Survival Of The Fittest

I read it too.

Violet's heart skipped a beat.

It could have been nothing. It could have been one late night's boredom leading Michael to search something taboo. It could have been something he'd done just for the thrill. A whim. An impulse. Like her pointing out at the sea. Devoid of any real significance. An action without serious thought behind it. He'd dropped it just like that, a casual matter of fact thing, that this was where she leaned. It was something he just happened to know.

And it was gone, just like that, as he went back to the stuff about curses and the occult, and how it made some kind of sense to him. Some kind was better than no kind. It meant that Violet didn't necessarily have to keep going with her explanation. The nail had been hammered in just about right. Michael understood. Violet was pleased.

But not for very long.

Michael's question hung in the air for what felt like a lifetime. Violet's lips puckered, like she'd just tasted something sour. Her brow furrowed, and a bewildered expression spread across her face.

"I, uh," Violet said, "hold on while I do some calculus."

Various 'hmms' and 'haahs' found their way out of Violet's mouth as she looked away from Michael and thought, in her head, about what the presence of Adam Dodd's gun meant. On the one hand, he was the first winner, the first to survive the full, modern incarnation of the death game, and thus he was instrumental in ensuring that it would endure, as a proof of concept. He was tied to its history, in that sense, but his influence was rebellious; a dissenter, he was never compliant with the terrorist's demands. They forced him back into the game, but in return he lead an escape attempt that was still shrouded in mystery, to her knowledge. He hadn't resurfaced since. Was this enough to balance out his ties to the ritual's—because, ultimately, that's what it was—history? Or did this further muddy things, as he had been made to take part twice and killed both times? He had just about 15 people's blood on his hands. Some of those kills came from that very gun. In some senses, that was the cause of bad luck. In other, divine providence.

He had been chosen, twice. He defied, twice. Was there significance in that?

"It, uh, might be a boot," Violet said, turning back around to face Michael, "or, uh, it might be, as it were, a fish. I can't really tell just from, uh, thinking about it."

"Mmm, that's alright, I guess," Michael kicked at the sand, still looking down. His foot kinda sorta maybe accidentally hit a crab, which as a result, shot out into the sea. He pursed his lips as the corners of his mouth tried to raise into a smile. He kinda felt guilty about the crab-kicking, but also... it was pretty funny.

It was interesting; Violet'd used the word 'calculus'. That implied that, like, vibes could be measured empirically; that good and bad was a matter of mathematics instead of philosophy.

He sucked some air in through his teeth, getting a whiff of ocean stank. There was salt dried onto his skin, from when he'd gone for a psuedo-swim. He didn't like the feeling. It was like his body was covered in gravel dust.

"How can you know the difference between boots and fish?"

He honestly, earnestly needed to know.

And here was where Violet spoke herself into a corner, when it came to her metaphor.

"Uh, well, boots, well," Violet said, "boots are sort of like, the easy answer. The obvious solution, with unforeseen consequences. Fish fight you. It takes more effort to understand a fish, to wrap your head around why it works the way it does. Why it, uh, eludes you. But in the end, it's supposed to be a more rewarding answer.

"Boots are bad, and you don't want them, but they're enticing, sort of. Like, there's a use for a boot. But you don't want a boot you just fish up, because it's gross. You can find boots everywhere, they're the kind of thing people generally know about, they interact with them more. Fish are only in the realm of fish. When they're removed from that, they die. This makes more sense if, uh, you think of boots as black magic, and demons, and stuff, and fish as like, a more meditative path. Left hand versus right hand paths.

"What's funny is, uh,"

Violet looked down at her feet.

"it looks like I'm wearing boots right now."

Michael knocked his left foot against his right, his boots making a hollow clonk noise.

He had no idea what the fuck Violet was talking about, with the directions and the black magic and the demons or whatever. He did understand though, he thought, that boots were like... kinda, like, Machiavellian, in a way; and that Buddhist monks probably had lots of fish. Maybe. Maybe that wasn't it at all. He had no idea.

He kicked the sand again.

"That's probably good. I keep killing people who choose fish, I think."

He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. A tear rolled down his cheek. "Thanks," he muttered, "Thanks for talking to me like I'm not a murderer."

He sniffled.


"At the waterfall, why'd you, uh, why'd you let me walk away?"

((Manuel Figueroa continued from You See Me, I've Got My Magic Pie))

He'd thought about following Lucas. Following a guy with a shotgun that didn't want to be followed (and getting his face sublimated) versus staying alone (and getting ambushed) - perfect choice. So now he was alone again, with nothing but food, a collar, and a rock - the ninja stars didn't count - he'd thrown a few of them at a wall, but the learning curve was too much for him to bother any further.

On the plus side, there was actually a change of scenery here - a beach. Sand, water, waves. And ... people. Again. It was a welcome change in scenery given how the last guys he'd allied with were either killers or dead, save one person, well, a "welcome" change. Now he just had to approach the group and ...

"Uh, hello?"

Oh, crap.

"If I killed you," Violet said, "I wouldn't be alive right now."

