((Juanita Reid continued from The World Has Been Changed (Do You Want To Save It?) and/or Wake Up Exhausted))
Juanita's leg was throbbing angrily.
Evie had gone downstairs, and Juanita was supposed to go scout out the church. That was still on the agenda, but she just... needed a breather. She leaned up against the graveyard shack, letting her head thunk back against the wood and raising her leg to take the weight off. The pain continued, uninterrupted. There'd probably been too much jostling with a second person adding extra oomph to every bounce of the snowmobile, or maybe it was just residual cramping from a sleepless night spent cradling the Cobray and waiting for Evie or Beatrice to make a move.
Yeah, it was probably just stiffness. Probably. Definitely. Just stiffness. Maybe guilt for leaving Beatrice behind, or for how easily she'd been willing to ditch her. It wasn't like she'd have been a viable partner anyway... she'd made it pretty clear that the truce was temporary and that she wasn't comfortable with a long-term arrangement. But still, just up and leaving before daybreak, without a word of goodbye felt... wrong. Like she'd chosen a fellow killer over an innocent teammate. It wasn't that simple, and on balance she'd probably done the right thing, but the guilt was still there, digging a pit inside her.
Yeah. Guilt or stiffness. One of those. Could've been either of them. But definitely one of those. It'd probably been throbbing all morning. It hadn't really started hurting in earnest when she realized she was gonna have to go into the church solo. Just her and God, alone in His house. That was just... when she'd noticed it. Yeah.
Or maybe it was the explosion. The... the freakin' explosion. What the heck was that? They'd been able to hear it, but not through the speakers. Out here in the wild. It had sounded far off, but if it was big enough to hear, that meant it was like... an explosion explosion. It hadn't just been someone setting off a firecracker next to the mic.
And, more importantly... what did it mean?
When The Man Comes Around
Day 11, after announcements, PM for entry
When The Man Comes Around
V9 Characters:
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
As expected, no answer came.
So she just continued to wander. Alone, through the darkest of the nights, aimless, stateless, a wandering, living ghost on an island of bones in the center of a sea of the damned. Layers and layers of crushed hopes and dreams folded inwards on themselves, like the circles of Hell, closing in steadily, like the metal collars around every one of their necks.
But still, there was no answer. Perhaps there was no question either.
S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED FROM "Vanitas"
Eventually, she found herself in the graveyard, back where she started. Her eyes were glazed-over, hazy, like frosted glass the way there was no sheen in it; deader than alive. Her gait was a slow shuffle, her posture hunched from the weight of the gear on her back, heavy like a millstone, and she felt like Sisyphus as she pushed the boulder forward forever.
She struggled to imagine what the word "happy" even meant anymore.
DARRYL SMITH JR.
RICHARD BUSTER JR.
ADAM LADER
KATHLEEN VOZELNIK
DAWN MONTGOMERY
LILY LARSEN
Throughout the past ten days, the list of names in her grimoire had grown significant; the number of her peers, on the other hand, fell considerably. Eventually, it was to the point where new names only appeared as records of the dead because, after everything, so many of her peers had placed themselves among the ranks of the killers; today, she tallied only bones.
As for the people that remained, there were more who had sullied their hands than those, like Claire, whose hands were still clean. Another reason why she felt more kinship with the corpses on the ground than those with still-beating hearts. At this point, her guard was well and raised, walls back up in full effect; caution, not paranoia, not anymore.
Her grip on the blade tightened; it flickered, glints of fool's gold in the daylight. Her eyes narrowed on a silhouette in the distance; another apparition, one like her, but she recognized it. And they had, unlike her, not been idle in any sense of the word; a vengeful spirit with crimson intentions. She put a foot forth, a tentative step to the end of the line.
One foot in the grave.
So she just continued to wander. Alone, through the darkest of the nights, aimless, stateless, a wandering, living ghost on an island of bones in the center of a sea of the damned. Layers and layers of crushed hopes and dreams folded inwards on themselves, like the circles of Hell, closing in steadily, like the metal collars around every one of their necks.
But still, there was no answer. Perhaps there was no question either.
S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED FROM "Vanitas"
Eventually, she found herself in the graveyard, back where she started. Her eyes were glazed-over, hazy, like frosted glass the way there was no sheen in it; deader than alive. Her gait was a slow shuffle, her posture hunched from the weight of the gear on her back, heavy like a millstone, and she felt like Sisyphus as she pushed the boulder forward forever.
She struggled to imagine what the word "happy" even meant anymore.
DARRYL SMITH JR.
RICHARD BUSTER JR.
ADAM LADER
KATHLEEN VOZELNIK
DAWN MONTGOMERY
LILY LARSEN
Throughout the past ten days, the list of names in her grimoire had grown significant; the number of her peers, on the other hand, fell considerably. Eventually, it was to the point where new names only appeared as records of the dead because, after everything, so many of her peers had placed themselves among the ranks of the killers; today, she tallied only bones.
