Survival Of The Fittest

Thoughts of making it away from here and back to the Temple had long since turned from optimism to fantasy. There were some things no amount of willpower could push through. After what felt like an eternity spent trying to rein in the intense pain, Ty managed to only just regain control of his faculties. He expected to pass out from the pain, and the few gaps in his awareness indicated he'd almost made it a few times. A part of him refused to be silenced, however. It forced him to lie there in the dirt, staring up at the sky, only able to hope that things would start to fade soon.

They didn't. Not fast enough.

It took three tries of trying to get to his feet before Ty gave up doing so, and merely crawled up against a set of rocks lying just ahead of the shoreline. Occasionally he thought he felt a stinging sensation coming from his hands, and a quick look showed that he'd cut them bloody as he crawled across the rough ground. There was so little sensation, he couldn't tell at first. Every time the bolt brushed against anything, any time he had to make use of his core, a feeling like an electric shock shot across his body. As he sat himself up against the rocks, he realized he'd left a bloody trail the whole way there.

In between laboured breaths, Ty chuckled in disbelief.

"How... how the fuck?"

He looked ahead, to the vista he was stuck with. The craggy, less-picturesque coastline that no doubt anyone would've passed over for the island's beaches. Waves crashed against the rocks, and thick foam kicked up from where the Lake ran into the sea. It was low enough he suspected large swaths of the area would be covered up at high tide. Ahead of the bolt sticking out of his abdomen, he saw the tattered remains of his jeans and what was left of his running shoes.

Unable to lean down and ply them off, he kicked haphazardly at his ankles until they slipped off. Though he was sure he'd cut open a blister or two in the process, he couldn't really feel it. Awkwardly peeling off one sock and then the other with each opposite foot, he found that he couldn't quite feel either too well. Only the absence of pressure that freeing his feet brought. Relaxation that should've been out of place given the circumstances. Nevertheless, he stretched his toes and gingerly sat back with a sigh.

Sitting on some rocks, peering out at the ocean. Picture perfect, save for the steel sticking out of him and the slow climb of cold up his extremities. He'd always been kind of pale, but the pallor in his skin reminded him of some of the bodies he'd looked past on his journey to find Lucas.

There's a reason for that.

Once again he reached towards the bolt. It looked wrong, like he was some hunted animal. Secondhand anecdotes told him pulling it out would only accelerate the inevitable. On some level he kind of wanted that, but he didn't want the pain. Didn't want to get halfway and ruin the last precious seconds he had left reminding himself how he got there.

I'm in no hurry.

He folded his hands across his lap and laid back, against the rocks. The afternoon sun felt nice against his skin, not too bright. No need to worry about getting burned, anyways. The prideful part of him wanted to relax, to just let it happen. The fact that he was even lying here, instead of floating at the riverbed or downed from a second crossbow bolt, was proof enough his survival instinct wasn't easily assuaged.

Just have to find a way to let go.

The only time he’d seen someone bleed to death, it had happened so quickly. This felt like it was never going to end, and not in a way that seemed at all comforting. The tips of his fingers were numb, beyond cold. The warmth coming from the blood slowly seeping from his gut didn’t seem to keep his hands from shaking, and he held them tighter in a vain effort to make it stop.

"...Please..."

Valuing survival as a defining characteristic as long as he did, and only now did he appreciate how it would torment him at the end. It wouldn’t end quickly even if he wanted to. The gun might've made it easier, but both the Walther and the Uzi were too far way for him. Even if he could find them, with his luck he'd just slip up and leave himself with another grievous wound that would drag on, and on, and on. Given the cascade of fuckups that helped him end Claude, it didn't seem unlikely that whatever trickster god watching over him might just engineer such a thing.

Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe I won't have long, anyways.

Was it always like this? Denial, bargaining, even when someone welcomed it? Even when relief was close enough he could reach out and touch it with insensate fingers? If he was standing up, looking down on himself, he knew he'd tell the truth. Find the words to make it easier.

You’re done. Take a breath. Think about something that makes you smile. Hold onto a moment that makes it easy to face, the last thing you want to be. There’s nothing else you have to do. It’s over.

