Survival Of The Fittest

Marceline's blood ran cold in response to Juliette's words, the shock of it all almost causing her to take her eyes off of Roxanne, but she remained steadfast in spite of it. She knew that now more than ever was not the time for her to get distracted. Juliette may have revealed her true, underlying callousness by telling her to take the shot, but that didn't mean that was her only way out of this hole she had dug for herself. She could still get the shotgun and not have to hurt Roxanne, she was sure of it. She just needed to say the right words in the right order, or...

No, Roxanne wasn't going to give up that easily, her own words made that abundantly clear. She was right, of course; without the shotgun she would be a sitting duck simply waiting to get picked off, in the same way that Marceline would be without it. In the end only one of them could have it, and the other would be sure to die. That was the choice Roxanne was forcing her to make in the here and now rather than hypocritically putting it off; she had to decide who was going to live and who was going to die, herself or Roxanne.

She continued stepping back, considering the irony of the situation she found herself in. Just a few days ago in this exact spot, she had jumped into the line of fire specifically to protect Roxanne, chastising Ariana for daring to point a gun at someone she had no intention to actually shoot. Yet, now she was doing the same exact thing, to the same person, in the same place. Everything that had happened between now and then, the drama, the fighting, and the passionate but hollow moralizing speeches, had all been leading to this moment.

Juliette was right, Marceline begrudgingly admitted to herself. She had all the power in this situation, and yet, because she didn't want to actually use it, it amounted to nothing. Roxanne was her friend, and no matter how she tried to justify it in her head, that would never go away. Maybe Roxanne did have to die if she wanted to live to the end, and maybe she wouldn't be to blame if she did decide to pull the trigger.

All of that could be true, but she still couldn't be the one to do it, and there was only one way out of this that didn't involve her having to.

Without a single word crossing her lips, Marceline began to unload the shells from the shotgun, a measure she decided to take out of a possibly futile desire to extend her own life and prevent potential retaliation. Roxanne initially flinched in response to this, before finally stopping her advance, instead merely observing Marceline's movements.

After a long, awkward pause, the shells clattered to the ground in front of Marceline, along with the now-empty shotgun. Marceline couldn't help but stare at it, pondering how thoroughly Roxanne had won their little battle of wills, before finally glancing back up at her friend, not quite able to look her in the eyes again.

Only one word came out of her mouth, weakly choked out between suppressed, stressed sobs.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," Juliette said. She spoke so quietly she was sure nobody else heard her.

It wasn't okay, but then, Marceline wasn't apologizing to her. Right now, Juliette probably barely mattered. She was the third wheel to the death of a relationship she didn't fully understand and couldn't properly value, and whatever chance she'd had to get what she really truly wanted had evaporated as the ammunition tumbled free of the weapon. She was now solidly locked into Plan B, which would require a whole lot more of her personally, and now was the time to begin shifting gears. That was what Marceline really should have felt bad about, but of course she wouldn't have any idea what was coming.

But actually she would, wouldn't she? She was throwing her life away now, no matter what little precautions she took to make sure Roxanne did not exact immediate and violent retribution. She was giving up the goal she had only just made manifest. A day, or two, it didn't matter. Without power or will, she was doomed.

Most likely, Marceline was unaware that the agent of her demise was so close at hand, which was for the best. It would be easier for her that way. Juliette didn't hate the girl. She didn't dislike her. This was going to happen for exactly the opposite of those reasons. She cared, and this was going to be mercy, a quick and gentle exit at the hands of someone who was willing and able to provide comfort. It would be kind, and if she pretended she could imagine it as beautiful.

This is also why Juliette closed the distance towards the other two girls slowly, casually, giving them space to work things out. They would not be seeing each other again. It would be cruel to deny them the opportunity for final farewells and the quashing of any regrets. Juliette could give them time. Roxanne might appreciate it, tomorrow, might weigh it in her calculations as to her own path forward. That would be better. It was even smart, tactical. They could have closure. Juliette was in no hurry.

Oh, she was in no hurry to spill blood. What had she been if not patient? And all the same, she hadn't expected it to be here and now. It was still too soon, too sudden, too mean. The three of them had been enjoying the morning together. There was a moment of connection. It had all gone to pieces, and really when she thought about it that was Marceline's fault too. The girl had started trouble she didn't even have the dignity to finish. She'd messed things up and then refused to set them back in order. All she had to do was pull the trigger. Why was it so hard? Why couldn't she just do this, so Juliette wouldn't have to pick up the slack?

