Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.
It was a simple idea. To apply it in this circumstance was not a stretch. Of all the possible things that could have occurred, this event was simultaneously entirely unlikely and predictable—provided that one subscribed to the idea.
At the same time, it was not science. It was conjecture, little more than a fool's superstition. Some would say Alexander was a pessimist—he would describe himself as a realist—but in this circumstance, he was confident he would at least have something good on his side.
And then he saw it.
S061: ALEXANDER HAWTHORNE — GAME START
He gently shook the shoulder of the other boy, the corners of his lips curled into a soft frown. It was Valentin. Of all the people in the world, he'd awoken next to the person he trusted the most.
There was both an upside and a downside. Alexander trusted Valentin—and did so absolutely—and was glad for the company. That was the sentimental perspective. From a purely practical standpoint, Valentin was an advantage: he was an ally, an extra set of eyes.
On the other hand, that meant that Valentin was in the same circumstances that he was in—certain death. Of course, this stood to reason: Alexander was aware that Valentin would be on the school trip. That, nonetheless, did not comfort him.
He kept shaking, his long fingers wrapped around the other boy's broad shoulder. Alexander just wanted to talk to him again. A creature comfort before the inevitable end. If he was going to die here—and he was—he'd rather have his best friend at his side.
Murphy's Law
[Private, until Maraoone posts.]
S069: VALENTIN SHULGIN - START
Alexander.
Given the circumstances Valentin had been placed in, there were a million things he could've focused on. The chill that seeped into his bones, despite the layers of clothes he wore. The grogginess he struggled to release himself from, aftereffects of the anesthetic that had been administered on them. Of course, the ones that had administered the anesthetic, he had a million thoughts and words about them. There was also the despair of this situation, the deathly fear, the anger and indignation at how the government he'd trusted to keep him and his family safe had kicked this problem down the road again and again until it had arrived at their feet. A million things.
But, the one thing, person rather, predominating his thoughts right now, was the man fervently trying to shake him awake.
Cold dim light from some faraway entrance illuminated only just enough of the man's facial features for Valentin to confirm that it was, in fact, Alexander.
He laid his hand on top of Alexander's.
"You're here."
He wasn't sure whether he said it out of relief or fear.
Alexander.
Given the circumstances Valentin had been placed in, there were a million things he could've focused on. The chill that seeped into his bones, despite the layers of clothes he wore. The grogginess he struggled to release himself from, aftereffects of the anesthetic that had been administered on them. Of course, the ones that had administered the anesthetic, he had a million thoughts and words about them. There was also the despair of this situation, the deathly fear, the anger and indignation at how the government he'd trusted to keep him and his family safe had kicked this problem down the road again and again until it had arrived at their feet. A million things.
But, the one thing, person rather, predominating his thoughts right now, was the man fervently trying to shake him awake.
Cold dim light from some faraway entrance illuminated only just enough of the man's facial features for Valentin to confirm that it was, in fact, Alexander.
He laid his hand on top of Alexander's.
"You're here."
He wasn't sure whether he said it out of relief or fear.
"I am," he said. It was a plain statement of objective fact.
His eyes glanced upward at the ceiling but towards no object in particular: it was too dark to make out more details of the room than the superficial and obvious. They lingered there for a moment—as if trying to figure out how to put together a puzzle composed entirely of black pieces.
Then, it flicked back to Valentin, who placed a hand on his. It was warm, contrasting with the dull chill of the concrete and the air. He slid his hand over, took Valentin's in his own, and pressed a little. This act, Alexander supposed, was kleptothermy in action. An act practiced across most lifeforms.
"I'm glad you're awake," he noted with the slightest hint of a smile, "so, do you need a hand?"
His eyes glanced upward at the ceiling but towards no object in particular: it was too dark to make out more details of the room than the superficial and obvious. They lingered there for a moment—as if trying to figure out how to put together a puzzle composed entirely of black pieces.
Then, it flicked back to Valentin, who placed a hand on his. It was warm, contrasting with the dull chill of the concrete and the air. He slid his hand over, took Valentin's in his own, and pressed a little. This act, Alexander supposed, was kleptothermy in action. An act practiced across most lifeforms.
