Survival Of The Fittest

((Jackson Ockley and Ilario Fiametta III continued from Unquestioned Answers))














"Shut it off."

There was nervous shuffling beside him. An elbow grazed his and finally a click as the flashlight unlit. It was violently and coldly dark until their eyes adjusted. He could feel the smaller boy tense in the absence of brighter light. They were uncomfortably close, but Jackson could not dare himself to move. He felt they would both crumble if he did. They were spent in their ways: the Fiametta had spewed on for miles about every anxiety while Jackson's throat caved further and further from disuse. He could feel something of them both seeping out and trailing behind them as they walked, even as they sat. He, at least, was not himself. He'd thought the back of his tongue eternally stained in coffee and smoke (there was a tugging at his chest and he ignored it) but now it left the reeks of salt water and vomit on his breath. He'd always been small but his meekness seemed inherited by his partner and on this different scale he felt impossibly, awkwardly tall. Worst was the cold. His bones were stiff with frost. He thought of the trash under the passenger's seat of Cedric's father's Escalade in that first winter of not being Jack but Jackson (though Cedric would never know it) and how the cold slow trash didn't feel like garbage at all when it was this cold and though he didn't remember saying it out loud they both started laughing. It was an image that always resurfaced in the cold. Maybe the cold was a blessing. Maybe he'd warm only to find his bones felt like trash and the last of him was long gone.








The smaller boy jumped at the first click. Jackson hardly remembered taking the white plastic Zippo lighter from his pocket. He flicked again and more fire jumped up. He thought of doing the trick, the one where he set his palm on fire. He wondered if the boy would be impressed. He flicked one more time and slipped it back into his pocket. They were silent again.




















He shivered. The other coughed. There were faint awful sounds somewhere in the growth. An animal and cooling prey. After a while, it stopped. It was lighter now. They were still. There was a tugging at his chest and he ignored it. They were still awake. They were silent again.

























He went to speak but the stillness had invaded his throat. The smaller boy pulled his legs closer. They were silent again.


































There were more noises. Shuffling in the woods, unanimal. They held their breath. It faded. They breathed. They were silent again.
















There was a tugging at his chest. He ignored it.













It tugged again. He ignored it.













Finally, he could ignore it no more.

Jackson worked his shoulder back carefully but underestimated the stiffened damage. Ill thin pain shot through his back. He grunted. The other boy couldn't apologize but the stench of bashful guilt was there. He worked the bag towards him, carefuller still, until the brown heavy thing was in his lap. His good hand dug. He knew the shape well by now, though this one in particular. It was wider and thinner and felt more expensive than his regular kind. They were, of course, more expensive. Kurt had made that very clear. No expense was spared for such a critical occasion. Jackson had been so angry at first. He wouldn't even touch them. Then he did out of misery and tight-chested desperation and he knew Kurt was right and hated him for it. That one little space taunted him for the next week. He forced himself away. He was horrible and miserable and nobody noticed. He drank more coffee than ever.

Finally his finger jabbed at a stiff corner and he drew it out. Djarum Blacks. Nineteen of them. The smell of the cloves pawed at him even caged and at arm's length. He delicately/deliberately flipped the box open, put it to his face and drew a fresh black deathstick out with his teeth while his more useless hand groped for his lighter. Click. The tobacco roared with fire. He drank deeply, expanded as far as possible. Held. Let go and the smoke carried it all off. He could feel foul relief across his face and chest and in a certain warm and vital swell.

You smoke like it means something to you, he had said. That's what scares me.

He drew again
released
paused
considered briefly.

Would he be offended? He could feel the doe-light eyes on him but not what they said. Would it matter if he was?
He let the sweet black stick hang between his knuckles and extended it to his left.

How long had they been walking?

A long time. Ilario talked because he had to fill the silence, apologies first, then trying to find some common ground. Then words because anything was better then the heavy weight of darkness, spiced with fir trees and ocean and a bitter taste like sand in the back of his throat. Finally, he had stopped. And then soon they had stopped as well.

Backs to a tree, they sat. Ilario folded the straps of his bag neatly at his side, the force of long habit moving his fingers more than anything else. Turned his gaze upward, to where a moon hung between the slivers of deciduous and coniferous branches. Surprisingly peaceful. His fingers wormed their way into the flaps of his bag, searching for pill bottles, reassuring himself with their touch. They nestled in among his green and blue Carlo Franco, cloth like water lying in crumpled folds. The silky threads made it easy for him to close his eyes, imagine he was at home, wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets.