As for the people that remained, there were more who had sullied their hands than those, like Claire, whose hands were still clean. Another reason why she felt more kinship with the corpses on the ground than those with still-beating hearts. At this point, her guard was well and raised, walls back up in full effect; caution, not paranoia, not anymore.
Her grip on the blade tightened; it flickered, glints of fool's gold in the daylight. Her eyes narrowed on a silhouette in the distance; another apparition, one like her, but she recognized it. And they had, unlike her, not been idle in any sense of the word; a vengeful spirit with crimson intentions. She put a foot forth, a tentative step to the end of the line.
One foot in the grave.
It was impossible to put a name on what Juanita was feeling. It wasn't one emotion, it was a whole tapestry of them, each thread a feeling that was woven through a thousand others, with no clear distinction between them.
The explosion could have meant anything. It could have meant that something was going catastrophically wrong for the terrorists, and that could mean... anything. It could mean they'd packed up and run for the hills, it could mean they were dealing with a gas main that'd burst, it could mean that they were going to be watching extra carefully with fingers hovering over the buttons that'd blow up everybody's collars.
In some sick, sad, messed up way, Juanita hoped it was that last one. Maybe the explosion was just a test, a curveball that they all had to deal with. A faint glimmer of hope that'd trick the unwary into laying down their weapons, so the terrorists could see who was really here to play. It was a horrible thing to think about, much less to want. She should want this to be over. She should want to lay down her weapons and go home. That's what she'd been fighting for, wasn't it? For home. For life, and for the future she wanted - the future she'd earned. She'd done horrible things and hurt dozens of people, all in the name of survival.
So why didn't she want to see the cavalry come charging through town? It was simple, really. Because it'd mean there was hope. It'd mean that there had been another way home, a way to survive without putting blades and buckshot into innocent people. It'd mean that if she'd just waited, if she'd just believed that God would provide for her, that everything would have turned out okay. It'd mean that Eden and Teddie and John and Daniel and Fred and Colm and Betty and Elodie had died for nothing. How was she supposed to live with that kind of baggage? How could she go home? How could she face her family, her church, her classmates, and tell them what she'd done? They'd shred her excuses. They'd point to Beatrice and all the other kids who'd made it this far without killing anyone, and they'd call her a murderer and a sinner and a horrible person. And they'd be right.
Thomas hadn't believed that a man could rise from the dead, not until he'd put his hands in Christ's wounds and seen for himself. His doubts had been reasonable, hadn't they? He'd made the best choice he could make, based on everything he knew to be true and real. And still, two thousand years later, he was remembered as Doubting Thomas, the living embodiment of faithlessness. Thomas, like all of the other apostles, went on to do many great things, and to help hundreds, maybe thousands of people. But nobody remembered him as Helping Thomas or Caring Thomas. The priests and historians only remembered that one moment of weakness, that one time in a thousand where Thomas wasn't completely in tune with his faith. And what, she wondered, would they say about Juanita? Somehow she knew that it wouldn't matter that she couldn't possibly have known, that every other class had been slaughtered down to the last. Because when you believed in God, you had to believe that any situation, no matter how unlikely, could be made real. If you didn't hang your hopes on a miracle, right up until that last second, then you weren't really a believer.
So it'd be better not to have hope. It'd be better if this game was all there was. Because then she'd have been right. Her actions would be justified.
She needed the explosion not to mean anything. Because then she'd be able to live with herself.
Something hooked her peripheral vision, snapped her gaze towards it. A glint, sunlight splitting itself on a sharp blade. There was a figure behind the gint, their approach slow and tentative. Claire Haig. A name Juanita knew in passing, not familiar. Also not a name Juanita had heard on the announcements yet, but that wasn't a guarantee of anything this close to the end.
Juanita pulled the Cobray out of her bag and hefted it. She didn't point it at the other girl, not yet, but she made sure that its presence was good and conspicuous. Just in case Claire was harboring the same suspicions she had about the explosion.
"What do you want, Claire?"
The explosion could have meant anything. It could have meant that something was going catastrophically wrong for the terrorists, and that could mean... anything. It could mean they'd packed up and run for the hills, it could mean they were dealing with a gas main that'd burst, it could mean that they were going to be watching extra carefully with fingers hovering over the buttons that'd blow up everybody's collars.
In some sick, sad, messed up way, Juanita hoped it was that last one. Maybe the explosion was just a test, a curveball that they all had to deal with. A faint glimmer of hope that'd trick the unwary into laying down their weapons, so the terrorists could see who was really here to play. It was a horrible thing to think about, much less to want. She should want this to be over. She should want to lay down her weapons and go home. That's what she'd been fighting for, wasn't it? For home. For life, and for the future she wanted - the future she'd earned. She'd done horrible things and hurt dozens of people, all in the name of survival.