"I'm glad you're awake," he noted with the slightest hint of a smile, "so, do you need a hand?"
"I can manage."
He stole one more second of the warmth from Valentin's hands, and then no more. Much as he savored his presence, he didn't want to take more than he needed. They'd need all the energy, all the warmth, all the life they could get in this place.
He pushed himself off the ground, sitting up.
The air he breathed felt simultaneously musty and sharp. Dampening, muffling, and yet sheer ice lacing his airways. This was the first thing he noticed.
He cautiously moved his hands along the frosted surface until it bumped into a duffel bag of some sort. They always gave out bags, weapons, things, he knew that much about SOTF. Next, he zipped open the bag with both hands, rummaging until he found a metallic cylinder with a button on one end. He pointed the flashlight up at the ceiling, clicked the button, and there was light.
In front of him was Alexander, and in the background was sheer concrete, stretching on for what looked like forever, until the light ran out.
The make of the tunnel reminded him of the alleys back home, back in Novosibirsk.
Yet despite that, there was one particular thought overwhelming him, one which he felt the need to say now.
"We need to get out of here."
He stole one more second of the warmth from Valentin's hands, and then no more. Much as he savored his presence, he didn't want to take more than he needed. They'd need all the energy, all the warmth, all the life they could get in this place.
He pushed himself off the ground, sitting up.
The air he breathed felt simultaneously musty and sharp. Dampening, muffling, and yet sheer ice lacing his airways. This was the first thing he noticed.
He cautiously moved his hands along the frosted surface until it bumped into a duffel bag of some sort. They always gave out bags, weapons, things, he knew that much about SOTF. Next, he zipped open the bag with both hands, rummaging until he found a metallic cylinder with a button on one end. He pointed the flashlight up at the ceiling, clicked the button, and there was light.
In front of him was Alexander, and in the background was sheer concrete, stretching on for what looked like forever, until the light ran out.
The make of the tunnel reminded him of the alleys back home, back in Novosibirsk.
Yet despite that, there was one particular thought overwhelming him, one which he felt the need to say now.
"We need to get out of here."
"Okay," Alexander said, no change audible in his tone.
Valentin's hand retreated, and the chill took its place. It was a loss, insignificant, but a loss nonetheless. The air was cold, after all, and every unit of warmth was an asset to count in his favor. Still, he could live without it, he supposed.
Valentin reached for his bag, and Alexander did likewise. Before this, he had barely stolen a look at its contents. Now, though, he picked through them with more attention. At the same time, most of it was typical—rations, water, and the like. It was expected and given no further mind.
After that, though, he drew forth two items. The first was a flashlight. He did not bother to turn it on. After all, one light was enough: two would be a nuisance and a waste. In a crisis, one was to conserve their resources—the years after his father's death had taught him that lesson.
The second was a knife. For some, a weapon of war; for Alexander, a tool of utility. The blade itself was the most uninteresting portion of the package. Any dullard could take such a thing, plunge it into a vein, and so end a life. No, he saw significance elsewhere, in the hammer pommel, the fire starter, and the whistle. All had value. He strapped it into place.
As to Valentin's statement, he agreed. There was no other summation of his thoughts on the matter: what different conclusion could one draw? "No, I'd rather stay here and die." There was nobody on this Earth that would say such a thing. It was not even a thought deserving of credit.
"The question, though," he followed, "is how. We need a plan."
The theoretical was one matter. The realm of the practical was entirely separate. After all, anyone could think—not all could do. An idea was only as valuable as the time it took to put it into practice. A dream was useless without reality.
Valentin's hand retreated, and the chill took its place. It was a loss, insignificant, but a loss nonetheless. The air was cold, after all, and every unit of warmth was an asset to count in his favor. Still, he could live without it, he supposed.
Valentin reached for his bag, and Alexander did likewise. Before this, he had barely stolen a look at its contents. Now, though, he picked through them with more attention. At the same time, most of it was typical—rations, water, and the like. It was expected and given no further mind.
After that, though, he drew forth two items. The first was a flashlight. He did not bother to turn it on. After all, one light was enough: two would be a nuisance and a waste. In a crisis, one was to conserve their resources—the years after his father's death had taught him that lesson.