A click-snap from next to him, and he jumped. A lighter. For a moment, there were scolding words on his lips, Rosa smoking in her bedroom was not okay because she would light things on fire and his father would be angry at the smell - but Jackson, next to him, with wide dark eyes gleaming in the darkness and a white lighter highlighted by the moon. He clicked it again, slipped it into his pocket, looked away. Noise in the undergrowth sounded like animals, a Discovery channel marathon. The bear, successful in its hunt, tears into the prey. Ilario's breath caught in his throat, remnants of sand and vomit still clinging to his trachea. He coughed hard, once, dislodging bitter sputum.

Tucked himself in closer, holding his knees. Eyes shut. Home again.

Noises. They held their breath. Then the noises subsided, students fading away. All that was important was that they were still living.

Then Jackson, moving. Going through his bag, grabbing for something. Favoring his shoulder,that would be Ilario's rock. Drawing out a packet. Cigarettes? They looked strange. Jackson lit up and inhaled like they would save his life, sucking in the smoke with something like ecstasy in his eyes. Or desperation. Then held the smoke out, between his knuckles.

Offering?

Ilario hesitated. Never smoked. Never drank. Perfect son, his father said, sometimes. How many times had he snatched Rosa's pack, her lighter, anger tightening his lips. Those things'll kill you.

His lips moved. Was it a smile? Hard to tell. They won't be the first thing to try, he thought. Not here.

Reaching out, he took the cigarette. It smelled different. Almost spicy. He put it delicately in his mouth, hesitated, then took a long draw.

The smoke filled his lungs, and they tensed, expelling it violently. He coughed, doing his best to muffle the sound. By the time he managed to draw full breath again, Jackson had taken back the thin black stick. Was smoking with a softly reverent look on his face.

Ilario hesitated.

Held out a hand, silently asking for another drag.

((any and all godmodding approved by choic))

The prissy rich boy was obviously not used to smoking. Jackson's lips quirked into a faint, unpleasant smile, watching Ilario choke, face flushing into a decidedly unattractive shade of beet-red. When it was clear he wasn't going to take another draw, Jackson reached out, twitched it from loose long fingers, returning it to dangle from his lips as he took a long breath. Spices. Cardamom, clove, cinnamon on his tongue, in his lungs. Filling him up until he felt like so much smoke-filled skin, until it oozed out of every pore, until he could imagine breathing out his soul and thoughts and mind and just floating away until he dissolved into the air.

Another breath.
Another.

Ilario was watching him. The smoke was halfway down, now, sending the aroma through his hair, mingling with sea-water and bile. The smell made his stomach turn for one awful moment, and when he saw the outstretched hand he didn't hesitate, handing over the cigarette. It blended into the night until it looked like just a small ember, with ghostly edges. Jackson breathed out the last of it, imagined breathing out the last of himself as well.

They were silent.

-

Ilario could see the appeal in smoking. It was easier, now, and each lungful sent shivers down his back and arms, relaxing the muscles, leaving a spicy scent that he couldn't quite place curling through his nostrils. The smoke was almost gone when he finally, reluctantly handed it back over, watching Jackson take the final few drags before tossing it to the ground and crushing it under his heel.

They were silent. It was awkward, and strange. Ilario felt his hands twitch, eager for something to do, unsure of how to simply stay still and wait. He had spat his words out already, he thought, like vomiting he had cleared his body of all there was to say and now, when he opened his mouth to speak, he gagged silently on the unformed syllables. This was no place for talking. He thought about his meds, and glanced sideways at Jackson. He was staring into the trees, giving no sign he knew Ilario was still there.

Knew, or cared.

Ilario swallowed down a momentary swell of longing, of loneliness. He was often by himself, but at the same time, never alone. And he had always had the other triplets. Or Father, or - or someone. This was different. A forced isolation, in the middle of an island full of students. Alive, and dead.

His heart rate sped up, pounding erratically against his ribs, searching for an exit. He slipped his hand into his bag again, closing over the bottles and holding them softly, not clutching, just reverently stroking. The same way Jackson acted with his pack of smokes, fingers just dancing over the black packet. His heart calmed. Blood flowed easily through his veins, his hands stilling, his breath relaxing. His nails rubbed over the paper label, moved down, tracing the curves of the child-proof cap, ghosting over metal...

Metal?

His fingers closed over a small cylinder, and he fumbled it from the sandy mess of his bag into the light. It felt strange, mainly smooth under his fingers, with a single join around the approximate halfway point and a second at the base. And...something else, like a recessed button, set into the side of the metal. He squinted at it in the light from the moon, the shape finally clicking into place in his memory.

Lipstick?

Rosa's. It must have been, somehow packed into his bag, or tangled in his clothing. Had he found it in his room and meant to give it to her? He couldn't remember, but that sounded likely. He popped the cap off, noting the weight in his hand. It was good quality, whatever it was. Not that Rosa didn't have good taste. With a sudden strange stab of curiosity, he twisted the tube in his hands, interested in the color.