Someone else could say that, and he’d believe it. Coming from his own mind, they felt like excuses. Words people only said to fill empty, dead air. Comfort from spirits his mind conjured up to cope with the fact that, after everything he’d done, he would have to face this alone.

A shadow crossed his vision. There were a number of faces he expected to see, none of them currently belonging to the living. The one that met him was a surprise, and enough of a pleasant one that he broke out into a smile.

“D-Diego?”

((Diego Larrosa continues from Love itself is just as innocent as roses in May))

There was no longer an itch at the back of his throat, or a physical gnawing in the core of his body. He'd eaten and drunken Cam's rations greedily, once he'd finished hugging her.

He had supplies now. Cam's supplies. He had her weapon also. A grenade launcher, apparently. The shovel was stored in his bag beneath everything else, only there in case he needed a back-up. He liked having a back-up.

He was all patched up now, a bandage covering the gash on his left arm, and he was no longer on the verge of starvation or dehydration, but there was something deeply fucked about how his prayers had been answered. He refused to dwell on it.

He'd consolidated the essentials from her bag, placed it in his empty bag. Her clothes, personal belongings stayed behind. He didn't know what was important to her and what wasn't, so he left them all behind with her.

Streaks and patches of soil marked his jeans and hands. Her body was buried now, its grave dug with the same shovel that killed her, the soil shoveled at a 30-degree angle, like she'd taught. The mound was adorned with a few wild flowers. He hadn't found carnations, her favorite, so he found whatever pink and blue flowers had been lying around.

The grave had been dug wordlessly. He'd almost said 'I love you' once he'd finished, but he had never known much about love. He couldn't distinguish it from desire, or friendship. He didn't want to lie to her, even now. Couldn't lie to her. The act said enough, he hoped.

He made his journey away from the grave in silence. There was no one to break it with. And, in that emptiness, there was a question that imposed itself.

What now?

He had no friends now. They were all dead.

A few of the people he’d regarded as acquaintances were still alive, but that didn’t mean much. There had been a time when he’d been on friendly terms with Billy and Justin. There had been a time when most of the school either regarded him positively or not at all.

He looked down at his bare chest, noted once more how the ridges of his ribs seemed more prominent.

These were the same clothes Lorenzo had worn, during his time with him. Same outfit. Jeans and shoes, nothing else. He wondered, when Lorenzo had set out by himself, if he'd felt so lonely, if he'd felt so afraid.

He felt sympathy with a monster, still. Even knowing everything he'd done. He felt the urge to tear his skin off, to bash his head in again, for a second. Ty had told him not to think of himself that way. It was hard to shake.

He wondered if Ty would still accept him after what had happened. If there was anyone left on the island who could understand, it'd be him. But that wasn't guaranteed.

Diego viewed, beyond the treeline, a body slumped over against rocks. Even from afar, the long hair was unmistakable.

"For fuck's sake," he mumbled to himself.

The bolt glinted in the afternoon light. As he closed in on him, he caught sight of the rivers of blood, stealing what little color was left in his skin.

And then there was a smile. His name.

“Ty.”

Diego attempted to smile back at him; he managed half a second.

He gestured vaguely towards the wound.

“What happened?”

So I’m not alone.

Ty looked up once again, just past Diego. Felt like his appearance was some kind of consolation, an apology almost. He’d take it. Shrugging, Ty excused the mortal wound as if he was explaining a minor inconvenience; his good spirits managed to radiate through the obvious amount of pain he was in.

“Claude did this. First day, we started something we’d never got to finish. I guess I, uh…”

He shook his head. It was hard to even explain the bizarre way their battle of ideas and philosophies had turned into a fight to the death. Seemed like interrupting a suicide attempt was one of the weirder reasons to kill someone out here, something that wasn’t easy to explain. Doing so wouldn’t have made a difference anyways.

It only mattered as far as the end result was concerned, he supposed. Ty gestured towards the crossbow lying some distance away, and the river that carried Claude’s body out past the tide pools. His words sounded earnest, if not tinged with a bit of sarcasm given his current state.

“I finished it. He’s dead. I won.”

