intangible element to everything. Luck. Chance. Nobody shot 100% from the field, even Michael Jordan missed more shots than he made. It was a game of runs, the NBA was a make-or-miss league. Sometimes you’d run it and sometimes it’d run you. Sometimes the ball went in the hoop and sometimes it didn't. It wasn't all skill, there was an element of luck.

And that was the thing about luck, right?

Luck always changed.

Luck never lasted, the good or the bad. That was just how it went. Whether Richard liked it or not. If your luck was bad, it was only a matter of time before it turned good. And if your luck was good, be humble, because you were only a few bounces and rolls away from it not being so. Dickie’s hand tightened around his pistol, he packed his bag and followed his friend out the door. His head was heavy and his eyes were clouded but his heart was clear. This was a terrible tragedy, a horrible mistake and Dickie had no choice but to try and make these lemons into lemonade. For Iris’ memory and his sanity. Because the situation and circumstance demanded nothing less than defiant and unnerved, courage, consciousness and unrelenting optimism. No matter all they lost, they couldn't lose hope.

Hope was resilient and stubborn in the ways Richard wasn’t and was. And that was the thing with hope, right? It lasted as long as you willed it.

Stubborn, and selfish hope gave him enough fuel to go forward. As helpless as he felt, Dick couldn't function being hopeless.

Richard knew he had to keep going.

The problem was he didn’t know where to go.
(( Big Dick Buster Continued In: no one knows where the ladder goes ))