It wasn't lipstick that slid out, though. Instead, more metal, duller, less shine to it. A glimpse of red at the top, but flattened. And there was a hole in the end. Bizarre.

He turned to Jackson. Was it his? Maybe in the frenzied repacking of the bags it had gotten into the wrong one. He held it like one would a cigarette, hoping to break the ice. The tube was slippery. As Jackson turned to look, bending close over it, his thumb found the recessed button again, and he pressed down, grateful for something to help hold it.

There was a soft pop.

Quiet.

But at the same time, too loud.

-

Rich rock boy managed to get through almost the whole smoke before handing it back. Jackson didn't know if he was angry or not, he was fucking supposed to be quitting (last pack, man) and here was a way to make it easier sitting across from him, silver spoon out of his mouth and black cigarette in, but they were his and they were personal and Jackson drew in hard like he was erasing every trace of Ilario, purging him through his lungs, spitting out the taste of him. When the butt finally dropped, ember vanishing under his heel, he felt a momentary pang.

But there were more. Still more. And for now, satisfied, no more tugging feeling in his chest, no more twitching from fingers aching to take up the lighter and the pack again. He settled back, watched the sky, one hand tugging at the 6-gauge set into his right earlobe. Silence was fucking golden. Couldn't believe how long it had taken the boy to shut up. And now, even now, not more than five minutes of peace before he was squirming again.

Cedric was like that.
Always moving. Like a shark, he said. Talking, laughing, smoking, drinking, fucking. Not stopping. Like he was frantic for life and if he paused it would just pass him on by.

Ilario moved like if he was too still he would be swallowed up.

I fuckin' wish.

Those long slender fingers were in his bag, now. Probably rummaging for those monogrammed faceclothes or a suit jacket cost more than most people make in a month. Jackson watched out of the corner of his eye. Saw him pause, relax. Expression uncomfortably close to the one he figured was on his face when he took Kurt's pack out. But that didn't mean anything.

Then Ilario was taking something out, with the dull lustre of metal. A weapon? All muscles tensing, shoulder stabbing like broken glass. But no. Too small. The lipstick.

Lips curved into a smile. That your thing, Fiametta?

He was studying it. Turning it over and over in his hands. Opened it, but what emerged didn't seem like lipstick. It looked like a little stamp, or some kind of utensil. Red at the top, cross-hatching around it. Ilario turned towards him, and Jackson leaned closer, curious in spite of himself. What was the littlest Fiametta sister hiding, then?

Ilario's fingers slipped, grappled for purchase. Jackson squinted at the hole, trying to figure out what was inside.

Ilario's grip tightened, tiny muscles in his knuckles flexing, the tip of one digit sinking just a tiny bit, as though into an indent on the tube.

There was a soft pop.

Quiet.

But at the same time, too loud.

And continuing. Ringing in his ears. Ilario's face had disappeared. Everything had disappeared. Under his back were pine cones poking awkwardly at his spine, a root cushioning his head. But even that faded. There was something like pain, far away. A sudden starburst of flavour on his tongue was copper and salt, like something he couldn't remember anymore.

The air smelled like pine trees.

And the ocean.

And cigarettes. Djarun Blacks. Expensive clove cigarettes that still smelled just a little like Kurt's aftershave and a little like Captain Morgan's, which was Cedric's scent of choice and they shouldn't have smelled like that because how long since Cedric? But they did.

Cardamom, cloves, cinnamon.

Christmas in other people's houses, not his, where he ghosted through and scooped half-finished packets of Marlboro Menthol Lites.

Cloves, cinnamon, cardamom.

A battered Escalade, an air freshener dangling from the crooked rear-view mirror, laughing crazily, rolling down the windows to let in the summer.

Cinnamon, cardamom, cloves.

Bitter bile and sand and panic coating his tongue as his lips sealed over Ilario's own and he exhaled that huge first breath into another pair of lungs.

And then no more scent.

No more senses.

Except one.

The ringing in his ears lessening, and a voice, far away, calling his name. Calling and calling. Was it his mom? Kurt? Cedric?

No.

Ilario.

Talking again.

Jackson thought

that maybe

he was smiling

never shut up

that kid

should never

have saved

him

waste

of

time

and still

calling

his name.

Over.

And over.

And over.

And there was one last burst of scent, one last explosion of cinnamoncardamomcloves, Black Djarum expensive brand smoke 'em slow savour them your last pack they're your last pack and all the spices he'd ever dreamed bursting in his mouth and an exhale that had nothing to do with his body breathing out smoke or was that soul and someone still calling him over and over and

over.

