Messiah, Complex/Eat Your Heart Out, B098

Grand Moff Hissa · #1

((Steven Salazar continued from The two people in the distance were Paulo and Becca))

And so, what comes next? That was the question of the moment, of every moment, even far from the island, but most people never knew it. Every second was cause and effect in one, a domino tipped by the past and crashing into the future, with silly things like free will and human emotions nudging it one way or the other but rarely doing much to alter its course, because they too were shaped by what came before, just as they would dictate the form of what followed.

It was hard for most people to see these things, to trace the connections and follow the lines and see what sort of pattern it'd make when the whole crazy chain was finally run down, but Steven had been practicing for a long time. That was, at its root, what journalism was: he studied the past and present and tried to predict the future, he told people what had happened so that they could try to puzzle out what would happen, and if he was feeling particularly lucky, then maybe he'd take a turn playing oracle himself, and if he truly was lucky, maybe he'd be right.

And so, what comes next? On the island, that was a question with answers simple and complicated. What comes next for Steven is he stumbles through the dark and tries not to let his fatigue show. What happens for others is they continue on their own trajectories, following the whim or logic that is the domino behind them and trying to tip the future their way. What happens to the Aurora High Class of 2012 is they kill each other until only one is left, and if anyone here on the island thinks they can stop that, well, then Steven's got a bridge in Brooklyn up for sale and it's a real steal.

The wood groaned and so did the wind. Steven was silent as the breeze tugged at him, but goosebumps rose along his arms and he shivered. It was light for midnight. He was on the docks, because he'd struck out in his search. There were five people he had to find at the moment, five who had killed, and it was an awfully big island. In fact, he hadn't even come across anyone else, probably because they were all flocking to civilization and Steven was now avoiding it. It was likely that the scared people would be in the towns and houses, and that the killers would be driven even from mock-society. To catch a pariah, he would become one.

He did not want to think about what he had chosen, so he forced himself to.

Sharon was back there, maybe going crazy by now. That had been his pact, the first lie he'd told, and oh how he'd known it for vile filth as it passed his lips in the first place. But it had been to make Sharon feel better, and to make Steven feel better, and once upon a time comfort had seemed a passably noble goal. He'd lied for the greater good, and if that was the net total of the sins he incurred on this little adventure it'd be a genuine miracle.

Because the greater good was nothing less than the greatest of evils, and it had been some real folly to pretend otherwise. There were those out there, men with doctorate degrees in philosophy, who could probably whittle the ethical choices in Survival of the Fittest down to a neat bundle of options. Steven was smart, and he was educated, but when it came to morality he was a rank amateur, hitting way out of his league. His theories, well, he didn't think they'd be found in any textbooks.

There was good, and there was evil, and there was everything in between. Good was what was best for people, and the greater good was the best thing for the most people, which was why it was a damn dirty lie. To take a look at the world and figure out what was the best for the most people would require a universal perspective and an unlimited intelligence, and as far as Steven knew, that didn't describe anyone he'd been in gym class with. This game was a game of mere mortals, and trying to take a long view was nothing more than a way to feel better about being slow.

Here, slowness was evil, but Evil was not slow. Already it crept the land, snatching up his classmates and whispering sweet promises in their ears.

Come, children, Evil said. Come and walk with me a while. You and I, we're not so different. We have goals, and all we need to do, no, all we can be expected to do is to chase them. You want to live, so act! Kill others, because only by doing that can you get better weapons, can you become feared, can you prove to yourself that you're tough, can you win a cheeseburger and a gun, can you be sure that you will be allowed to leave when all is said and done. Hide, because only by doing that can you protect yourself, can you avoid the bloodshed, can you resist the temptation to kill, can you hold out until the rescue comes, can you keep yourself. Find your friends, because only by doing that can you protect them, can you keep them from harm, can you form something larger than yourself, can you prevent the game from changing you, can you really make a positive difference. Try to escape, because only by doing that can you stand a real chance, can you give hope to others, can you strike back at the real bad guys, can you accomplish something that will be sung for the ages even if you should perish in the process. Do these things, children, Evil said, and you will reap rewards.

And Steven said no.

Because Evil was doing what you wanted to do and what was easy to do and to Hell with the consequences, and here, on this island, that was ignoring the truth. Fatalism it might be, but at the very best one teenager would walk away from this. The rest would die, probably slowly and painfully, and nothing Steven or anyone else on the island did would change that. Maybe there would be a miracle, but it would be external, the work of angels rather than mortals.

The island was a microcosm of the world: a nasty, painful little struggle that always ended in death.

Steven slid into the darkened office. Glass crunched under his feet, and bent and battered blinds tinkled softly in the breeze. Entropy had brought its own wind chime.

He made his way to a rolling chair and slumped into it, spun it around twice. The wheels rattled against the floor, and the joints squeaked. Steven let his impromptu weaponry fall to the ground, then wiggled out of his backpack and let it and the dufflebag fall too.

So why had he left, and why had he decided to do something about the killers, when everything was pointless and they were all going to die? Why was this waste of time and energy in some way more noble, more fitting than any other?What made Steven's path so special?