So why didn't she want to see the cavalry come charging through town? It was simple, really. Because it'd mean there was hope. It'd mean that there had been another way home, a way to survive without putting blades and buckshot into innocent people. It'd mean that if she'd just waited, if she'd just believed that God would provide for her, that everything would have turned out okay. It'd mean that Eden and Teddie and John and Daniel and Fred and Colm and Betty and Elodie had died for nothing. How was she supposed to live with that kind of baggage? How could she go home? How could she face her family, her church, her classmates, and tell them what she'd done? They'd shred her excuses. They'd point to Beatrice and all the other kids who'd made it this far without killing anyone, and they'd call her a murderer and a sinner and a horrible person. And they'd be right.
Thomas hadn't believed that a man could rise from the dead, not until he'd put his hands in Christ's wounds and seen for himself. His doubts had been reasonable, hadn't they? He'd made the best choice he could make, based on everything he knew to be true and real. And still, two thousand years later, he was remembered as Doubting Thomas, the living embodiment of faithlessness. Thomas, like all of the other apostles, went on to do many great things, and to help hundreds, maybe thousands of people. But nobody remembered him as Helping Thomas or Caring Thomas. The priests and historians only remembered that one moment of weakness, that one time in a thousand where Thomas wasn't completely in tune with his faith. And what, she wondered, would they say about Juanita? Somehow she knew that it wouldn't matter that she couldn't possibly have known, that every other class had been slaughtered down to the last. Because when you believed in God, you had to believe that any situation, no matter how unlikely, could be made real. If you didn't hang your hopes on a miracle, right up until that last second, then you weren't really a believer.
So it'd be better not to have hope. It'd be better if this game was all there was. Because then she'd have been right. Her actions would be justified.
She needed the explosion not to mean anything. Because then she'd be able to live with herself.
Something hooked her peripheral vision, snapped her gaze towards it. A glint, sunlight splitting itself on a sharp blade. There was a figure behind the gint, their approach slow and tentative. Claire Haig. A name Juanita knew in passing, not familiar. Also not a name Juanita had heard on the announcements yet, but that wasn't a guarantee of anything this close to the end.
Juanita pulled the Cobray out of her bag and hefted it. She didn't point it at the other girl, not yet, but she made sure that its presence was good and conspicuous. Just in case Claire was harboring the same suspicions she had about the explosion.
"What do you want, Claire?"
V9 Characters:
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
The young girl stood there, undeterred, her features drawn and pallid, eyes vacant. She stood tall, five inches above the specter, but her hunched posture made her look more petite than she was. There was no fear in her expression, only resignation to whatever might come next, content to drift now where life desperately wanted to take her.
She knew Juanita Reid. Not in any way that mattered, of course, but she knew her name, her face. She recognized her in a passing manner. But, more than that, she knew the notches on her belt, the five names on the list crossed out. One of them was Daniel Ozanne; the gun in her hands, who Claire knew more intimately than the girl herself, belonged to him.
There was a tense pause as Claire stared at her, weighing her options, her grip on the khopesh tightening, chipped, worn nails digging into its golden handle. Then, she stood up, a little taller, a clattering sound echoing, the night vision goggles still tight on her head, the bag on her back rocking, the lacrosse stick strapped to her back swaying with the motion.
"I don't know what I want anymore," she lied through her teeth.
Claire wanted a lot of things.
She wanted to feel happy; wanted a good night's sleep, devoid of the fear that she might never wake back up; wanted to go through the day without the fear it might be the last one she ever had; wanted her old life back; wanted something better than her old life; wanted to lie in bed and cry the rest of her life away. She wanted, she wanted, she wanted so much.
She had nothing left anymore.
Her dreams were the ash, dust, and pallid bones scattered across the island's frozen ground; her future was the dark void calling out to her.
For a moment, she just looked down and laughed joylessly. "I had a lot of things that I wanted, once. A lot of things I desire. Maybe I should've tried harder to make them happen." She frowned grimly. "I'll never know. Now, well, just being alive is good enough for me. Just waking up and knowing that, despite it all, I'm still here—that I'm still standing tall."
"I guess," she said, turning away from Juanita, "I'd ask for a second chance at life—a do-over. It'd be nice to go back and have a chance to change all those mistakes that always kept me up at night. But I imagine that's a more philosophical direction than, you know, what you were asking. I just wanted to get that all off my chest, you know?"
She paused.
"What about you?"
She knew Juanita Reid. Not in any way that mattered, of course, but she knew her name, her face. She recognized her in a passing manner. But, more than that, she knew the notches on her belt, the five names on the list crossed out. One of them was Daniel Ozanne; the gun in her hands, who Claire knew more intimately than the girl herself, belonged to him.