B136: OCKLEY, JACKSON - DECEASED

-

There was a soft pop.

Quiet.

But at the same time, too loud.

And the lipstick tube jerked in his hands, spitting out a puff of smoke, and there was a sharp crack and Jackson was staring at him with one eye, glasses canted crazily on his face, the right lens smashed and a watery red-white fluid leaking from the remains of one sepia pupil, eyeball popped like a bag of paint, collapsed, punctured, dead.

Ilario's mouth was moving. He was speaking. Jackson's name, he thought dully. Over and over.

Jackson fell backwards, very slowly. His eye continued to stare up at the sky curiously. He twitched once or twice, and exhaled. No inhale came again. His cheek was painted like some macabre abstract, freckles standing out in sharp relief.

He was dead.

Slowly, mechanically, Ilario knelt next to him. He tilted his head back, still warm, no pulse fluttering beneath his fingers. He swiped vitreous humor away from Jackson's lips, checked the scene for danger. Slowly, methodically, he listened for breathing and watched for the movement of Jackson's chest. Upon seeing nothing, he sealed the boy's nose, bent over his lips, and exhaled into his still lungs.

The chest moved as air was pumped in, moved again as it exited. Ilario moved to his breastbone, locking his palms in place.

Began the count, the heel of his hand slamming down with each number.

One.

Two.

Three.

[[Michael Moretti and Violet Druce, continued from Breathe In, Breathe Out]]

After making their way back into the woods and wandering for several hours, Mike and Violet found a stroke of luck- a small cabin at the edge of the woods. Eager (but not too eager) to have found a roof for their heads, the two entered without hesitation and prepared to sleep for the night.

This was what went through Michael's mind as he slowly recalled the events that had led him to waking up on a couch facing several soulless pairs of deer's eyes mounted on the wall. Ever the gentleman, he'd given Violet the one bed in the house- there was easily room for both of them, but the two still barely knew each other. It would've been weird.

Speaking of, he figured he ought to go see how she was doing. It was still sort of dark, so he needed to adjust his eyes to keep from tripping over anything- ah, there was the bedroom.

The empty bedroom, to be more specific. Fuck.

At once, millions of fears filled his still weary mind. Her stuff was still right there, so she couldn't have just left him there... at least, not without plans to come back. Could someone have come in without him noticing...? Shit. Shit shit shit. This was not good. Not not not good. Shit.

"Violet!" He yelled a hoarse whisper, wanting and dreading attention at the same time- "Violet! You around here?" Nothing. Not in the bathroom, not in the bedroom, not in the kitchen- "Vi-"

Pop.

All was forgotten in favor of the revelation that someone was outside. The sound wasn't very loud, but it definitely wasn't natural. "Violet!"

He went to the window, wiping dust from it as silently as possible- Oh fuck- Two pairs of legs. Limited perspective forbade his efforts to see anything more, but those were definitely male legs. Wait- one of them was moving. Wait- falling over? The other became more visible as he knelt over the now fallen pair of legs- Ilario Fiametta. Of course he knew who the guy was- they'd had plenty of classes together, being two of the smarter ones in school and all. That and he was one of those triplets. Pretty much everyone knew them somehow.

Well, that's good. He was always a good guy, surely I could count on him- Something still didn't feel right, though. Carefully, and still as silently as possible, he opened the door and approached the corner of the house that would yield a better view- actually, no. Make that a much worse view.

That was Ilario Fiametta alright- but that wasn't what worried Michael at the moment. It was the other boy. Jackson Ockley. They'd met before- smoked together once or twice. Normally, meeting these two here would've seemed fortuitous- but not like this.

Blood flowed from a hole that marred Jackson's face, just one indicator of his recent loss of life. Maybe he wasn't dead yet- but he sure as hell wasn't still alive. So wait... did that mean the perpetually perfect Ilario Fiametta... had killed him? No... no no no no no. There's something up here. There was some sort of accident. Some crazy guy came along or something, like back over at the truck-

Before he knew it, he'd stepped out from the cover of his corner- Well shit, might as well now that I'm in plain sight.

"Jacks- no, Ilario... what the hell is going on here?"

"Nngh..."





"No, don't take- no, I- hah... hngh-"





"...Nghh, fummhhnh... I don't..."





"...I'm- no, I'm- juhhh, fuh...





"Guhh...what..."


Violet flipped over her camera.

"Too early..."

Mumbling to herself, she ignored the blinking numbers flashing on the screen beside her, and curled up further inside the old dusty blanket.

Mike had been gracious enough to let her have the bed for the night, and while she made an argument for him to sleep there instead, she didn't put up much of a fight against his insistence. After all, how often were they going to get the chance to sleep in a real bed while they were here? Better make the most of it while they can, she thought; she'd at least make it up to him come morning.