She looked down at the flesh of her hands. It felt stiff on her bones, caked with dust and dirt and flakes of sand. Violet didn't know if her hands had been very soft before. She didn't know if they'd been hard, either. It had been a long time since anyone had ever held them. In some way, she was glad that she didn't have to guess about that anymore.

"I can't prove that, by the way, it's just something that I—"

Violet turned on her heel to face whoever had just spoken. The voice had come from behind her, on the approach to the beach chairs, and it belonged to someone she barely knew. She'd heard that he danced, but not in a cool way. He didn't look like the kind of person who generally survived this long. It was an observation she might as well make, given she hadn't quite moved on from the topic of knowing more than she reasonably should.

"Yeah?" she called back.

Her hand felt soft against the handle of the knife she hadn't even noticed she'd drawn.

Michael smiled lightly. It felt nice, that someone actually thought he was worth keeping alive for a change. He was used to people sparing him because they didn't think he was worth killing, which was pretty much the same thing, except with a negative connotation, he supposed, but like.....

...he'd rather be alive for a reason than be not-dead for a reason. It didn't matter that Violet's reason for not killing him was selfish and not actually about him at all; he liked having a purpose.

A new voice interrupted Violet, and Michael's smile very thoroughly disappeared. He swung to his feet, glancing sideways past Violet at the new arrival, though not for long enough to get a decent look at his face. Didn't matter who he was. He was walking up to two award-winner murderers like it was goddamn nothing. He was either suicidal or supposed to be bait. Probably bait, Michael decided.

Mmm, he didn't really feel like shooting unless Violet gave the go-ahead first, and Violet seemed to be taking the route of not immediately murdering the rando.

He had an idea. Half of one, anyways.

"Keep an eye on the treeline," he muttered to Violet as his boots kicked off the sand, momentum carrying him to a cluster of shoes. He switched his golden deagle to his left hand, and with his right, grabbed a boot that looked like a good throwing boot. It was a bit heftier than he'd expected, but that was okay. He raised it over his head and started moving to whip it at the new arrival, and midswing, something just sort of plopped out of the boot. The thing felt a lot lighter now, and he glanced down at the ground.

A black sock, barely even recognizable as a sock. Through the holes in the tattered fabric, he could make out something kind of white-ish but with, like, yellows and browns mottled over the white, and -

Oh. Those were bones. That was a foot.

Goddamn, that was a person.

"Sorry," he mumbled to the sock full of bones, then resumed throwing the boot at Manuel. As it left his hand, he wondered if its erstwhile owner would have been okay with him using it as a weapon.

Michael threw a boot at him. A fucking boot! Why? Manuel got out of the way. Well, not quickly enough. The boot still managed to hit him in the shoulder, although it still hurt, it wasn't like it had clocked him in the head. It just made him stumble a little and grab his shoulder.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck?"

"Got it," Violet muttered back. Michael thought that Manuel had company, then. Nothing to be done about that—maybe if she had her rifle still, but she wasn't confident enough with her crossbow at that range. Michael's hand cannon was the only weapon (visible) that Violet thought might be able to close that distance, but she didn't know if he was a good shot long range either. Apparently, Michael knew something Violet didn't, because he out of sight towards the water.

For her part, Violet stared Manuel down while Michael did whatever he needed to do over there. Take cover in the sand and leave Violet to die? It was a good possibility. Shoot both of them in the back? Another possibility. Possibilities without the energy of intention to support their existence, that was. It could just be that she didn't get enough chance to sense any changes in his presence before he left, but Violet couldn't feel any malice from him. Michael had trusted her in the past. It was her turn to trust him, now. Violet opened her mouth to speak,

and a shoe fell out of the sky.

A boot, to be precise. Manuel saw it coming, but not quite. Enough to throw him off his guard. Enough that anyone in the trees who was waiting to jump in at the first sign of hostility had their chance to do so. If they were really waiting in the trees, they'd see Violet, and they'd shoot Violet. She was closer. She had a knife in her hand. Manuel was recoiling in pain. Ergo, Violet, shot.

It didn't happen. At least, not immediately. Longer by the second.

Violet looked back around over her shoulder and shot an angry look at Michael before looking back at Manuel.

"What do you want," Violet said. It didn't come out as a question. Neither was it a statement.

Just words.

Sometimes, Michael just did things like throw boots at people. It was, like, pretty much his aesthetic now.

Plus anyways, it wasn't like he had a motivation to not throw boots at people.

He didn't want to be an asshole (or murderer). It was just... there were things he wanted to be even less than an asshole (or murderer), so.

"It was a visual pun because like he's bait - and boots and fishing, and," he mumbled in response to Violet giving him a grumpy look, sheepishly frowning. "Sorry. Also a warning shot, I guess."

He shrank back.

The first time he'd shot Jonah (before he'd popped out of his murderbush), he'd been aiming for the gun in his hand, not him. Hit him instead. That kept happening. Couldn't happen when the first shot was a boot being thrown, which was why he threw the boot, he was pretty sure.

