Survival Of The Fittest

This place was hallowed ground; it felt wrong to tread here. But it was far too late to maintain sanctity, any sense of holiness that this place once symbolized desecrated already, long before, broken by battle, shattered by the force of arms. There could be no place further from any deity than here, on this island, the closest place to Hell on Earth; that was certain.

Then again, it was possible to say that such a building had no greater significance than any other, whether in its physical being or spiritual location. There was no unique quality about it, regardless of belief. Many in the past had gladly shed the blood of brethren in faith with a cross clutched tight in one hand and a sharp sword held aloft in the other.

Just as a congregation could be unified and bound together in faith, so too could they be divided by it.

S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED FROM "The Stele of the Vultures"

Outside of the church, past its vaunted passageways, beyond its many barricaded windows, in the shadow of its tilted and lop-sided steeple, it gently snowed outside, just as it often did back in their shared home. The stars hung in the night sky like the segments of a kinetic mobile, visible sometimes through the slim gaps in the island's thickened cloud cover.

The building had long been filled to the brim with darkness in the wake of the sunset. Deep within its heart, however, bright lights burned amidst the darkness. Inside the cellar—a cold, dungeon-like place—Claire rested, silent and still save for quiet, slow breaths, bundled in a blanket, tucked away in the furthest corner of the room from either of its two entrances.

Around her, the thick scent of incense wafted in the air, strings of smoke visible in the air, the sticks alight and glowing like hot iron in their holders, now suspended from the ceiling. The flames of many candles burned around the room like it was the site of an eldrich ritual. The light and warmth had triumphed, even within the darkest and coldest places.

It looked spotless, cobwebs torn asunder, rats driven far by the sudden invasion of their land. The body that had resided there—of a boy she did not recognize—had been moved, and so too had the accompanying bag, all contents safely stowed away in her daypack, no longer needed by their former owner. It was the second gift the dead had given her yet that day.

The darkness was gone, that was true, but the shadows still haunted the chasms of her deepest dreams.

There were bodies, but no great shrine to the saints in symbolic hellfire in the church, probably because Daniel was not some oracle whose dreams are grand signs. Also because the inhabitants of this town were likely Protestant, who generally didn't do that sort of thing. Call it a hunch.

Anyway, he did find something dark and underground in the church, in the literal sense.

[Daniel Ozanne enters from This Artificially Separated Half]

The first step of the stairs creaked.

It heralded his descent, in a slightly unwelcoming fashion. Something about sitting in the empty pews of the church made him feel antsy, as if he belonged there even less than the corpses. It drove him to go somewhere dark and deep, but since when did anything good come from that?

The third step of the stairs creaked.

He was greeted by the scent of incense, which was vaguely familiar to him, like a family friend who didn't visit all that often. He knew full well there was no confessor in the church to hear his sins, not that he really wanted one. By sunrise tomorrow, it would be confessed for him, to the whole island, with no shortage of people willing to forgive with bullets, blades, or whatever other means or murder provided. One of those people had to set this up.

The seventh step of the stairs creaked.

Daniel stopped, and stood still on the steps between the trapdoor and the landing. There was a light, there was a presence.

((Letitia May continued from I Hardly Knew Ya))

The last few days had been peaceful for Letitia. She had successfully robbed that racist bitch and got her entire stash. Unfortunately, there was no extra water, so Letitia was forced to ration even further. But either way, she was more bundled and fed than she suspected most of her peers were at that point. She had taken up residence in one of the housing areas of the town and spent the next few days quietly conserving energy and keeping herself in mental check. Any major work was spent keeping her appearance up by touching up her makeup or maintaining her weave as best as she could in this situation.

After a few announcements, Letitia had taken note of the killers. Salem had apparently killed someone, but she hadn't heard many other notes of anyone she had seen. Finally, Letitia was becoming a bit bored of her safety. She had decided to break the monotony with a quick plan. A single sweep of the town for any supplies or goods she could scavenge, then back to her shelter. After all, she still had her fuck-off rifle that was still stocked up on ammo.

She had begun walking for a bit when she approached the church. She had noticed what looked like a figure moving in, so she moved a bit closer to see who it was. Once she was inside, she saw the person, a boy it appeared, start to take steps down. She quietly moved through the pews, keeping the gun trained on where he went.