...Which came far too early.

She rose suddenly in the bed, her eyes widening as a tight hand wrapped itself around her bladder. It seemed her old sleeping habits had followed her all the way out here - namely, the fact that she woke up every morning, without fail, at 4am to pee. Curses launched themselves at her body as she slipped out from under the blanket without a single sound, and hesitantly she fumbled for her camera. It made a few tapping sounds as she knocked it against the bedside table, but hopefully it wouldn't be loud enough to disturb her partner in the other room.

Then a thought came to her.

Did she even know where the bathroom was in this place? She thought she might have seen it outside, but she wasn't a hundred percent sure, and didn't want to risk waking Mike up to ask him. Her eyes found the window in the dark. There was nobody around, as far as she could tell. Maybe she could slip outside, do her thing in the bushes, then climb back into the bedroom - no harm, no foul.

With hushed steps she walked over to the door, being careful not to stand on any loose floorboards there might have been, and quietly slipped into her sneakers. She left the laces undone - all she wanted was to get back to sleep as quickly as possible - then made her way over to the make-shift door. A pause to listen out for any signs of movement, then a moment to sling her camera around her neck. Her daypack, with the torch inside, sat out there with the rest of their things, so she had to make do with the light of her screen to guide the way out of the cabin.

A heavy thud soon followed as she slipped over the windowpane, crashing onto the decking below. Hissing at herself for being so loud, she checked her camera quickly for any signs of damage, sighed happily, then tip-toed out into the undergrowth.

After she was done, she took in the view around her. Trees, tall and dark, swayed heavily in the nightly breeze, and the sounds of shadows swished and flew amongst the grass and the leaves. That was when she noticed the large, formidable shapes nearby, lining the base of the mountain like ancient, crumbling protectors. Knowing she had time to snoop around before anyone would find her, Violet carved a dim path through the darkness by pointing the camera straight ahead as she walked on over to the curious mounds.

Rocks.

And dirt.

Lots of it, tonnes of it, piled up high around her. Artificial, of course, which meant someone had been digging. Digging what though? She wondered for a while, examining each of the mounds with some frustration as the light seemed to grow more dim with every passing second. Not wanting to waste all of her batteries, she decided to turn back, but before she got a chance to she saw something familiar.

It was total luck that led her there, but she didn't feel quite so lucky when she realized what she'd found.

Down in the bushes, by the largest mound of dirt, sat a tangled pair of straps that belonged to a large, brown bag. Warily, she removed it from the twigs and hooks, then aimed her light straight at it as she pulled it up to get a better look.


T.Savage


Her mouth dried up.

She choked.


So he really was here, it seemed. At least, what little she'd found of him.

She didn't know where to start.

If he was here, on this very same island, then why had he left his bag behind? Didn't he need it anymore? Was that all it was? Had he found someone like Mike, and then dropped the things he didn't need?

She hoped so, but the sight of it pulled on her heartstrings because she knew that wasn't right.

She'd seen his face when she bought it for him all those years ago.

She'd seen him wear it every day; at school, at home, in town, on vacation. Everywhere.

And yet... here it was. All damp and battered, and ripped by thorns.


A quick shake.

Still full.


She buried herself in it, breathed him in.

Short, gasping breaths, which reminded her how selfish she'd been - how much she missed him, no, needed him.

They'd been together always, but now they were apart.

She sobbed quietly.

Alone.



...Until she heard a pop behind her.



"MIKE?!"

CPR statistics flowed through Ilario's head as he locked his lips to the other boy's. Felt like a piece of ticker-tape, or a scrolling sidebar on a news report, almost able to imagine the newscaster. Blonde, attractive, in a plastic sort of way. She is staring seriously at the camera. Her voice is steady and every word perfectly enunciated. Once respiration ceases, there are approximately four minutes until brain death begins, and ten minutes until it is complete. Artificial respiration, or 'mouth to mouth' can delay this by allowing some oxygen to reach the cells in the brain. This is only successful where respiration has arrested but the heartbeat continues.

He leaned back from Jackson's face, unconsciously avoiding the blank stare from the single remaining eyeball. His fingers found the carotid artery, moved down to the pulse point at his wrist. Nothing from either. Pressing his head over Jackson's heart did not produce any echoing thump-thump either.

That was okay.

That was fine.

He returned to his original position, hands locked and flat on Jackson's chest, pushing down hard, counting in his head. The newscaster continued her report. She looked like his stepmother. It is important to note that CPR does not revive victims. It is intended not to restart the heart, but merely to circulate oxygenated blood until the victim can be transferred to life support. Only 5-10% of people who receive CPR survive.