Manuel was definitely alone, since if he'd had backup Michael figured someone would be dead by now. He felt his diaphragm kinda start to spasm like he was laughing. He didn't really feel like laughing right now, but hey, whatever. It was easier than crying.

He shifted the golden gun back into his right hand and stayed quiet, save for the weird shallow laughter, which translated out as a repeated, nearly silent, series of sharp exhalations out through his nose.

He no longer wanted to speak unless spoken to first, he decided.

"What do you want."

Michael mumbled something out in response, exactly what, Manuel didn't hear or care to hear. But it was the other girl's question that was the most important one, or, well, the only important one.

"I just wanted to relax a bit. I don't want any trouble!"

If there was a word for what Violet felt after hearing Manuel's response, it was confounded.

After over a week of bloodshed, of waking up to the sound of a disembodied voice chanting the names of the recently deceased, of watching helplessly as food and water slowly dwindled, of running away and hiding from monsters wearing the faces of friends; even after days and days of terror, Manuel still thought it was possible that he'd find a place to sit and relax?

Violet almost took her knife and charged him, right then. Her grip on its handle tightened, but her hand remained still. There'd be no struggle in that fight. Manuel had no life left in him. What allowed Manuel to believe that he could still find a place to sit and just exist without confronting the constant existential threat of being here, being now was that he had lost his soul. It must have left his body in his sleep, a thick, viscous slime that poured from his ears and sunk into the ground. It was hard for Violet to see this creature as human. As she stood speechless in the sand, Manuel's bodily shape made less and less sense to her. His docility and pure lack of self awareness reminded her of a farm animal, not a human being.

Michael called out from the beach.

Michael was still alive, still breathing, still standing on the beach—proof that Violet was just as inhuman as Manuel. She could have crept up from behind as he writhed and coughed and sliced a smile into his throat. Should have, even. But instead she stood by him and announced her presence, made conversation, even made a joke. They were both murderers, humans before, but in this moment they regarded each other as something else. It was hard to say that they were livestock, given their respective records. It was even harder to say that they were monsters. They weren't rational, cunning humans, peacefully brain-dead farm animals, or violent and ravenous monsters. All they did manifest before Manuel bleated his pathetic, nasally greeting, were their souls, bare.

Now, observed, they changed shape. Violet became a person, callous, cold, but predictable—Michael went to the water, hopping like a frog, not quite rational, but not quite animal, a hybrid and unknown thing.

Violet just didn't belong.

"Well, have fun, then," she said, sheathing her knife, "I'm not sticking around."

She turned and started to walk parallel to the treeline, down the beach, until eventually she turned and faded back into the woods.

There was a lump in her throat.

[Violet Schmidt continued elsewhere.]

Michael stared at the ground, idly. All the feet were in shoes, but not every shoe had a foot in it. That was interesting, Michael guessed. It probably meant something, though he wasn't sure what. More bullshit symbolism, because that was what his life had become.

Manuel didn't answer Violet's question. Or, he did, but then he gave a second answer, which wasn't really an answer. Manuel said what he didn't want. Michael knew that was just how cowards admitted they didn't know what they really wanted.

It was kinda funny, that Manuel was looking to relax in a mass grave. Because this wasn't a beach; it was water-adjacent sand strewn with severed feet and disembodied shoes.

Michael supposed the whole mass grave atmosphere was comforting in a way, to him, at least. He wasn't sure why, but he just kind of entered this weird kind of... zen, whenever he processed being in the presence of something emotionally heavy.

Maybe it was a trance of, like, reverence, or something.

Probably, though, he was just an emotion junkie.


Then, Violet left, partially quoting a line from I'm So Tired by Fugazi. Maybe it was accidental, maybe it wasn't. Didn't matter; Michael still noticed it. Snapped him out of his half-asleep staring state.

It was a shame. He liked the person he became when he was around her.

He glanced up, feeling a tendon in his hand twitch. He thought about turning around and shooting her in the back, and then shooting Manuel. He also thought about just shooting Manuel. He didn't act on it, though. Wasn't really sure why; wasn't really sure why not. Didn't feel like thinking about it.

He looked into Manuel's eyes from afar. Something reminded him of himself, though he supposed most things did. He raised his gun, one-handed, pointing it in the direction of Manuel's head. His lip twitched.

"...You aren't worth it," he stated to the boy, like it wasn't just him repeating what Quinn had told him all those days ago. He wasn't sure if it was true. It felt true, which was what mattered. Made it real.

He lowered the gun, and walked towards the forest, perpendicular to the direction Violet had gone.

(("The beach is all yours, Manuel," he called out over his shoulder as he stepped into the jungle green.))

And they left. No trouble - although the idea of not being worth it still niggled at him. But he stayed there. He relaxed a little. He found various shoes scattered around (ugh). So he made a game of throwing them back into the water, and he looked at the sea. It was relaxing. HE actually felt like he could sleep.

-----------

The announcements were what pretty much woke him up. Yuka was dead. Claudeson was dead. Lucas was dead. It was Day 10, and the Lower Wilds were now a Danger Zone.

Beep, beep, beep ...

Oh, shit.

((Manuel Figueroa continued in Cigarettes and Alcohol))