The second was a knife. For some, a weapon of war; for Alexander, a tool of utility. The blade itself was the most uninteresting portion of the package. Any dullard could take such a thing, plunge it into a vein, and so end a life. No, he saw significance elsewhere, in the hammer pommel, the fire starter, and the whistle. All had value. He strapped it into place.
As to Valentin's statement, he agreed. There was no other summation of his thoughts on the matter: what different conclusion could one draw? "No, I'd rather stay here and die." There was nobody on this Earth that would say such a thing. It was not even a thought deserving of credit.
"The question, though," he followed, "is how. We need a plan."
The theoretical was one matter. The realm of the practical was entirely separate. After all, anyone could think—not all could do. An idea was only as valuable as the time it took to put it into practice. A dream was useless without reality.
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 1411
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:53 am
JeeeeeeeeeesusCHRIST it was so fucking COLD out there.
((Roberta Chen continued from All Alone.))
Roberta had yanked up the hood on her puffer vest the moment she’d gotten out into the snow and gone for the nearest area of indoors which wasn’t where she’d left Daenerys. Which turned out to be an underground tunnel, made by someone who had echoed her thoughts on the cold. Outside was cold, inside was filled with armed classmates who may or may not be drinking, and may or may not have had plans to murder her and scatter her corpse to the winds. But the armed classmates aside, Roberta was more inclined to stick inside old buildings. She LIKED old buildings. Just not when they were filled with angry people. ...Was the tunnel a bad idea, though? It was warm, but… if someone had a gun--Fuck, though, someone having a gun was bad ANYWHERE.
Like, fuck, dude, what were her options here?
She should probably go back and let Daenerys out of the cage, if she wasn’t dead already.
No, fuck that, she’d walked off too far for it to matter, Derrydannydaniel would have either let her out or bludgeoned her with a coconut.
What if he hadn’t yet, though--
Roberta would take two steps further into the tunnel, then turn and take a few steps back, then shake her head and continue on, only to step back, and--
...ugh. Fuck. What was she even doing? Every time she tried to think about an actual fucking plan her brain fuzzed up. Just… there wasn’t actually any options, was there? And fuck, like, even if she wanted to try, or thought she could fight her way out of this… did she even deserve to win? Not really. Hell, even just by going by years, she was a year older than most of her classmates, so—and then there was that whole criminal record/general inattentive asshole thing, so—
Three steps forward, two steps back, five steps forward, six steps back--
“Fuck,” Roberta muttered.
The swear carried down the tunnel, though not as much as the racket that her indecisive footsteps back and forth were making.
((Roberta Chen continued from All Alone.))
Roberta had yanked up the hood on her puffer vest the moment she’d gotten out into the snow and gone for the nearest area of indoors which wasn’t where she’d left Daenerys. Which turned out to be an underground tunnel, made by someone who had echoed her thoughts on the cold. Outside was cold, inside was filled with armed classmates who may or may not be drinking, and may or may not have had plans to murder her and scatter her corpse to the winds. But the armed classmates aside, Roberta was more inclined to stick inside old buildings. She LIKED old buildings. Just not when they were filled with angry people. ...Was the tunnel a bad idea, though? It was warm, but… if someone had a gun--Fuck, though, someone having a gun was bad ANYWHERE.
Like, fuck, dude, what were her options here?
She should probably go back and let Daenerys out of the cage, if she wasn’t dead already.
No, fuck that, she’d walked off too far for it to matter, Derrydannydaniel would have either let her out or bludgeoned her with a coconut.
What if he hadn’t yet, though--
Roberta would take two steps further into the tunnel, then turn and take a few steps back, then shake her head and continue on, only to step back, and--
...ugh. Fuck. What was she even doing? Every time she tried to think about an actual fucking plan her brain fuzzed up. Just… there wasn’t actually any options, was there? And fuck, like, even if she wanted to try, or thought she could fight her way out of this… did she even deserve to win? Not really. Hell, even just by going by years, she was a year older than most of her classmates, so—and then there was that whole criminal record/general inattentive asshole thing, so—
Three steps forward, two steps back, five steps forward, six steps back--
“Fuck,” Roberta muttered.