Five to ten percent. Not good percents. Ilario's hands moved woodenly, in surprisingly accurate chest compressions. If he got those percents on a test, he would be devastated. To get that kind of percentage on a lab or assignment, he would have fundamentally misunderstood the instructions. Those were failing percentages. Jackson wouldn't - couldn't - fail. It was obviously Ilario's fault in some way, so he had to correct the mistake.

Four. Five. Six. Seven. His arms hurt, in a dull, unconnected manner. He breathed softly. Jackson's dead eye slopped blood and pale liquid the consistency of egg-white down his face with every push. Deep inside it, there was a gleam of dull metal. Or maybe he was imagining that. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. The deep crack of his sternum, starting to give under the pressure. A hazard of CPR. Lowering the percent. No. Not okay.

Ilario bent over Jackson's mouth again, and sucked in a long breath to exhale. Before he could, though, a cry split the air and his head jerked up, the newscaster momentarily silenced.

What...Michael?

The other student was staring at him from the corner of the house. He looked horrified. Of course. This would not look good. This would look like failing percentages bad. Ilario straightened, forgoing his CPR for a moment. Michael's arrival had thrown him off track. The newscaster was softly insisting that being shot through the eye did not get better with cardiopulmonary respiration, and he had the sinking feeling she was right.

"It's...it's okay." His voice carried. More than he thought it would. There was a high, shrill note to it.

"He just - there was this, this tube, like lipstick, and something happened. I don't - I'm trained. Emergency Responder. I was doing CPR, but he..."

Ilario didn't hear him, and instead... what the fuck, was he making out wi- no, fuck, that's CPR. Fucking idiot, he got shot. You don't CPR bullet wounds, you take them to the hospital, where-

Oh, right.

Well, it kind of made sense, in an act of desperation sort of way.

Michael cleared his throat, and spoke in the gravest tone of voice he could muster. "Ilario Fiametta. I asked you a question. What. The fuck. Is going on here?"

Finally, he answered. His scared, shrill tone immediately told Mike that this was an accident- or at the very least, something he was very ashamed of.

"He just - there was this, this tube, like lipstick, and something happened. I don't - I'm trained. Emergency Responder. I was doing CPR, but he..."

Mike was trying very hard to conceal the shaking that had overtook his entire body."The fuck you are. He has a fucking hole in his head. You don't have to be a do-"

"MIKE?!"

Ohfuckingthankgodshewasstillhere. "VIOLET!" He began to run towards the voice, but he found her nearing the scene from the other side of the house. Before the impulse could reach his mind and any possible censors, he threw his arms around the girl.
"There's uh... it's really messed up. I knew the guy, his name was Jackson, but I also know the other guy and apparently it was an accident and it's like... fuck. I don't know. Where were you, anyway?"

"VIOLET!"

Thank God, he was-

No time to think, he was running towards her - a messy shape in the dark which soon had his arms wrapped tightly around her. Was he attacking her?!

"There's uh... it's really messed up. I knew the guy, his name was Jackson, but I also know the other guy and apparently it was an accident and it's like... fuck. I don't know. Where were you, anyway?"

What?

Violet pushed the boy away, her brain firing a millions thoughts all at once. Jackson was here? Is that what the sound was? That bang she heard? Wait, no, he spoke of another boy too. And... an accident?

"Mike, what the hell're you talking about? What's goin' on?"

Pushing past him, she made her way up the slope until she was met with the worst sight she'd ever witnessed. One boy - Ilario - huddled over a horribly still-looking body, mumbling on about CPR. Had he - oh God, he'd been trying to resuscitate the guy on the floor. But... why? What happened up here? What the hell was going on?!

She ran forward, purely on instinct, and shoved him aside.



"Wh-what..."

His eye.

His eye.

His eye.

His eye.

His eye.

What the fuck was wrong with Jackson's eye?

Where did his eye go?

Why was he leaking?

Oh, fucking HELL.

Tearing her gaze away from the body as best as she could, she turned on the boy who had done this to him.

"Fiametta, what the fuck did you do?!"

Her words spat from her mouth as she shouted him down. Another asshole with a gun, another body riddled with bullets. Worst of all, she'd only been metres away when it happened - she could've stopped this! She could've saved the guy if she hadn't been wandering around in the dark like an idiot. Trent's duffel bag sat beside her, taking the brunt of her physical aggression whenever she slammed her fist down, but it was of no comfort to her now. Jackson Ockley lay dead in front of them; a bullet where his eye should've been and his killer now a shaking wreck behind him.

She didn't care if he had a gun or not, all Violet wanted to do was tear the guy apart for doing this when it could've been avoided. They could've come up with a plan together, maybe, or something. But now? Now the guy was dead and there was nothing any of them could do to help him. Least of all that sick bastard Ilario.