When Jesus came down to the earth, two thousand and twelve years before, it had been to die. Maybe he had known it from the start, and maybe he hadn't, but somewhere along the way he'd figured things out. He'd told the disciples that one would betray him, and yet he had let it come to pass. Some thought that Jesus had been calm and serene the whole way through, had never wavered in his conviction. Maybe that was true. Steven was pretty sure, though, that Jesus hadn't wanted to die on that cross. He'd done it for the good of mankind, and it'd been tough, horrifying and painful and slow, because otherwise what was the point of holding him up as an example? Good was doing things because they helped others, not because you wanted to, but because they were right. It was about choosing the hard path when it was the last thing you wanted, because others wouldn't or couldn't. It wasn't about the warm glow, or the thanks, or any of that. It was about making the world a better place than you found it, and doing that required a sense of scale. It was, more than that, about trying and failing.

Steven would not prevent any deaths. Every person here would meet their end, be it tomorrow or in eighty years. Probably, most of them would be murdered in the next week. He would not be able to prevent that. He might, at best, change who it was who did the murdering, or maybe ease someone's pain a little, but those things didn't matter because dead was dead.

But he would try anyways. He would not plan, and he would not hide, and he would not stop until he'd done his best to improve things, piece by piece, one tiny bit at a time. He did not want to die, but he had decided to do it anyways, because it was right. All that mattered now was the logistics of the thing.

He was pretty sure he could do something about the killers. He could see that they were not so different, and he could hear the words Evil whispered in their ears. Evil murmured to him, too, and he could speak its language. He would use it if he had to, because abandoning the greater good didn't mean that there were no little goods that outweighed the little evils required to attain them.

He would stop the ones who were killing, as many as he could, and however he could. He wasn't planning to simply hunt them down and kill them, because that was just trading his position for theirs accepting their burdens as his own, and there were so many others who'd be engaged in that pursuit. No, Steven would simply stop them, one at a time and again and again, he would find them and stop them until eventually he would fail.

He was getting dizzy, now, the chair spinning faster and faster, his foot thumping against the wall as he kicked off, gaining more momentum with each rotation. Would Sharon be alright? The others? Because listening to his anger, that was not precisely good, and breaking promises, even bad promises, was not precisely how he wanted to operate. They would make their decisions, he figured, and they would all die, and maybe before him, and that would hurt a lot and make him question all his choices, but so be it. Good was taking the hard path, and it was owning that pain and responsibility. Maybe they would all get rescued, and Steven would be saved and Sharon and the others would be dead because he had not been there. The possibility sunk into his stomach, twisting, squirming, but it was only Evil saying that. They did the best they could with what they had, and Steven was making educated guesses. To leave was to gamble that they would not be saved, while to stay was to gamble that they would.

He stomped the wall, bringing the spin to an abrupt halt, though from his perspective the room kept turning, wobbling. He felt like he was going to fall over, but that would not come to pass unless the chair tipped, and even though that felt like a very real possibility, he knew it was just a trick of his senses. It was a reminder that he could trust nothing, not what he saw or heard or felt or thought. The truth was like the end of a rainbow: you could get pretty close, but whenever it seemed you'd catch it, it would slip another mile away.

And so, what comes next? There's a shortage of killers to stop or save or whatever, and it's past midnight, and Steven's been walking all day and thinking these horribly deep, grim, final and absolute thoughts, and he's not seen anyone at all, not a single person since he left the mansion. His eyes hurt and his feet hurt and he's so very, very glad he brought good underwear and some subtle cologne, because even if you're going to die you might as well feel comfortable and smell like a human being. But what can he do now, with those five nowhere to be seen and the night well and truly set in?

There was a chance that the killers would do their dirty work by night, but Steven doubted it. From all he knew, most people were active during the day, which meant he would be, too. Maybe he'd have the upper hand if he caught Hansel Williams asleep, but maybe he'd stumble right by the house the guy was hiding in and never know it. Better to take things head on.

So what comes next is rest and a brief span of quiet.

Steven closed his eyes, let his mind relax, let swirls of color and sound and symbolism carry him into unconsciousness.

He had been awake an hour when the voice rang out again, had already relieved himself and splashed his face with the salty ocean water and lamented the loss of his razor, which had been removed from his pack along with everything else. He had already started moving inland, made it a mile or two from the docks, packed up his things. He was heading roughly for the housing area near the nuclear plant; it was far enough from regular civilization that he thought most people would avoid it, but enough of a shelter killers might go there to lay low.

He'd just finished a bottle of water and two of those high-calorie bars when the voice began, and so he paused to listen until it had run its course entirely. He sat as still as he could, focused intently. He would need to remember these things.

There were eleven new names and faces for his list, to go with the twelve more dead kids. It gave him pause for a moment, like maybe this might not be such a good idea, like, shit, maybe it'd actually be kinda difficult, but all that passed. Twelve dead kids, eleven new killers, one repeat offender.

Sounded like he had his work cut out for him, and if it didn't matter, well, that didn't mean he'd try any less. His belongings were already packed and ready, sitting next to him, so Steven rolled his shoulders and straightened up and set out again, looking for trouble.

((Steven Salazar continued in Memory))