Tyrell eyed the weapon Diego was carrying, one he hadn’t seen earlier. It looked like some kind of heavy weaponry, maybe a grenade launcher. It impressed him - to get something like that, he knew Diego would’ve had to kill whoever had it.

He wanted to ask, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything that might make Diego want to leave. With the same nonchalance he’d explained away the crossbow bolt, he motioned limply to Diego’s weapon and the fresh bandages he was sporting.

“Looks like… looks like you had quite a day, huh? Nice gun.”

The words rang oddly. 'I won,' spoken by a man bleeding out. If there was any sort of victory to be found here, it was a Pyrrhic one.

Diego knew who Claude was. Bible thumper, one of the 'kind' ones. Religious people always put him at unease. He'd always wondered what they thought about people like him, what they said when they were amongst themselves.

He'd heard his name a few times before. His name would be heard one last time, come the next morning. Perhaps it was a kind of victory for Ty, a moral one. Redefine the terms of victory, take what you got, and all that.

Diego's question bounced back at him, as he should have expected, but didn't. Reciprocity.

A burst of air came out his nose.

“I had a day, yeah.”

He barked more than laughed.

“I, uh, I found my friend, the one I was looking for. She’d killed the other friend we had. Tried to do the same to me.”

The wound itched beneath its bandage. He tugged at its edges, not wanting to expose it once more.

His eyes felt watery. He was so sick of it.

“I won too.”

It felt Pyrrhic too.

The words came out quiet, monotone. As if they didn’t want to be said.

Another burst of laughter, harsh, nervous. He threw up his hands, the grenade launcher swinging in his grip.

“Shit, Ty. What now?”

Ty listened intently, trying to piece together what Diego was leaving out, at least the names. The girl from the gardening club seemed likely, Camilla. She got rewarded by the terrorists the day before for killing Theo; it explained away the grenade launcher. Seemed so unfair that he’d have to be put in that situation, to be repeatedly let down by people he’d been fond of. Both sides of that felt all too familiar.

Diego too, looked tired. Not at death’s door like Ty was, but it was clear enough that a few lights had gone out inside. Raising an eyebrow at Diego’s question, Ty offered a blunt response.

“Should think that’s pretty obvious, for both of us. I’m…”

A shudder cut his words short, the momentary spasm nearly robbing him of breath. Ty bit his knuckle, waiting until the sensation subsided long enough for him to get words out.

“Used to think it was a good thing that I didn’t go down easily. Happy to be a tough son of a bitch. Now? Fuck, not so much.”

Now that he wasn’t working so hard to fight back, the decline was easier to perceive. Slow, but steady. It wasn’t like fading, so much as it was losing parts of himself bit by bit; it was starting to dawn on him that awareness might’ve been the last thing to go.

Ty looked up at Diego. Through the sadness and attempted stoicism he could see a hint of sympathy in the other boy’s face. Ty spoke up in a reassuring tone, once again downplaying his situation.

“Hey, it’s okay. Had this coming, and…”

There’s no way all that shit was a coincidence. Someone’s waiting for me.

“I think I’m good with it. Happy to rest. Feelin’ pretty good about where I’m headed, too. You, though?”

He took stock of the figure Diego struck, still standing where so many others had fallen. Worse for wear mentally and physically, but still standing. Armed, though not as much as he should’ve been. No pretense of being one kind of person or another. Probably better than he thought he was. Despite still not really knowing Diego all that well, he was the last person Ty knew he'd ever speak to. It was easy to hope for him, to be glad he got to have a bit more time left.

“Still on two feet. What’s next is whatever you want.”

Bile welled up in his throat. Ty turned aside, and spat out bloody saliva. He wiped it away from his mouth with his arm, not doing a very good job of it. Dignity was one of the first things to go.

“Could you grab my bag? It’s just - just over there.”

At first, Diego had thought that, if he died here, it would be quick, violent. It was how he'd almost gone out a couple of times: with both Dane and Lorenzo pointing their guns at him, with the bench beating against his forehead. With Cam.

Had he not found her, Diego would've died a slow, protracted death alone, dying of thirst in a tropical island. He'd felt himself fading, right before he met her. He imagined that continuing until he collapsed, until he couldn't get up. Knowing exactly what he needed to stop this, but too weak to do anything about it. It felt like its own kind of hell.