Juliette could feel her train of thought and her emotional stability sliding out of alignment, and took slow, deep breaths. She shut her mind off for a few seconds, as best she could, and just took in the faces of the girls before her, letting her gaze linger on Marceline's lips and neck, getting one last good look before it would all become complicated forever.

She really did feel bad.

Roxanne carefully crouched down to reclaim her shotgun. She’d never imagined how much she’d miss its weight. She straightened up, took a deep breath. Centered herself. She wasn’t worried about Marceline changing her mind. This wasn’t a decision you could take back.

Looking at her tear-stained face, her pathetic, remorseful form, some small, ludicrous part of Roxanne wanted to hug her. Tell her that she was already forgiven. She would be lying, and despite everything, she cared too much to do that to her. Honest anger was better than an insincere smile.

“Did you really think I’d shoot you?” She murmured, mirroring Marceline’s avoidance of her gaze. It hurt. The reality of what had just happened was starting to sink in. She couldn’t think about it. Not now. If she wound up breaking down, that didn’t need an audience.

She didn’t wait for an answer. The shells on the ground told her all she needed to know. Roxanne was cautious, yes, but she didn’t want to be like her, living the rest of her life assuming the worst of everyone she met.

Even when they proved her right.

She turned around, locked eyes with Juliette, who was creeping forward like a vulture. She didn’t want to even try and guess why.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” She didn’t know if the girl planned to stay around with Marceline, given her obvious failure to live up to Juliette’s ideals, and she didn’t care anymore. The two of them were more different than she ever could have guessed. More likely than not the first checkmark on her bucket list was ‘get away with murdering someone’.

Roxanne reclaimed her bag in silence. Deliberately loaded seven more shells into her shotgun. Gave the other two one long, last look. This wasn’t how she’d want to remember either of them.

((She didn’t say goodbye.))

"Bye, Roxy."

Marceline's words were spoken too softly to be audible, tears streaming down her face as she watched her former friend disappear off into the distance, presumably for the last time. She had no one to blame for all of this other than herself. By taking traitorous action but not doing so decisively, she had not only lost her greatest ally, but had also condemned herself to death. If there was any chance of her making it out alive before, there wasn't now. Maybe if she had possessed the conviction required to call Roxanne's bluff, she would still be a contender, but now she was nothing.

But if she had murdered Roxanne, would that have been worth it? She knew Roxanne had to die if she were to live. She knew that it wouldn't have been her fault even if she had decided to fire. But would she have been able to deal with the trauma of seeing not just one, but two of the people she loved more than anyone else die right in front of her eyes?

She didn't have the answer to that question.

Marceline stood in her spot unmoving, except for the irregular rise and fall of her chest. Nothing could be heard around her as she remained as still as a statue, save for the shuffling of Juliette's footsteps and the gentle sound of the breeze. This spot marked her grave in all but name, the place where she had died in spirit but not in form. She was doomed.

As she stood there, Juliette still slowly approaching her, she began to wonder which of them would die first. Would she continue to stumble her way to victory, avoiding danger by pure luck until she heard of Roxanne's tragic demise? Or was she fated to die somewhere soon, alone and unloved, only for Roxanne to hear her name get a passing mention on the announcements, the same way the rest of her classmates had been treated?

She moved, finally, and began to sit down on the ground, moving her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs, and burying her face into them in quick succession. It was over, she was hopeless, she had failed utterly in everything that she had tried to do.

She might as well die right here, right now.

Juliette did not echo Marceline's words of farewell. She just came closer and closer, as the other girl sank to the ground and curled in on herself. It was generally pathetic.

That wasn't to say Juliette didn't get it, of course. She'd been there, more than once. So often, she'd felt small like that, scared and alone and adrift, but she knew better than to show it. She didn't let these things crawl out of her when anyone was watching, because if she acted like everything was okay then it eventually would be. It had carried her through high school, and it had carried her this far, to this point, to the very brink. In a few moments, there would be no turning back.

Slowly, Juliette sank to the ground beside Marceline, though her posture was a lot more open, her legs carelessly splayed out in front of her. She looked at the girl, not even bothering to disguise her observation. What was the point? Here, now, the end was upon them.

Why did she have to be recognizable? Why couldn't Marceline have been hideously maimed by now, her face torn to shreds or swaddled in bandages? She looked like herself, still. Gazing at her brought back these guilty memories, the party, swim class, random encounters in the halls, so many lies that Juliette told herself and those around her without even speaking them. A life she'd built so carefully that had been destroyed forever over a week ago. Her breath came roughly, her heart pounding.