The swear carried down the tunnel, though not as much as the racket that her indecisive footsteps back and forth were making.
How?
Valentin didn't know. A fog still clouded his mind; he could barely tell you what twelve times twelve was, much less outline an entire conspiracy for how to get out, complete with Plans A, B, and C. All he knew was that he wanted out. That was it. No playing, no partaking in the same cycle of violence that the terrorists bet on every three years, the same bet they won every three years. Far as he knew, escape was the only way out worth taking, and it seemed Alexander was on the same page.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to put it so frankly to Alexander, though, that he didn't know. He wanted to inspire confidence in his friend, and saying there was no plan first thing would do the opposite.
And then, a voice echoed, saying an unknown word garbled by the distance. It had been preceded, then followed, by footsteps that didn't seem to get closer or further away. The echoes were scattershot, not the determined cadence of someone with a plan, malicious or not.
The way this game worked, the way the terrorists by proxy reduced class after class to a singular survivor, was simply by exploiting the distrust and rancor that accumulated in such adverse circumstances. People seeking revenge for lost friends, people seeing path after path close and seeing the only way out be the one the terrorists laid out. But, this early on in the game, none of that existed yet. There was no one to take revenge for yet, and those who were still undecided on whether or not to play could be convinced otherwise.
Valentin slung his bag around his shoulder, picked up his flashlight, and stood. He motioned over to the sound with his head.
"We get people first," he said.
And then he walked over.
Valentin didn't know. A fog still clouded his mind; he could barely tell you what twelve times twelve was, much less outline an entire conspiracy for how to get out, complete with Plans A, B, and C. All he knew was that he wanted out. That was it. No playing, no partaking in the same cycle of violence that the terrorists bet on every three years, the same bet they won every three years. Far as he knew, escape was the only way out worth taking, and it seemed Alexander was on the same page.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to put it so frankly to Alexander, though, that he didn't know. He wanted to inspire confidence in his friend, and saying there was no plan first thing would do the opposite.
And then, a voice echoed, saying an unknown word garbled by the distance. It had been preceded, then followed, by footsteps that didn't seem to get closer or further away. The echoes were scattershot, not the determined cadence of someone with a plan, malicious or not.
The way this game worked, the way the terrorists by proxy reduced class after class to a singular survivor, was simply by exploiting the distrust and rancor that accumulated in such adverse circumstances. People seeking revenge for lost friends, people seeing path after path close and seeing the only way out be the one the terrorists laid out. But, this early on in the game, none of that existed yet. There was no one to take revenge for yet, and those who were still undecided on whether or not to play could be convinced otherwise.
Valentin slung his bag around his shoulder, picked up his flashlight, and stood. He motioned over to the sound with his head.
"We get people first," he said.
And then he walked over.
Footsteps in the distance, muddled words, and vague notions. A potential threat to their lives or an opportunity presenting itself? As of yet, he had no way of knowing. It was the place for speculation and theory, and he figured he had his guesses.
Generally, he skewed to the side of skepticism. Trust was not something to be given lightly, and most of his peers, he thought, did not deserve that amount of benefit of the doubt. Many were short-sighted and unreasonable and would likely jump to conflict quickly.
Of course, as previously stated, that was his opinion. A hypothesis, yet unconfirmed, and a theory, untested. To be proven later by deeds and actions. As of now, he didn't know if this was correct, and he would prefer not to find out in practice. As the phrase goes, curiosity killed the cat.
Alexander was entirely sure, however, of another truth: there would be bloodshed. To assume otherwise was the epitome of idiocy. Some would die—as human beings always do—and that would be the end of it. There was nothing to be done about that.
People would die. A lot of people would die. Most likely, he would also die, and so would Valentin. He knew better than to believe otherwise or to feel faith without evidence. Those things failed him once before.
"Never again," he had decided.
"I see," he said, regardless, following in lock-step.
He supposed that Valentin was right, as the other boy often was. If they were to try for an escape, it was best to improve their minuscule chances by any possible amount. Any given person had some potential to be a resource to the two of them. And in the worst-case scenario?
They were just another obstacle to be crossed.