Mike stood near, watching on in disbelief. Some help he'd been. If he was so awake, why hadn't he done anything himself? He could've stopped this. He could've saved the poor guy on the floor.

But...

That wasn't fair.

It wasn't his fault as much as his wan't hers.

They couldn't stop the island changing people as much as they couldn't go back to the way things used to be.

She fell back, slumping miserably onto her knees.

"Why'd you do this, Ilario?"

Her voice cracked.

"I don't... get why."

He has a hole in his head.

Yes.

Yes, that was right, wasn't it. He had a hole in his head. Or his eye, technically. He had a hole in his eye and the projectile (not a bullet couldn't be a bullet didn't come from a gun) had entered the eye socket so really he didn't have any holes in his head that weren't there before so that was okay but CPR, CPR didn't work on head wounds, brain injuries, and that's what this would be a traumatic brain injury to the frontal lobe and Jackson was dying (dead) dying in front of him and what else had first aid said?

First aid hadn't said anything about hysterical girls. Violet pushed him aside, spilling him onto the ground, landing him directly on bruised ribs. He cried out, a sharp, quick sound, and scrambled back to his feet. She was staring at him. Like he was a monster.

Like he'd killed Jackson.

Oh, god, she thought he'd killed Jackson. She was shouting at him, now, because she thought he'd killed Jackson. Ilario backed up a step, trying to steady his breathing. Too much panic already. Couldn't panic now. Not yet. Pills in his bag, he could get those in a moment. But he had to look after Jackson. Couldn't let her get in his way.

And she was sitting, now, on her knees. Looked like she wanted to cry. He leaned forward, pulling the cuff of his shirt over his hand and clamping it over the wound. Didn't seem to be bleeding much. Should he disinfect it? Head wounds were hard. Victims should be kept still, and quiet, and seen by a doctor as soon as possible. The eye was a loss but maybe he would be...

"It's okay," he said. His voice was soft, calmer than he thought it would be. "It's - it's okay. It's okay. You don't understand, he's not - he can't be dead."

He looked up, locking eyes with Violet, conviction shining through because he believed this, he had to believe this, he had nothing else to believe in anymore. "He can't be dead. He was alive just a minute ago."

This guy was fucking crazy.

No, seriously. Bayview's beloved Ilario Fiametta had gone insane, or something.

Might as well humor him. It wasn't like Mike didn't have his own fair share of medical knowledge. Not that anything he was about to do couldn't be done by literally anyone, but still. It was something.

Gently, carefully so as not to startle anyone, Mike walked towards the scene, towards the overwhelmed Violet and the obviously even more overwhelmed Fiametta. He knelt down next to Jackson's corpse, and gingerly took the hand lying limply at his side.

No pulse.

Of course there wasn't- he was dead before Mike had even gotten there- but his stomach still felt... what was it? Shock? Regret?

Relief?

"Fiametta." Mike swallowed the steadily rising bile and shut the intact eye, like they did on TV. "There isn't a pulse. We should- we should probably bury him or something. Something..."

In a twisted kind of way, Ilario's response to this whole thing was kind of comforting- whatever had happened, Ilario hadn't wanted it to- crazy or not, at least he wasn't killing on purpose. But then again, was it really a good thing since he'd proven himself so dangerously accident-prone?

We don't have to think about that right now. Which was a complete and obvious lie, of course, but he just needed more time. Give me more time.

He looked over at Violet. He wanted to say something, or do something... but he couldn't. Nothing that meant anything, anyway. He stood, walked a few feet- and leaned against the wall of the station, face turned towards the sky that was showing the first dull yellows and mauves of sunrise. Michael Moretti felt older at this moment than he ever had in his life.

"It's - it's okay. It's okay. You don't understand, he's not - he can't be dead."

Violet couldn't believe what she was hearing. Ilario's face, his expression, the deep-set terror in his eyes... he really did believe that the boy he'd just killed would somehow be alright. As though he'd get up in a few minutes, pop his eye back in and reveal that it was all an elaborate prank they'd been planning together since the very start of Bayview. "Glass-eye Jackson", they'd call him from the on, and they'd all laugh about it on the boat back home.

Mike stood closer now, concerned over the state of the two of them. Though he probably felt the same way Violet did - sick, scared, and terrified that one day they'd end up in this position, cowering over the body of someone they just killed.

"There isn't a pulse. We should- we should probably bury him or something. Something..."