Easy. This would be easy. This was going to make sending Kelly tumbling look like a Herculean undertaking. Marceline was already dead, just like Drew had been. Instead of the shattered flesh that had sealed his doom, however, Marceline suffered a far worse affliction: a gangrenous spirit. She had just been offered the opportunity for a painful yet necessary amputation, but she had balked. If she couldn't kill someone who was effectively asking her to do so, it was all over. What came next would be simple mercy.

Her throat, her lips, her very physical presence, they were so familiar. Marceline was someone who was always in people's space, always invading bubbles and getting so touchy. Dolly was dead. Dolly would always be dead, and not this vague "effectively" sort Marceline would persist in for a few minutes more. There would be nothing to feel guilty about with making a rather selfish request. And Juliette wouldn't force anything. Never. The sensation on Marceline's lips as she died, that was her own decision. Just, Juliette had a preference. That was all.

Her breathing had picked up its pace, so she slowed it consciously. Her right hand slipped the razor from the back of her skirt, hidden behind her back and Marceline's. She would have to press very hard to make sure it cut through everything that needed severing. It wouldn't do to botch things and have her mercy turn into a muddled, bloody, screaming, struggling execution. She wanted Marceline to realize only when it was too late. There could be peace and acceptance in knowing there was nothing left to strive for.

Juliette draped her arm over Marceline's shoulder, razor in her hand but the girl would never see it, because Juliette was talking, now, distracting her, dragging her attention away from hand and towards face.

"I'm sorry it happened that way."

Marceline's hazel eyes sparkled through the tears. Her lips looked so soft. Quinn's words hissed through Juliette's very being. She licked her own lips, tasting salt. She felt like she was twelve again.

"It's, uh, it's okay if, well..."

Stupid. Inefficient. Why was this so scary? She just had to spit it out, and then it wouldn't even matter because those sparkling eyes would be dull and lifeless.

"Marceline, can I... ask you something?"

Marceline glanced blankly over at Juliette, unsure of what to make of her display. The gentle touch was appreciated, being a sensation she hadn't felt since the day Dolly had died. There was something comforting in it, despite the circumstances that just transpired, but was Juliette's apology and her accompanying actions sincere, given her behavior thus far? Or was this some kind of strange ploy on her part?

Marceline didn't know, but she also couldn't summon up the will to care.

"Sure."

Juliette could feel her heartbeat through her entire body. She had practiced flipping the razor open a bit, back when she shaved her legs. It was quick and fluid. This couldn't be that difficult, could it? The nicks she'd gotten, they'd been painless it was so smooth. It would be merciful.

Those hazel eyes. Quinn's words. She wanted to just sit in this moment forever. She wanted time to never need to progress.

Her voice was small, hesitant, unsure in a way she often felt and never showed.

"Can I kiss you?"

"I... what?"

Marceline started at Juliette out of the corner of her eye, a mix of surprise and confusion beginning to appear on her face. Out of everything that Marceline had expected Juliette to ask, that question had not even crossed her mind, not only due to the circumstance not lending itself to asking something like that, but also her apparently wrong belief that Juliette was as straight as most girls were. She had never thought to ponder what Juliette's sexuality was prior to this point, because she never had a need to call it into question.

That revelation did resolve a few mysteries that Marceline had not bothered to truly consider prior to this point, at least. The most prominent of which was why Juliette had always been so flustered and stone-faced in the girl's locker room, something that was now obvious: she must have been deeply in the closet and trying to hide it.

However, Juliette's question and its accompanying minor revelation only created more unknowns. Why did she want a kiss in the first place? Why now of all times, after all that just transpired? Why ask someone who just lost their partner just barely a week prior? Why ask Marceline in particular?

Perhaps it was best for her to respond with her own question.

"Why?"

"Because..."

This was not what Juliette had wanted. This was supposed to be easy and quick. Yes or no. It had taken so much to force the question out and now she felt so small and the right choice was probably to cut her losses and Marceline's throat in one fell swoop. But she didn't. She couldn't. It wasn't a yes and it wasn't a no and she would know one way or the other, and really it was only fair that she was questioned, right? She could explain herself. It was one of the things she was best at. And even if she bungled it that didn't matter because Marceline was effectively dead.

"Because, because I spent my whole life too afraid to ask anyone," Juliette said. Meant, "any girl," but whatever, Marceline maybe knew she'd had casual boyfriends and maybe didn't but certainly didn't care. Juliette couldn't get off track here. It was hard, the way her focus was splitting, and she had to remember to keep her attention on the actually important part, the impending killing.