Diego's face made an involuntary grimace. He hadn't managed to hide his reaction.

Ty knew exactly what was happening to him, every bit of it. He said it himself. And he was at peace with it, somehow.

Diego never had been. Even when he'd sought it himself, he still didn't want it. The bench had been reflexive, the first method of atonement, self-flagellation he could think of. Given the option to do so again, he'd walked away.

When Diego had asked 'What now?', the question had been meant more for himself than for Ty. What was next for Ty was painfully obvious, it was a stupid question to ask. What was next for Diego was not as obvious.

Ty was, possibly, the last person on the island he had any sort of goodwill with. He was going. Once he was gone, Diego would be completely, utterly alone.

He knew he didn't want to die. And he knew what it'd take to not die, he'd known from the very start. But, undertaking that path alone seemed so daunting. He didn't know how he'd manage it, in all honesty.

Ty had a request for him, interrupted his train of thought, mercifully. Diego obliged. You couldn't not oblige final requests.

"Sure, yeah."

The bag was only a few feet away from Ty. It was a few feet away from him, however. Just out of reach.

Diego picked up the bag with ease.

"What do you need?"

Getting Diego to walk to his bag and pick it up, Ty felt a pang of guilt. Even now, he didn’t like other people doing things for him, couldn’t abide feeling helpless.

I might be. Not useless though.

Ty snorted as Diego asked what he needed from the bag, responding as if the nature of his request was obvious.

“Not for me. For you. Inside, there’s a gun. Should be familiar. Got it off Ren. Ammo’s there too. Take it.”

Shifting in place, Ty watched Diego look at the weapon. He wasn’t trying to remind him of Lorenzo - it seemed important to get it into the hands of someone who was going to use it. The presence of it might keep him on the right path, the one that led out of here.

“You said you didn’t wanna die. I think - fuck this hurts - I think you’re gonna have to put in the work. That’s what’s next. Hope it helps.”

I was never useless.

For a moment, Ty thought Diego might’ve just taken the weapon and walked off. It made sense, and he might have. He was scared, and there wasn’t any sense in staying in one place. No telling who might’ve been waiting further up the coast, in the treeline.

“I-”

There’s more. I have more to give away. He’ll stay if I do.

“Diego. Don’t go, please. There's more you need to know.”

Diego pulled the gun out of the bag, turned it over in his hand. His stomach churned as he did so. Touching the gun was a scar on the palm of his hand, now long scabbed over.

When he'd followed Lorenzo, proposed they team up, it was because he wanted to be with Lorenzo, to become him in some way. This was a step towards that, towards 'putting in the work', as Ty put it. It was his gun. He was wearing his clothes.

He'd wanted to become a monster. He'd wanted to become Lorenzo. He was getting what he'd wanted, but he hadn't truly understood what that meant before.

He turned around, took a few steps away. Just wanted a few moments to examine the gun, a few more moments to himself.

Ty's voice called out, Diego turned back to him instantly.

"I won't, yeah. I'll stay."

He took one more look at the gun.

"What else you got to say?"

Ty tried to picture the device in his mind, the nondescript matte plastic. So far it hadn’t brought much luck to any of those who carried it. It was something though, gave an advantage no weapon or extra rations ever could. Made it easy to hide, easier to spring a trap, easier to fight.

If it had been any of the other killers who’d had it, he still would’ve felt guilty about letting them have it. That it was probably her, it felt worse. Like he’d still somehow been helping her, even if he wasn’t at all responsible for Lucas running off.

His mouth felt dry. How to explain all of that? Perhaps Diego had seen it before.

“Did Lorenzo show you the collar tracker?”

"...yeah, he did."

Clearly the gun, the mention of his name, it was still getting to him. Ty nodded, glad he didn’t have to say too much. The point wasn’t what it was or where it came from, but who had it. What it meant, he was sure Diego would understand.

"Right. So I took it, gave it to Lucas. Erika killed him. Think she has it. Don't think it was easy, she might be hurt. Wanted to tell you... just in case, in case…”

In case she’s not like I am right now.

“...just a warning."

"Oh."