There was a tense pause as Claire stared at her, weighing her options, her grip on the khopesh tightening, chipped, worn nails digging into its golden handle. Then, she stood up, a little taller, a clattering sound echoing, the night vision goggles still tight on her head, the bag on her back rocking, the lacrosse stick strapped to her back swaying with the motion.
"I don't know what I want anymore," she lied through her teeth.
Claire wanted a lot of things.
She wanted to feel happy; wanted a good night's sleep, devoid of the fear that she might never wake back up; wanted to go through the day without the fear it might be the last one she ever had; wanted her old life back; wanted something better than her old life; wanted to lie in bed and cry the rest of her life away. She wanted, she wanted, she wanted so much.
She had nothing left anymore.
Her dreams were the ash, dust, and pallid bones scattered across the island's frozen ground; her future was the dark void calling out to her.
For a moment, she just looked down and laughed joylessly. "I had a lot of things that I wanted, once. A lot of things I desire. Maybe I should've tried harder to make them happen." She frowned grimly. "I'll never know. Now, well, just being alive is good enough for me. Just waking up and knowing that, despite it all, I'm still here—that I'm still standing tall."
"I guess," she said, turning away from Juanita, "I'd ask for a second chance at life—a do-over. It'd be nice to go back and have a chance to change all those mistakes that always kept me up at night. But I imagine that's a more philosophical direction than, you know, what you were asking. I just wanted to get that all off my chest, you know?"
She paused.
"What about you?"
Juanita hadn't been expecting such a philosophical response. Whether Claire was just feeling melancholy, or spouting existentialism as a form of distraction, she didn't know. She didn't lower the gun, regardless.
"I want..."
Her voice caught as she looked at Claire.
Juanita had wants of her own. The future, the husband, the happily-ever-after that God owed her for a lifetime of servitude and faithfulness, those were the things she'd spilled blood for. She still wanted them, so badly that every tendon in her fingers was starting to pull tight, itching to raise the Cobray and blow one more opponent off the leaderboard.
But all of those wants paled in comparison to what she saw when she looked at Claire - really looked at her, and saw what was slung across her back. Something that she'd never expected to see again - hadn't wanted to see again, ever, back in Salem, and wouldn't ever have anticipated seeing out here.
"I want..." she croaked, her voice faint and hoarse. Her hand released the gun barrel, let it fall against her side. She raised a finger, and pointed it squarely at the thing on Claire's back.
"I want that lacrosse stick."
"I want..."
Her voice caught as she looked at Claire.
Juanita had wants of her own. The future, the husband, the happily-ever-after that God owed her for a lifetime of servitude and faithfulness, those were the things she'd spilled blood for. She still wanted them, so badly that every tendon in her fingers was starting to pull tight, itching to raise the Cobray and blow one more opponent off the leaderboard.
But all of those wants paled in comparison to what she saw when she looked at Claire - really looked at her, and saw what was slung across her back. Something that she'd never expected to see again - hadn't wanted to see again, ever, back in Salem, and wouldn't ever have anticipated seeing out here.
"I want..." she croaked, her voice faint and hoarse. Her hand released the gun barrel, let it fall against her side. She raised a finger, and pointed it squarely at the thing on Claire's back.
"I want that lacrosse stick."
V9 Characters:
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
Claire stared at her, blank eyes watching, staring intently at the gun in the other girl's tautened hands, fingers hewing dangerously close to the trigger. Then, the other girl's fingers flexed, then relaxed, grip on the gun slackening in response. Her eyes trailed the brutal, black-metal chute of the Cobray Terminator's barrel as it fell to Juanita's side, its tubular, perforated mouth aimed at the ground below them as if to kill the world.
Then, her eyes drifted towards the headstones, counting them idly, wondering how many people were in the soil below their feet. She lost count somewhere in the double digits. The stench of death still hung in the air like brimstone in Hell; she barely registered it, having become long-accustomed to the vileness of their current existence already, crimson red puddles ordinary like a natural feature of the landscape.
"Okay," she said, an empty quality in her trailing-away voice, like a cracked, hollow chime. Her shoulders eased again, posture conveying nothing more accurately than her bone-deep tiredness of it all. Then, she slung the lacrosse stick over from her back and held it in her off-hand—still clutching the khopesh in her hand with a death grip, skeletal claws taut and holding for dear life—and then stared at it for a long moment.
When she had collected it—no, that wasn't quite right, scavenged it—from the small camp with the burnt, foul corpse, she had intended it for Evie. Neither of them had been, at first, graced with weapons of their own to defend themselves with. A part of her held onto it still for that reason. But, as she looked down at it, felt her chest tighten, she knew, knew, knew, that Evie would be fine without it; had been fine without it.
The black dot on the list next to her name spoke eloquently to that fact.