Something. Yeah, something sounded really good right now. The kind of good which would get them the hell away from the body and the eye, and somewhere nobody would ever have to die again; not while she was around; not while she had Mike by her side. She stood, slowly, so she didn't startle the Fiametta, then walked over to her friend. With a whisper, she told him:

"We're leaving,"

A look back at Ilario as he trembled behind them.

"Right now."

----

A couple of minutes later, and the two of them had gathered up their belongings (including Trent's duffel bag - she'd get it back to him) and were almost ready to go. Taking a few steps out of the cabin, she noticed Ilario still hunched over Jackson's body, trying his very best to bring him back to life even though he must have known how fruitless the whole endeavour would be. Mike looked wary, warning her not go near him with a quick shake of his head, but she assured him it would be okay. It didn't really seem like he was going to go schizo on them any time soon, but there was still a niggling voice at the back of her head telling her to just leave.

Walking right up to the boy, she cautiously knelt down beside him and pushed herself to rest a hand on his shoulder. He didn't jerk back, which was a good sign, and so she relaxed a little.

"Hey, um... we're er, we're gonna head out now. I don't know what happened here, but I get the feeling it wasn't supposed to, so I guess I... I don't-"

He sat there, transfixed by the body, while she let out a remorseful sigh and sadly got to her feet.

"Take care, Ilario."



((Violet Druce and Michael Moretti continued in Cool Ranch))

Mike thought he was dead. Mike thought that Jackson was dead. Mike said that Jackson was dead. Mike said that Jackson had no pulse. Mike said that they should bury Jackson.

Mike was wrong.

He had to be. Thoughts spun in Ilario's head, confusing, tangled, unsure. He was hardly aware that he'd stopped the resuscitation efforts, locked as he was inside his own mind. Time seemed to be moving too slowly and too quickly at the same time, flowing oddly around him as he stared down at Jackson's ruined face. Something shone from next to his ear, innocuous. A tube of lipstick. Or something that looked like it.

Someone was touching him.

And speaking. Violet, he decided, after long consideration. She was talking to him. He couldn't entirely understand the words, but he thought they probably didn't matter much. And then she was standing, leaving. That was okay. That probably didn't matter much either. What mattered was a niggling little thought, at the back of his brain, that kept wanting to come forwards. Like something you've forgotten, the harder and harder you try to think of it the more it slips away. Ilario took a breath, softly, in/out. Relax. Let it come.

Silence stole in. Time passed. How long, Ilario wasn't sure. At one point, he thought, he had slept. He hadn't dreamed. Now, he was awake again, keeping his silent vigil. His knees hurt from kneeling. Flies were landing on Jackson's face, walking drunken circles around the ruin of his eye. The thought was coming slowly, worming through behind his eyes, sneaking closer and closer. He closed his eyes, waiting patiently.

But instead of the thought, there was a voice. It was loud, and crackled with static. A familiar voice. His breathing quickened, his nails biting into the soft palms of his hand.

The announcement.

It echoed over the sand. And yes, that was his name in it, all right. Right by Jackson. So it was true. He dragged his eyes down from the forested skyline, focusing dreamily on the face next to him. Yes. It must be true. Jackson's tongue protruded slightly, his skin already swelling. Decomposition takes us all, in the end. There it was, then, his very own fifteen minutes. He was going to be famous for something else. He was going to inherit the business and turn it even more lucrative. No time for that now.

And then his name again. His full name. He carried the weight of two other Ilario Fiamettas, two others who had gone before him and stamped their name into the world with blood and sweat and tears and money. He would be the one to let them down. Blood and sweat and tears and then nothing but a swelling body, putrid and rotting, while the crows came down to divest him of his eyes just like a tube of lipstick had so neatly taken Jackson's - but the announcement.

It gave him a location.

The warehouse. Yes, he'd seen a warehouse, or something like it. He didn't know what would be there, but he knew that he could not stay any longer. He had undergone his mourning period, like the ancients, he had torn his hair in the privacy of his mind's eye and now he must move on. To what end, he didn't know. But he had a task now. He had always done better with tasks. Something to keep him busy.

The lipstick tube went into his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward and brushed his hand over Jackson's face, trying to shut his one remaining eye. It resisted. Ilario left it be, staring in puzzled shock at the sky above. He took his pack, rearranging the things inside neatly. He left Jackson's next to him.

Shouldering the burden, he looked at his map, for a moment, and oriented himself. One hand dipped into the bag's inner sanctum, came out with two bottles. Mechanically, not looking at them, he opened the childproof tops. One of each. Swallowed dry.

In his mind, whispering faintly just behind his consciousness, the thought continued to grow. Ilario could not grasp it yet, and did not try. That was for later. For now, he set his feet to moving, one after the other, throat working as he tried to swallow the bitter pills.

((Ilario Fiametta III continued in Paper Tigers))