Generally, he skewed to the side of skepticism. Trust was not something to be given lightly, and most of his peers, he thought, did not deserve that amount of benefit of the doubt. Many were short-sighted and unreasonable and would likely jump to conflict quickly.
Of course, as previously stated, that was his opinion. A hypothesis, yet unconfirmed, and a theory, untested. To be proven later by deeds and actions. As of now, he didn't know if this was correct, and he would prefer not to find out in practice. As the phrase goes, curiosity killed the cat.
Alexander was entirely sure, however, of another truth: there would be bloodshed. To assume otherwise was the epitome of idiocy. Some would die—as human beings always do—and that would be the end of it. There was nothing to be done about that.
People would die. A lot of people would die. Most likely, he would also die, and so would Valentin. He knew better than to believe otherwise or to feel faith without evidence. Those things failed him once before.
"Never again," he had decided.
"I see," he said, regardless, following in lock-step.
He supposed that Valentin was right, as the other boy often was. If they were to try for an escape, it was best to improve their minuscule chances by any possible amount. Any given person had some potential to be a resource to the two of them. And in the worst-case scenario?
They were just another obstacle to be crossed.
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 1411
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:53 am
Ah, fuck.
She could see the flicker of a flashlight shining out of one of the other passageways. One flashlight… but it sounded like two voices. Roberta dropped her bag and fumbled for her own flashlight. Like hell someone was shining lights in her face and not getting the same treatment. They probably heard her swearing… there was no use hiding.
“I don’t want trouble!” Roberta yelled. “I’ll fuck you up! Wait, uh, fuck! No, the first one! Don’t start nothin’!”
She just had to be calm. But her mouth ran much faster than her brain, and the words were out before she could really think too hard about it.
Too timid, it made you a target. Too loud, it made you a target. And god if Roberta had never been good at that damn balance.
She took a few steps back in the direction she’d come, flashlight in one hand and khopesh in the other. Though the flashlight was held a little more aggressively, ready to throw at any potential enemy if they poked their head around the corner.
She could see the flicker of a flashlight shining out of one of the other passageways. One flashlight… but it sounded like two voices. Roberta dropped her bag and fumbled for her own flashlight. Like hell someone was shining lights in her face and not getting the same treatment. They probably heard her swearing… there was no use hiding.
“I don’t want trouble!” Roberta yelled. “I’ll fuck you up! Wait, uh, fuck! No, the first one! Don’t start nothin’!”
She just had to be calm. But her mouth ran much faster than her brain, and the words were out before she could really think too hard about it.
Too timid, it made you a target. Too loud, it made you a target. And god if Roberta had never been good at that damn balance.
She took a few steps back in the direction she’d come, flashlight in one hand and khopesh in the other. Though the flashlight was held a little more aggressively, ready to throw at any potential enemy if they poked their head around the corner.
Alexander's answer to him had been rather clipped, and while part of Valentin worried this was him withholding doubt or misgivings from him, another part of him decided not to pay it any mind. Alexander only ever said what needed to be said, and there was no point in reading any further than that. It was just nerves, perhaps, from the situation they were in.
Curses bounced off the walls. Valentin tightened his grip on the strap of his bag. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he didn't even know what weapon the terrorists had given him.
The girl, whoever she was, was scared. Of course she was scared, it was the only rational thing to be right now. But her words, thankfully, were as scattered in intention as her footsteps, and this was reassuring in a way. It confirmed his prior suspicion. She had no plans, none at all, so she had no plans to kill them. She seemed to be operating off of pure fear and survival instinct, and this was workable, at least.
They still had to take caution, though. All it took was her having a gun and a literal trigger finger for everything to go sideways. Also, Valentin didn't know her. In his efforts to acclimate himself to his new home country, he'd made an effort to, at the very least, acquaint himself with as wide a circle of peers as possible, but his social capacities were only finite. Some people at Endecott had simply fallen just beyond his reach, and she was one of them. An unknown variable.
He stopped right before the corner, looked back at his friend, and held out a hand. Stop here, he meant.
He cupped his other hand around his mouth to project his voice.
"We're no trouble. Alexander and I, Valentin, we're just trying to find friends. We're looking to get out. How about you?"