She clutched it tight for a moment, fingers tightening. Then, she kneeled a moment, careful not to let her eyes drift from the reaper that stood in front of her, and laid it gingerly on the ground away from her, as if uncertain as to whether or not simply shoving it towards the girl might be taken as an offensive gesture. Then, she stood back up, glanced up at her, glanced down at the sacrifice, then took a step back, a hand raised.
"Okay," she murmured. "You can have it. I don't—" her voice trailed a moment, "—I don't need it anymore."
Then, her eyes drifted towards the headstones, counting them idly, wondering how many people were in the soil below their feet. She lost count somewhere in the double digits. The stench of death still hung in the air like brimstone in Hell; she barely registered it, having become long-accustomed to the vileness of their current existence already, crimson red puddles ordinary like a natural feature of the landscape.
"Okay," she said, an empty quality in her trailing-away voice, like a cracked, hollow chime. Her shoulders eased again, posture conveying nothing more accurately than her bone-deep tiredness of it all. Then, she slung the lacrosse stick over from her back and held it in her off-hand—still clutching the khopesh in her hand with a death grip, skeletal claws taut and holding for dear life—and then stared at it for a long moment.
When she had collected it—no, that wasn't quite right, scavenged it—from the small camp with the burnt, foul corpse, she had intended it for Evie. Neither of them had been, at first, graced with weapons of their own to defend themselves with. A part of her held onto it still for that reason. But, as she looked down at it, felt her chest tighten, she knew, knew, knew, that Evie would be fine without it; had been fine without it.
The black dot on the list next to her name spoke eloquently to that fact.
She clutched it tight for a moment, fingers tightening. Then, she kneeled a moment, careful not to let her eyes drift from the reaper that stood in front of her, and laid it gingerly on the ground away from her, as if uncertain as to whether or not simply shoving it towards the girl might be taken as an offensive gesture. Then, she stood back up, glanced up at her, glanced down at the sacrifice, then took a step back, a hand raised.
"Okay," she murmured. "You can have it. I don't—" her voice trailed a moment, "—I don't need it anymore."
The posture of the moment put Juanita in the mind of the ancient Hebrew priests, timorously leaving sacrifices in the tabernacle for their jealous and vengeful God, backing away quickly lest they be smote. She didn't sense any disrespect or malign intent in Claire's body language. Her deference wasn't mocking, it was just... instinctual. Self-preservation.
She could see herself through Claire's eyes, the same way she'd seen herself in Beatrice's. And it hurt.
"No, I..." Juanita swallowed hard and shook her head, taking a step towards the stick.
"I'm not robbing you. I wanna... trade. I'll... I'll give you some water... some bread. I've got lots."
She paused, realizing what she'd just said. The words hung there, chilling the air. Any amiability she might have bought herself with the proffer was cancelled out immediately by the simple fact that they both knew why Juanita had enough bread and water to spare.
Just shut up, Juanita. Take your stick and go.
Juanita fumbled in her bag, not taking her eyes off the other girl as she approached until her boots bumped up against the lacrosse stick. Her fingertips found the shape of a water bottle. She pulled it out, lobbed it gently towards the other girl's feet, slightly past her. It hit the snow with a powdery whump, bottom first, and listed to one side.
She glanced quickly down at the stick, and realized the logistical problem of trying to actually pick the thing up off the ground. Bending, crouching, squatting - all out of the question.
"I'll get the bread after... just... stay right there."
She kept her eyes on Claire as she slowly drew her leg back, sinking down into a position reminiscent of a marriage proposal. It wouldn't be possible to train the gun on Claire like this. She'd be vulnerable for a few clumsy, awkward, seconds, and in pain for however long afterwards. But the stick would be worth it. She lowered herself, cast about blindly for a moment, then closed her fingers around the haft. She drove the butt of the stick into the snow, used it to haul herself back to her feet. Pain spiked up her thigh, but she smiled through it.
"Thanks. Seriously. You... You want bread? Or... I have a kind of... a shiv thing... You could have that, if you want..."
She could see herself through Claire's eyes, the same way she'd seen herself in Beatrice's. And it hurt.
"No, I..." Juanita swallowed hard and shook her head, taking a step towards the stick.
"I'm not robbing you. I wanna... trade. I'll... I'll give you some water... some bread. I've got lots."
She paused, realizing what she'd just said. The words hung there, chilling the air. Any amiability she might have bought herself with the proffer was cancelled out immediately by the simple fact that they both knew why Juanita had enough bread and water to spare.
Just shut up, Juanita. Take your stick and go.
Juanita fumbled in her bag, not taking her eyes off the other girl as she approached until her boots bumped up against the lacrosse stick. Her fingertips found the shape of a water bottle. She pulled it out, lobbed it gently towards the other girl's feet, slightly past her. It hit the snow with a powdery whump, bottom first, and listed to one side.