"I was always, you know... I was jealous. That you could be so open, and honest, and... You know, Roxanne wasn't wrong."

Saying that name now, what a mistake. The girl might even still be lurking on the fringes here. Surely she wasn't yet gone from Marceline's mind. But you could no more unspeak a name than unkill a girl.

"We don't know how much time we have left," Juliette said. "There might never be another chance."

She shrugged, though the hand which held the razor right outside Marceline's vision remained steady. She could feel a little sweat horribly slick in her palm.

"And... I always thought you were pretty."

Such a strange cocktail of feelings bubbled underneath the surface.

On one hand, Marceline at least now understood the purpose of Juliette's appeal. She must have formed a crush so long ago, Marceline having served as the key to the closet that she had no doubt trapped herself in. Now that her life had been cut so drastically short, it only made sense for her to come out and ask. It was almost innocent, in a way.

It explained much of Juliette's previously odd behavior as well. Maybe her crush was why Juliette had so deliberately entered the commissary to begin with, and called out to Marceline in particular. Perhaps it was also why she had initially supported Marceline's traitorous gambit, and yet backed off of it so quickly afterwards when Marceline had reconsidered; it had all been an attempt to curry favor. It would also explain why she was asking now of all times, Juliette must have seen this as her last chance to make something of it all. Now or never, she must have thought.

On the other hand, Marceline's current emotional state wasn't exactly ideal for this, right now.

Despite that, however, she saw this as an opportunity. Perhaps this would be her last chance to do something good for someone else with her miserable, worthless, rapidly shortening life. Do Juliette this one kindness, and cross something off of the other girl's bucket list.

"Sure, I suppose."

Nothing about this would change what had just transpired. Marceline was still overwhelmed by the enormity of her mistakes, crushed by the sheer hopelessness inherent to her now doomed situation, but she could push all of that aside for a moment, for someone else's sake. There would be no passion behind the kiss, either, because Marceline simply didn't share Juliette's feelings. Her heart belonged to someone else, who was long gone now. The moment would come and go, and Marceline would remain just as lost and demoralized, but surely it would do her no further harm to grant Juliette this one request.

It was clear that Marceline wasn't incredibly into the idea, and was just humoring Juliette, and that made her feel like a worse person than anything she could remember. And that was totally setting aside the fact that in about sixty seconds, give or take however long it took for a body to empty of blood, Marceline would be dead at her hand. Actually, in some ways the killing felt like less of an imposition. Or maybe Juliette still hadn't wrapped her head around it yet.

If not now, when? She wanted time to stop but second after second slipped past and she didn't have them to spare. Moment by moment, this became less mercy and more torture, an awkward emotional torment inflicted not from any malice—she felt none, she felt the furthest she could from desire to hurt Marceline—but due to her own bitter, painful incompetence and inexperience.

The right choice now was to call it a wash, flick open the razor, do the deed, and take off. By now she probably owed Marceline a whispered apology too, something quick and quiet to make her feel a tiny bit better as she died. Or a word of thanks. The offer meant a lot to Juliette. It truly did. She told herself that it would make what came next easier, because the connection was clear and real. They cared about each other, not in the same way, or who could even say because Juliette didn't have a clue what she actually felt? But there was something, and Marceline was putting herself out there to help Juliette so the least she could do was return the favor and give the girl this one quick, simple, final mercy.

She should decline first though, probably, right? Apologize for asking. No, wait, apologize for the killing. Apologize for both? Now, or after? Or, or, or...

Juliette had to slow her breathing again. She looked Marceline right in the eyes, her lips pulled up into a faint sad smile that she honestly meant. She could see her hand resting there on the other girl's shoulder, could see the razor tight in her fingers. It was like a doom hovering over them, one stemming from some external source, certainly not of entirely her own creation. It was easier to think of it like that. It would be something else, independent, not of her body. Juliette had to do so little. She would decline, maybe, probably, right? And then the hand would act. The hand would flick open the razor, and the hand would move to Marceline's pale throat, using the collar she wore as a guide, and the hand would drag a raw bloody chasm across it, and then the hand would drop the razor and cease to be an independent entity and it would be just Juliette cradling the dying Marceline, crying herself and apologizing but too late to do a thing about it. Easy.

Juliette opened her mouth to speak the words she knew she had to. She leaned in. She closed her eyes.

She was horrid. She was horrid and repugnant and she knew it. But it was what she'd been telling herself, turning herself into, all these past days. So what was one more crime?