If the boy was about to corner himself in the dank dungeon of the church, he could make another good robbery victim. Letitia would have to see if that was the case.

Claire's eyes shot open. The creak of the wood staircase had alerted her; someone else—potentially someone dangerous—was now here, a terrible infringement on her sovereignty. In a moment, she was wide awake. Her shadow danced in candlelight as her hand grasped again and again at the ground, searching for something—her blade, left at her side as she slept.

The first time she reached out, she touched the floor; the second time, her fingers knocked aside the quartz whetstone she'd used to sharpen it; the third, her hand met the handle, clasped it tight, and pulled it close. The golden blade glistened in the fire's glow. With shaken hands, she held it and hid it below the veil, a wretched secret she dared them to discover.

Then, as quiet as a mouse, still as a statue, she remained. Through her half-closed eyes, in the corners of her vision, she saw a dark, shapeless silhouette standing at the edge of the portal. It appeared almost like a monster lurking within the night's darkness. In the far corner, she tucked away and made herself small. But if it drew closer, she knew what to do.

Claire had fangs to bare now, and if it ventured, she would dare; to show her red teeth and crimson claws.

Daniel stood still. Should he turn back? The thought was shallow - idle pondering, unable to fire up any real intention, much less action. It took up brain matter, and did nothing with it.

A single semi-rational idea occurred to him: whoever was in here, they noticed him before he noticed them. His footsteps creaked, and he cast a shadow into the cellar. If he turned back, then... if he kept going, then...

Well, the most extreme thing that could happen in either case was he would die.

So, he stepped forward. On the final steps, he finally saw someone. She had a blade, he had a gun.

He almost stopped noticing the gun in arm. He placed it into his bag muzzle first (it still stuck out but whatever, as long as he made no sudden moves, but we all knew he was terrible de-escalation anyway) and raised his hands.

Letitia watched as the boy disappeared down the steps. She moved quietly to the side, making sure she could keep an eye on the entrance to the cellar, but to where the boy couldn't see her if he turned back. Letitia never considered she could be a stealthy person before all of this, but it was a needed skill to make it through a place like this. She was enough of a wolf in her daily life, she could try being a sheep for a bit.

Letitia soon got into a comfortable position. She was still within the range of the entrance to the cellar, but anyone who came up the stairs wouldn't see her right away. She crouched low and kept the rifle aiming at the entrance of the cellar.

She couldn't hear the boy walking down the steps anymore. He either reached the bottom or stopped. Letitia waited to see which it was.

Claire held the khopesh tightly in one hand and directed it outwards, the golden blade's curve towards the rafters, its razor-sharp edge towards the ground, tip pointed at the area where she knew the boy's throat was. A gesture intended to show a willingness to defend herself but not to strike first unless given no other choice; luckily, de-escalation followed.

As the other boy put his gun in his bag, she did likewise, and though the blade did not leave her hands, her arms themselves fell to her side in acquiescence. Her eyes narrowed on him, alert for a potential deception, but none came. She let herself breathe again. Her muscles, previously tautened, slackened but not entirely, still ready to make good on reflex.

The echo of footsteps against the church's floor reverberated downwards to the cellar. Her eyes shot upward towards the ceiling in reaction. Then, she glanced back at the entrant and mouthed to him, 'someone is there.' There was no trust, only a mutual desire to avoid destruction; if she turned her back, she expected to find a knife placed there with haste.

Nonetheless, Claire wished no peril on him if the feeling was mutual; if he, and the intruder above, were kind enough to take their leave, she would not begrudge them that. All she wanted was some solace. If one of them dared to strike against her, however? She would sell her life dearly, raised to give as good as she got. She wasn't going to go down without a fight.

Daniel looked behind him, up the stairs. There was precious little light, and a narrow angle of visibility. He couldn't recall seeing any of the living when he first entered the church, either. Maybe someone snuck in behind him.

Of course, that was a slightly lesser problem. For the next part of his journey, it felt wrong to be anything other than alone, except maybe in the company of a murderer. Judging from the fact that she lowered her weapon, and that she had not appeared on the announcements yet, Claire - it was Claire, right? - was not that. (He grew more apart from his classmates by the hour. Come morning, he would no longer be counted among the sane and human. Despite Danya's fearmongering, the killers with the majority of the body count were firmly in the minority of the class from what he could count. So that made him...)