She glanced quickly down at the stick, and realized the logistical problem of trying to actually pick the thing up off the ground. Bending, crouching, squatting - all out of the question.
"I'll get the bread after... just... stay right there."
She kept her eyes on Claire as she slowly drew her leg back, sinking down into a position reminiscent of a marriage proposal. It wouldn't be possible to train the gun on Claire like this. She'd be vulnerable for a few clumsy, awkward, seconds, and in pain for however long afterwards. But the stick would be worth it. She lowered herself, cast about blindly for a moment, then closed her fingers around the haft. She drove the butt of the stick into the snow, used it to haul herself back to her feet. Pain spiked up her thigh, but she smiled through it.
"Thanks. Seriously. You... You want bread? Or... I have a kind of... a shiv thing... You could have that, if you want..."
V9 Characters:
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
There was no expectation, in Claire's mind, that she would have received anything in turn from the girl before her, Juanita, with her notable name emblazoned in dried, blackened blood across the grimoire's face. There was only the slimmest hope that, if she performed the ritual correctly, her series of claps and bows in proper order, the specter would disappear; that she would, for just a little longer, continue to remain on the earth.
Claire was never religious. But, at that moment, despite her agnosticism, she was praying.
Both of them, in a way, were performing that same invocation, acting out their appointed roles on the island's macabre stage like they were playing priests in a novena, adhering to their proper place. It was supplication by the prisoner's dilemma; each party wanted something, each party had something to give, and each party had an incentive to kill the other for it. Instead, they chose to align—to give and receive as was their share.
They each wanted something. For Juanita, it was the lacrosse stick; for Claire, it was life.
"Okay," Claire repeated, her mantra. Nonetheless, this time, there was a difference: a tinge of tension in her voice, an edge of surprise that colored her words like watercolors on a canvas. "Thank you," she said, and she meant it, glancing at the dwindling reservoir of supplies hanging from her side, meager pickings. And, for a moment, the thoughts in her head went to dark places again, venturing into the yawning abyss that lurked below.
In one hand, she still held the khopesh tight, its cold shimmer gleaming in the dying light. In the other, she let her raised hand fall, its part played, the message conveyed, signals sent, and boxes checked. And with a tense swallow of air and a dart of her eyes, Claire felt something like safety again, an illusion, mirages in a frigid desert. She let her wrists slack, both hands at her side as if to show her open hand of bad cards.
"Thank you," she said, and she meant it, looking into the tired face of the person who could have been her killer. The ultimate implication of the sentence was left unsaid, its statement being an exercise in saying the quiet part out loud. She slid her hand into the cold snow, felt its frigid bite, and took the water out, placing it among her other belongings. "And, yeah. If you're willing to spare, that'd be nice." A joyless laugh came out.
Then, for a moment, her gaze wandered to the girl's leg. There was a horrible, ugly part of her that wondered how much force it would take to snap it. After all, a few days before, she had said, with so much empty conviction, that some had crossed a line and that it fell upon them, her and Evie, to take such individuals to task for their actions. It was a foolish child's notion of justice—that an eye for an eye did anything but blind.
The idea that you could kill a monster without becoming one yourself.
Claire blinked and swallowed again. Inside the confines of her skull, she locked the thought up tight inside a wooden box in her brain, chained it up, and then buried it deep, somewhere it couldn't escape, no matter how much it clawed inside its coffin. That was not who Claire was, who she wanted to be; she was better than that, unwilling to stoop to the level. With another breath, she heard the thought's last screams as it faded.
This island would not make a monster out of her; she swore that.
On the topic of monsters, her thoughts drifted. To the other killers on this island, so great in number and scope, an army fighting to pry death's jaws away from them, a futile effort in service to a purpose of self-interest. To one person in particular, who, despite everything she did, everything she had done, Claire still cared about. Someone that, once upon a time, like a fairytale, she had thought she knew, four letters waltzing on her tongue.
"Evie," she murmured. Then, her voice picked up and raised an octave. "I wanted to ask, have you seen her? We traveled together for a few days, before, well—before everything." The words were bitter on her tongue. At first, it was a root-like, dirty taste, and it faded into a metallic, copper-like tinge as if Claire had bit down on her tongue and drawn blood. "I wanted," she said, not knowing what it was, "to talk to her, I guess. To know why."
Claire was never religious. But, at that moment, despite her agnosticism, she was praying.
Both of them, in a way, were performing that same invocation, acting out their appointed roles on the island's macabre stage like they were playing priests in a novena, adhering to their proper place. It was supplication by the prisoner's dilemma; each party wanted something, each party had something to give, and each party had an incentive to kill the other for it. Instead, they chose to align—to give and receive as was their share.
They each wanted something. For Juanita, it was the lacrosse stick; for Claire, it was life.