Curses bounced off the walls. Valentin tightened his grip on the strap of his bag. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he didn't even know what weapon the terrorists had given him.
The girl, whoever she was, was scared. Of course she was scared, it was the only rational thing to be right now. But her words, thankfully, were as scattered in intention as her footsteps, and this was reassuring in a way. It confirmed his prior suspicion. She had no plans, none at all, so she had no plans to kill them. She seemed to be operating off of pure fear and survival instinct, and this was workable, at least.
They still had to take caution, though. All it took was her having a gun and a literal trigger finger for everything to go sideways. Also, Valentin didn't know her. In his efforts to acclimate himself to his new home country, he'd made an effort to, at the very least, acquaint himself with as wide a circle of peers as possible, but his social capacities were only finite. Some people at Endecott had simply fallen just beyond his reach, and she was one of them. An unknown variable.
He stopped right before the corner, looked back at his friend, and held out a hand. Stop here, he meant.
He cupped his other hand around his mouth to project his voice.
"We're no trouble. Alexander and I, Valentin, we're just trying to find friends. We're looking to get out. How about you?"
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ViolentMedic
- Posts: 1411
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:53 am
((Breaking post order due to away status/nearing inactivity.))
Alexander... wasn't he that guy who was always sitting around reading about this damn game? Or was that someone else? And Valentin was... well, that was easier. The Russian guy who spoke like he was at a fancy dinner party all the time. Seemed okay, not that she'd checked in person. Though anyone could seem okay before something like this, and then be less okay.
"I mean... sure? I'd love to get out! Don't think there's anyone that wouldn't! If you found a secret tunnel, I'm all ears... probably not the case, though."
Roberta lowered the khopesh an inch, though not entirely. The flashlight, she shone back and forth a little.
"Look, uh... fuck, look, I don't wanna hurt ya, either way. I got a sword-thing, uh... a khopesh. I wanna know what you have, just so we're not hiding nothing. Poor fuckers upstairs had beer and coconuts."
Alexander... wasn't he that guy who was always sitting around reading about this damn game? Or was that someone else? And Valentin was... well, that was easier. The Russian guy who spoke like he was at a fancy dinner party all the time. Seemed okay, not that she'd checked in person. Though anyone could seem okay before something like this, and then be less okay.
"I mean... sure? I'd love to get out! Don't think there's anyone that wouldn't! If you found a secret tunnel, I'm all ears... probably not the case, though."
Roberta lowered the khopesh an inch, though not entirely. The flashlight, she shone back and forth a little.
"Look, uh... fuck, look, I don't wanna hurt ya, either way. I got a sword-thing, uh... a khopesh. I wanna know what you have, just so we're not hiding nothing. Poor fuckers upstairs had beer and coconuts."
Friends.
That was a strong word. Then again, Alexander supposed it sounded persuasive. Valentin did have a way with words—that came with the territory. After all, someone had to direct the stage and write soliloquies. He, on the other hand, was no poet or playwright.
Alexander was, at heart, an engineer. He made things work. After all, someone had to make sure the world ran on schedule. Planes had to take off and land on time. It was a role premised on practicality and efficiency. And, in this case, it seemed pragmatic to use that sort of emotional language.
It did not change his perspective. This person—nameless, faceless—was, to him, a resource. To be utilized and expended at will. If Alexander and Valentin's continued existence necessitated the unfortunate death of this person, then that was an acceptable sacrifice.
For now, though, that was nothing more than idle planning. Gears spinning, cogs turning, in the mechanical expanse of Alexander's mind. At the moment, this was a resource, and he could make use of that. The future was for later.
"No," he said, quashing a hiss, "there's nothing like that."
Alexander knew, better than most, how to crush that sort of dim hope. That unfathomably stupid optimism. He'd had to exterminate it from himself, like the plague it was. Idealism was a bigger fool's game—he'd learned the hard way.
But still, even Alexander knew he was getting carried away. He'd done that plenty before. Valentin had taught him to hold back, to bite his tongue—to think and stop before letting loose a conflagration. He was better than this. So he did as taught, releasing only a sigh and then resuming.
"A knife," he said, matter-of-fact, "with multiple other functions."