So quick she didn't have time to think about it, Juliette leaned in and gave Marceline a peck on the lips. It was soft, chaste, almost nothing. Dolly could've been sitting right here watching, were she not dead, and she probably wouldn't have even been mad. It was just one brief intangible moment of smooth contact, and Juliette wished more than anything she could live in that second until the end of time, but then it was over and nothing had changed, and she saw the hand and knew the time had come.

She just had to do it. The hand just had to act. Power without the will to use it was nothing. This was mercy. This was good. This would cure the harm Juliette had just caused. Marceline was already dead. This was necessary, would pave the path to Juliette's future. She had told herself she would do this days ago. It was why she had sought Marceline out. The hand wasn't hers. The hand could be Quinn's hand, to pair with Quinn's words screaming through her skull. Quinn's hand, back to help Juliette one last time. It was all she needed.

"For luck," she explained, sadly.

Her fingers opened and dropped the razor straight into Marceline's lap.

"And for safety."

That hadn't been an accident. It hadn't been an accident, and she couldn't truly say it was a mistake. In that moment she could've lived in forever, in all these moments, Juliette finally understood that she couldn't. She couldn't do it. She couldn't kill Marceline. Give her a split second to choose or a week to talk herself up to it, there was no way.

And so this, whatever it was, was done.

She pulled back, jerky and awkward and abrupt, her arm lifting hastily from Marceline's shoulder. Her breath was going too fast again. She felt trapped. The garden was wide open but there would never be enough room for Juliette to get space and clear her head.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm sorry."

Was she apologizing for the right thing, or for having planned to kill Marceline, or for having failed to even properly begin the attempt? It didn't matter. She would likely never know.

"I should go. I'm sorry. Thank you. I'm sorry. Stay safe."

Juliette scrambled to her feet, blinking as she kept her gaze on the girl, as she looked at those tear-stained hazel eyes, that soft and smooth and untouched neck. She couldn't make herself register Marceline's lips.

"I'm sorry."

And like that, Juliette turned and bolted on weak, unsteady legs.

((Juliette Sargent continued in You'll Never Know Me, None Of You Will Ever See My Face))

Just like that, with a bare few parting words, Marceline was alone again.

It was strange, being alone here. She had spent so much time with company during her journey, only in the scant few hours both before and after she was with Dolly had she been completely alone before now. There was almost always someone there with her, to support her, keep her going. She didn't have anyone, now. Her own actions had made sure of that.

Marceline began to curl herself back up, not wanting to move from where she sat, not seeing any point to doing so. She didn't know what to think of what had just transpired, and was left with only questions. Was the razor she had been given Juliette's assigned weapon? Had Juliette been holding it the whole time they were talking? Why had she decided to drop it into Marceline's lap like some kind of strange gift after the kiss?

She didn't think she would get answers to those questions, and perhaps it didn't matter. The end result was the same regardless, Juliette had given Marceline her possibly only defense, a gesture that Marceline was on some level genuinely touched by. Was Juliette trying to tell her to live on, in spite of what had just transpired? She said it had been for luck and safety, how else was she supposed to interpret that?

The gesture was kind, and encouraging, but it wasn't enough. In one fell swoop, she had lost everything that had mattered to her. She had lost her sole remaining band mate, she had lost her one and only chance for salvation, and she had lost the very first trial of her newfound purpose. She lost it all because she simply didn't have the conviction to see it all the way through, all because she cared far too much.

This spot marked her grave in all but name. She was doomed.

Marceline sat there, unmoving, breathing slowly, the weight of her collar pressing into her neck. She was a sitting duck, wide open to being picked off by anyone who happened to pass by. She welcomed them, perhaps someone would have the mercy to end her torment. Yet, despite her vulnerability, nobody ever came. Hours passed as she sat there, not taking her eyes off of where Roxanne had disappeared, and yet she was still alive and alone.

She wanted someone, anyone, to be there with her. To hold her and tell her that it was all going to be alright, even if it wasn't really. She just wanted someone for her to lean on and support her, if she needed it, and she really needed it. That was all she needed, but now there was nobody there for her, and it was all her fault. She took them for granted, and now she had nobody else to blame but herself.

She might as well die. That was what she had chosen, after all.

Eventually, as the sun began to sink back down towards the horizon, Marceline finally began to move again, abruptly standing up and stowing her weapons away in her bag. She needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else, she decided. This was not her home. This was not where she belonged. So long as she stayed, there could only be further sorrow, here. All this place would be was a bad memory, just the same as that awful, awful house.

((Nothing more, and nothing less.))