"...should I go?" he spoke. Not quite a whisper, but as soft as he could be, while still touching the other end of the cellar.

'Your choice,' the words on the tip of Claire's tongue, written on her lips like silent calligraphy. The flames of the lit candles danced in her eyes, the scent of incense strong, plumes of smoke trailed up towards the rafters like restless ghosts. A pang of uncertainty shot through her like a bullet, and she looked away from the boy, eyes drifting down to the floor.

She knew his name. Daniel Ozanne. As far as she knew, he was no killer—but that didn't mean she trusted him. If someone like Alex could avoid the announcements for as long as he had, then so could anyone; whether by incompetence or carefulness, it didn't matter. Anyone could be a threat to her while she was alone. It was caution, not paranoia. It was warranted.

'Stay or leave,' she mouthed. But those weren't the only choices, and she knew that. That gun in the bag could be an answer all on its own. If Daniel could even make it work, that is. She'd seen it once before, the Cobray Terminator, in a video. Its reputation of failure preceded it, a gun that many called the worst of its genre. Against it, a sword could hold its own.

'An exit,' tacit indication, tilting her head towards the door. 'If you need it.' At first, she had assumed there was only one way in or out of the room, but as she'd cleaned it, she had found the other, hidden at the back; if he chose, he could let himself out through it without going through the once-hallowed halls of the church. Right now, that seemed almost a godsend.

Daniel paused.

There wasn't any reason for Claire to want him to go, necessarily - at least, none he knew of. But there also wasn't any reason to want him to stay. She certainly wouldn't like what she'd hear on tomorrow's announcements.

He nodded. At the very least, she wasn't cornered in here.

On some level, his decision had been made in his gut the moment he saw someone else here. He left through the door Claire indicated.

(It'd be cruel to force someone to partake in his fate, wouldn't it.)

[Daniel Ozanne leaves the evil world The Passion Of Iscariot; By Max Demian]

Letitia waited a few minutes after the boy disappeared down the steps to the cellar. She didn't hear anything after he stepped off the staircase. She thought for a moment that he might be searching down there for something, then he'd come back up the stairs with whatever he managed to salvage.

But he didn't. And she was getting bored.

Letitia decided to try and move closer to the cellar. The boy didn't look armed, and she was sure she had the height to her advantage. All she had to do was keep her gun aimed down at the bottom of the steps and wait for someone to come into range.

She took a few ginger steps towards the steps. As she got closer, she began to smell something burning. Did he start a fire down there? Was he planning to burn down the building? That didn't sit right with her. Aside from the fact that it meant she'd have to run out as quickly as possible, a fire could spread and reduce the number of shelters. She sure as hell wasn't going to freeze to death on this island.

She soon reached the top of the steps, crouching low and keeping the rifle aimed down the stairs.

"Now who's down there?" she muttered to herself.

Claire watched him step out of the cellar. She said nothing. Perhaps it was for the best; for which one of them, she did not know—could not know yet. The future was still murky and unclear, hidden behind the night sky and the storm clouds, cloaked behind the silent curtain of darkness. She wondered if she should have tried to stop him, to keep him there, but she resolved against that thought—it wasn't her place. He made a choice.

"So did you," she thought. "So did you."

She held the khopesh at her side; her grip tightened around its handle. The golden blade glimmered in the light that shone from the ardent flames of the candles. The whole room reflected in the weapon's mirror-like blade like a portal to another world. She took a deep breath of the incense smoke. Then, she exhaled. Her body was tense. The noises still went on upstairs. She waited, by the wall, silent, for them to cease again.

Letitia figured she could wait a bit longer for the person in the cellar to show themselves, but she decided to move things along.

"Look, I know someone's down there," she shouted from the top, "so reveal yourself. And do it nice and slowly, like molasses."

She kept her gun trained on the cellar. She wasn't sure where the person below could be, so she needed to be prepared for any movement in the event they decided to come out shooting.

Silence.

No response. So that was how they'd play the game.

"Alright, fuck it. I'll know soon enough."

Letitia began to make her way down the steps, trying to keep herself low and aware of any movement. There was an easy chance to shoot her, so she had to move quickly down the stairs to find whoever was in the cellar.