He would've preferred the term multitool, but that was mere pedantry. It would not do. So, this sufficed. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, head turning to Valentin and back, a signal without a sign. And he said nothing more.
That was a strong word. Then again, Alexander supposed it sounded persuasive. Valentin did have a way with words—that came with the territory. After all, someone had to direct the stage and write soliloquies. He, on the other hand, was no poet or playwright.
Alexander was, at heart, an engineer. He made things work. After all, someone had to make sure the world ran on schedule. Planes had to take off and land on time. It was a role premised on practicality and efficiency. And, in this case, it seemed pragmatic to use that sort of emotional language.
It did not change his perspective. This person—nameless, faceless—was, to him, a resource. To be utilized and expended at will. If Alexander and Valentin's continued existence necessitated the unfortunate death of this person, then that was an acceptable sacrifice.
For now, though, that was nothing more than idle planning. Gears spinning, cogs turning, in the mechanical expanse of Alexander's mind. At the moment, this was a resource, and he could make use of that. The future was for later.
"No," he said, quashing a hiss, "there's nothing like that."
Alexander knew, better than most, how to crush that sort of dim hope. That unfathomably stupid optimism. He'd had to exterminate it from himself, like the plague it was. Idealism was a bigger fool's game—he'd learned the hard way.
But still, even Alexander knew he was getting carried away. He'd done that plenty before. Valentin had taught him to hold back, to bite his tongue—to think and stop before letting loose a conflagration. He was better than this. So he did as taught, releasing only a sigh and then resuming.
"A knife," he said, matter-of-fact, "with multiple other functions."
He would've preferred the term multitool, but that was mere pedantry. It would not do. So, this sufficed. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, head turning to Valentin and back, a signal without a sign. And he said nothing more.
What was Valentin's weapon?
Such had his focus been on his companion that he'd neglected to even check his own belongings. It could prove to be suicidal negligence, if the girl proved less benign than she'd shown herself to be so far. And then he shook his head at the thought. There was the baseless distrust, the spark to the keg of gunpowder that was this island and its inhabitants. He couldn't give in to it, he would not give into it.
The girl claimed her weapon was a sword with some foreign-sounding name, 'kopesh,' and so he'd take her at her word. She'd given no reason for him to believe otherwise. Alexander, for his part, also volunteered his weapon, and so they all were waiting on him.
So followed the sound of fabric shuffling, a beam of light waving to and fro as Valentin stuck his flashlight into his armpit, struggling to ascertain what he'd been given, until he found the implement, the clinking of metal on concrete floor, and then,
"A metal whip," he said mostly to himself.
He was more perplexed than anything else. It looked useful, if one could figure out how to use it. But a gun in the hands of an ant was just a thing, and so would this whip in Valentin's hands. How would you...? Was it a restraint or... did you use it as a lasso or, was it meant to bruise or,
Never mind. He was to build trust right now, figuring out the metal chain could wait for another time. He and Alexander had done the bare minimum by supplying truthful answers, and now it was time to seal the deal. The girl claimed her weapon was a sword, which meant it could not be used long-range. So, if she was telling the truth (and he believed her), then stepping around the corner would prove harmless.
So, he did so, arms raised, chain whip still in his hand.
"No harm. Nothing to hide."
Such had his focus been on his companion that he'd neglected to even check his own belongings. It could prove to be suicidal negligence, if the girl proved less benign than she'd shown herself to be so far. And then he shook his head at the thought. There was the baseless distrust, the spark to the keg of gunpowder that was this island and its inhabitants. He couldn't give in to it, he would not give into it.
The girl claimed her weapon was a sword with some foreign-sounding name, 'kopesh,' and so he'd take her at her word. She'd given no reason for him to believe otherwise. Alexander, for his part, also volunteered his weapon, and so they all were waiting on him.
So followed the sound of fabric shuffling, a beam of light waving to and fro as Valentin stuck his flashlight into his armpit, struggling to ascertain what he'd been given, until he found the implement, the clinking of metal on concrete floor, and then,
"A metal whip," he said mostly to himself.