"Okay," Claire repeated, her mantra. Nonetheless, this time, there was a difference: a tinge of tension in her voice, an edge of surprise that colored her words like watercolors on a canvas. "Thank you," she said, and she meant it, glancing at the dwindling reservoir of supplies hanging from her side, meager pickings. And, for a moment, the thoughts in her head went to dark places again, venturing into the yawning abyss that lurked below.
In one hand, she still held the khopesh tight, its cold shimmer gleaming in the dying light. In the other, she let her raised hand fall, its part played, the message conveyed, signals sent, and boxes checked. And with a tense swallow of air and a dart of her eyes, Claire felt something like safety again, an illusion, mirages in a frigid desert. She let her wrists slack, both hands at her side as if to show her open hand of bad cards.
"Thank you," she said, and she meant it, looking into the tired face of the person who could have been her killer. The ultimate implication of the sentence was left unsaid, its statement being an exercise in saying the quiet part out loud. She slid her hand into the cold snow, felt its frigid bite, and took the water out, placing it among her other belongings. "And, yeah. If you're willing to spare, that'd be nice." A joyless laugh came out.
Then, for a moment, her gaze wandered to the girl's leg. There was a horrible, ugly part of her that wondered how much force it would take to snap it. After all, a few days before, she had said, with so much empty conviction, that some had crossed a line and that it fell upon them, her and Evie, to take such individuals to task for their actions. It was a foolish child's notion of justice—that an eye for an eye did anything but blind.
The idea that you could kill a monster without becoming one yourself.
Claire blinked and swallowed again. Inside the confines of her skull, she locked the thought up tight inside a wooden box in her brain, chained it up, and then buried it deep, somewhere it couldn't escape, no matter how much it clawed inside its coffin. That was not who Claire was, who she wanted to be; she was better than that, unwilling to stoop to the level. With another breath, she heard the thought's last screams as it faded.
This island would not make a monster out of her; she swore that.
On the topic of monsters, her thoughts drifted. To the other killers on this island, so great in number and scope, an army fighting to pry death's jaws away from them, a futile effort in service to a purpose of self-interest. To one person in particular, who, despite everything she did, everything she had done, Claire still cared about. Someone that, once upon a time, like a fairytale, she had thought she knew, four letters waltzing on her tongue.
"Evie," she murmured. Then, her voice picked up and raised an octave. "I wanted to ask, have you seen her? We traveled together for a few days, before, well—before everything." The words were bitter on her tongue. At first, it was a root-like, dirty taste, and it faded into a metallic, copper-like tinge as if Claire had bit down on her tongue and drawn blood. "I wanted," she said, not knowing what it was, "to talk to her, I guess. To know why."
Claire wanted to know about Evie, huh? Well, that tracked. Claire, Juanita recalled, had patched Evie up way back at the start. Saved her life. Juanita could have credited Medea Parth the same way - if it hadn't been for the help and the pain meds that Medea had given her after her torturous climb down from the bell tower, Juanita might not have survived her initial encounter with Jezzie Stark. She'd wondered more than once if Medea regretted that charity, if she blamed herself when Juanita's name started cropping up on the announcements.
She didn't answer the question right away. Instead, she tucked her lacrosse stick into the crook of her arm, then rummaged in her bag and fished out one of the cracker tins. The crackers were long gone; she'd used the container to store excess bread, ripped into small hunks for easy chewing. Juanita tossed Elodie's makeshift blade inside, snapped the lid shut, and frisbeed it over. Deal completed.
"Evie's here," Juanita said flatly. "In the basement of the church. You can talk to her if you want, but... I dunno if you're gonna get what you're looking for."
She waffled a bit, not sure whether it was her place to say anything more. "Look, you heard that explosion, right? For all we know, the game is over. Maybe the terrorists are dead. Maybe their lab blew up and they can't control the collars anymore. Maybe they can, and they're gonna blow everybody's collars just to spite us. Maybe everything we did here meant nothing, and none of it had to happen, and nobody had to die. And if we get out of here and somebody asks me why I did it, I'm not gonna have a magic answer that'll make anything better. And I don't think Evie will, either."
As if punctuating her sentence, the sharp report of automatic gunfire echoed up from the cellar entrance.
"Gah!" Juanita, caught off guard, backed away. The lacrosse stick fell into the snow as she put both hands on the shotgun.
She didn't answer the question right away. Instead, she tucked her lacrosse stick into the crook of her arm, then rummaged in her bag and fished out one of the cracker tins. The crackers were long gone; she'd used the container to store excess bread, ripped into small hunks for easy chewing. Juanita tossed Elodie's makeshift blade inside, snapped the lid shut, and frisbeed it over. Deal completed.
"Evie's here," Juanita said flatly. "In the basement of the church. You can talk to her if you want, but... I dunno if you're gonna get what you're looking for."