Diego had seen Ty wince at her name before, the last time they talked. It still brought him as much pain this time around.

He'd wanted to stop her. Still wanted to. Still cared about her, too. The situation felt sickly familiar.

"Ty, I'm not going to, uh, to seek her out, if that's what you mean. I don't think that's the path I'm taking."

If he made it off the island, the end result would be the same. She, and everyone else, would be dead anyways, by his hand or not. It didn't sit right, the idea of telling Ty to his face that he intended to kill his girlfriend. He could die without that knowledge.

"I'll keep it in mind though. In case we ever meet.



"You have anything you want to say to her?

They’d parted as best as they could, neither getting a chance to see the consequences of the choices they’d made about one another. Moreover, he had less and less of a reason to care about much of anything beyond what was happening around him. The world beyond this patch of rocks and dirt may as well not have existed anymore. It basically didn’t.

Ty shook his head.

"Yeah, don't. It's okay. Said all I had to say.”

Ty reached out limply to Diego’s arm, still thinking that every glance aside was a prelude to him walking away. He had to give him another reason. Something else that might keep him here.

There were weapons scattered across the beach, little details about the island, places Ty had been. There might’ve been something he could sputter out, something that might mean enough to stick around.

“To, to her I mean. Not to you."

He motioned to the spot beside him on the rocks, a pleading look on his face.

"I—"

His arm froze, tensed. The words got caught in his throat.

"Oh. Okay."

He nodded, sat down next to him. Looked at him and waited.

Trying to start, he couldn’t quite find the words. Everything sounded perfunctory, pointless. Loose threads he was trying to entice Diego with, something more to do. Some reason to keep justifying this conversation.

What’s the point? Be honest.

After a few moments spent discounting one lead or another, Ty bowed his head and leveled with Diego.

"I, uh... I can't remember. I thought I knew. Thought I had something for you. A message to those people I tried to help. Crowbar, maybe. I dunno.”

Ty imagined he probably looked rather pathetic, hanging on like this. He looked down at the bolt sticking out of his abdomen. The blood around the wound had started to dry, coagulating as the setting sun continued to shine down from above.

He wanted this to be over, he understood that was what was happening. There was still one last line holding him to shore, and he couldn’t manage to untie the knot holding it in place. Like there should’ve been something else before it was alright to be done with this, something he was missing.

About eighty years, give or take.

“Thought I was ready. Part of me can't stop fighting back."

Weakly, he tried to clench his right hand into a fist. Making a fist, holding it tight, letting it go, it was an old nervous habit of his. He just managed to get his fingers touching his palm, before he had to let go.

It didn’t seem right to keep Diego here if he didn’t want to be. Too easy to be frightened, but that didn’t mean obligating anyone to stick around.

"Do I deserve your company, right now? I know you've got shit to do."

There was a lump in his throat. It was too familiar.

It was the fourth time, now, that someone was bleeding out in front of him. It never got any easier. Each time was different in its own fucked up way. The others hadn't begged for his company, for one.

They hadn't been able to.

He looked away from Ty, after he asked his question.

He wondered what Chris would have to say about this, if she were watching somehow.

It didn't matter, he decided. If it came to it, he'd want someone to do the same for him, despite what he'd done. He hoped someone would do the same for him.

He'd think about it later.

"Ty... I got nothing."

I got no one.

"I'm all yours."

It was meant to be a joke. He looked back at him. His lips twitched.

“I - really? Heh, thanks.”

Tyrell felt something give, a tension relieved. Somewhere in the back of his neck, running through into his mind. Like stress withering away, like he used to want it to after a day at school and an evening at work.

He chuckled painfully at Diego’s words. No reason to take them at anything beyond face value, Ty figured. Could’ve left any time he wanted, taken the gun with him. He was staying. Someone thought that after everything he’d done, with every reason to leave, Ty still deserved company.

Once again, Ty tried clenching his right hand into a fist. Didn’t shake as much this time, and he just managed to curl his fingers in towards his palm. Could even barely feel his fingernails against the calloused skin.

Though his tone was weak and hollow, he spoke with confidence; as if he already knew the answer to his question, and had one of his own to provide.

"Are you still scared of this?"