He was more perplexed than anything else. It looked useful, if one could figure out how to use it. But a gun in the hands of an ant was just a thing, and so would this whip in Valentin's hands. How would you...? Was it a restraint or... did you use it as a lasso or, was it meant to bruise or,
Never mind. He was to build trust right now, figuring out the metal chain could wait for another time. He and Alexander had done the bare minimum by supplying truthful answers, and now it was time to seal the deal. The girl claimed her weapon was a sword, which meant it could not be used long-range. So, if she was telling the truth (and he believed her), then stepping around the corner would prove harmless.
So, he did so, arms raised, chain whip still in his hand.
"No harm. Nothing to hide."
-
ViolentMedic
- Posts: 1411
- Joined: Fri Aug 17, 2018 7:53 am
Well, whatever. They didn’t have a plan, or they didn’t agree on it. Not like Roberta was any different, she was arguing with herself enough for two. Not like she’d expect someone to know the way out, anyway. If they said they did, they were fucking delusional.
Roberta shrugged. “Yeah, figured.”
So Valentin was friendly. The Alexander guy, not so much. Though any concern with that was brushed aside quick at his weapon. Roberta straightened up slightly at Alexander’s weapon choice.
“Aw, man, you got a knife? A multi-knife? Fuck… lucky. I’d kill for a—wait, fuck, bad choice of words. Dunno about the whip, but man… you want to trade? Fuck, ‘course you don’t.”
Roberta lifted the khopesh, pointing the flashlight upwards as she awkwardly raised her hands upwards. She kept them visible as Valentin stepped around the corner. His weird whip visible.
“Okay. So we’re all, uh, close-range here. And cool, we’re cool. Lemme just…” Roberta waved her hands slightly, flashlight flickering across the ceiling. “Look, I just wanna sit down long enough to look at my map, and eat something. Just fuckin’… think about shit. Maybe chance my meds. Long as we stay a khopesh-length apart, that should be right, right? I’ll fuck off if I gotta, but it’s cold up there.”
Roberta shrugged. “Yeah, figured.”
So Valentin was friendly. The Alexander guy, not so much. Though any concern with that was brushed aside quick at his weapon. Roberta straightened up slightly at Alexander’s weapon choice.
“Aw, man, you got a knife? A multi-knife? Fuck… lucky. I’d kill for a—wait, fuck, bad choice of words. Dunno about the whip, but man… you want to trade? Fuck, ‘course you don’t.”
Roberta lifted the khopesh, pointing the flashlight upwards as she awkwardly raised her hands upwards. She kept them visible as Valentin stepped around the corner. His weird whip visible.
“Okay. So we’re all, uh, close-range here. And cool, we’re cool. Lemme just…” Roberta waved her hands slightly, flashlight flickering across the ceiling. “Look, I just wanna sit down long enough to look at my map, and eat something. Just fuckin’… think about shit. Maybe chance my meds. Long as we stay a khopesh-length apart, that should be right, right? I’ll fuck off if I gotta, but it’s cold up there.”
From behind Roberta, a voice: “Please don’t. At least let me fuck off first. I’d rather not be accidentally impaled.”
[[Enter Eden.]]
Another light clicked on, illuminating Eden’s face from below. Combined with his dark clothes, the effect (hopefully) was that his pale head, and the Viking hat atop it, seemed to float in the darkness, some ways behind Roberta.
He smiled slightly. “Though, of course, if you want to intentionally impale me, then please, feel free; I wouldn’t be able to stop you. Anyways. Sorry for eavesdropping, my loves. I didn’t want to interrupt. And you can’t blame me for wanting to make sure that none of you were on the verge of doing something stabby, can you? Would you mind if I also stay, for now? Like Roberta said, it’s cold up there.”
[[Enter Eden.]]
Another light clicked on, illuminating Eden’s face from below. Combined with his dark clothes, the effect (hopefully) was that his pale head, and the Viking hat atop it, seemed to float in the darkness, some ways behind Roberta.
He smiled slightly. “Though, of course, if you want to intentionally impale me, then please, feel free; I wouldn’t be able to stop you. Anyways. Sorry for eavesdropping, my loves. I didn’t want to interrupt. And you can’t blame me for wanting to make sure that none of you were on the verge of doing something stabby, can you? Would you mind if I also stay, for now? Like Roberta said, it’s cold up there.”