She waffled a bit, not sure whether it was her place to say anything more. "Look, you heard that explosion, right? For all we know, the game is over. Maybe the terrorists are dead. Maybe their lab blew up and they can't control the collars anymore. Maybe they can, and they're gonna blow everybody's collars just to spite us. Maybe everything we did here meant nothing, and none of it had to happen, and nobody had to die. And if we get out of here and somebody asks me why I did it, I'm not gonna have a magic answer that'll make anything better. And I don't think Evie will, either."
As if punctuating her sentence, the sharp report of automatic gunfire echoed up from the cellar entrance.
"Gah!" Juanita, caught off guard, backed away. The lacrosse stick fell into the snow as she put both hands on the shotgun.
V9 Characters:
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
Once upon a time, one eternity ago, Claire had decided to save Evie's life; were it not for her, the other girl might've died. From Alex, the boy pursuing her throughout the woods, spear clasped in hand, lunging towards her with death gleaming in his eyes; from her wounds, blood trickling out of her shoulder as she laid down to die in the snow; from infection, sepsis, the way bacteria would've entered her bloodstream and her body, eager to fight it off, sending her into shock and to her grave.
Evie, in turn, had killed. She had killed, and killed, and killed, and killed again, and again, and again, becoming the very sort of butcher that she would've loathed. Evie had killed. Chloé Delacroix, DeMarcus Miller, Lara Bullock, Danielle Bird. By this point—for all Claire knew—there would be yet more names on tomorrow's tally, people who were dead now, people who would be departed by the end of this day or the next, but who just weren't yet, as if their minds and bodies hadn't entirely caught up to it.
It was not a certainty that all of them would die, would have died anyway, were it not for Evie. That fact was a what-if, a realm of vague gray-hued questions and scarlet uncertainties, any question of "what could have been" answered with blades and bullets. If Claire had let Evie die back then, on that earliest of days, would they be alive now? Had she pulled the weed out at its roots before it could grow, would the other plants in the garden still have died, even without the kudzu there to strangle them?
In that awful moment of reflection, inside her hurting heart and hating head, Claire was more than a monster; she was the antecedent that created one, the deep-buried rootstock from which that strangling, garrote-like weed had sprouted. She was guilesome Pandora, how she opened the box that released evil unto the world; she was fierce Echidna, the she-viper, how she made the monster; she was the snake, how her actions cast them all from the garden, doomed them to their fates.
Claire, at that moment, and in every moment since, was cause-and-effect; a butterfly, how the flapping of her broken wings made hurricanes.
Her eyes, always in motion, tracing the other girl's figure as she readied her throw, were quick enough to catch the tin as it flew towards her; her left hand, slower, barely managed its task but did so nonetheless. With another breath, a small stream of cold mist from her like scattered fog, Claire stowed away in her jacket pocket—a tool for a later that may never come. Then, she paused, took in the sounds, of her voice, of her words, of their meaning; listened, listened, listened as the gunshots came again.
Their pinging sound, the register of a bang that came from somewhere else a universe away, made Claire hit the deck, falling to her knees with a glare in the direction of the sound. As she stared into that space, she knew, in just a moment, that it was too far away for the shot to have aimed at them; there was no sound of refraction or striking, no dusting of smoke or dirt kicked up by the impact, the only disruption to the space being in how their limbs shaped the earth's ground as they fell.
Once she was sure, sure beyond surety, that there was no more danger, she stood back up, back on her feet, and signaled to the other girl that there was no threat—at least, no threat here, no threat now. Then, she sighed. It was odd, not feeling afraid of that racket anymore; she had never expected to have become used to the harmony of gunshots. But, after ten days of living in Hell, you were bound to become accustomed to the heat of the flickering, dancing flames as they lashed at your feet.
First, her eyes drifted toward the church, the whole building slanted from the roots of its concrete chamber to the ailing edifice of its steeple, pure white veneer still as unholy as the last time she had been in its vicinity. Even in this Christmas-like truce, there was gunfire in the trenches. That sound—those gunshots—might have been Evie killing yet another person. Without the context, she couldn't know. Claire turned to Juanita, watching the other girl move towards the church. "Tell her I wanted to talk again."
Claire looked at Juanita for a moment and sighed. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe I won't get the answer I wanted. Maybe I won't get any answer at all. But there's a part of me that has to know. I can't leave that stone unturned, no matter how much I'm screaming at myself to stop moving, to give up." Then, she looked away. "I've got to try. As my friend, I owe her that much—to give her the benefit of the doubt. I just want to know why." Then, she gave a seconds-long pause, looking out across the graveyard.
"Because, in spite of everything, there's still a part of me that wants to believe. To believe, you know, that there's something more to us than this island. To believe that there's still something human left behind when you take our masks away," Claire continued with a fraying edge in her voice, a quiver that danced on the tip of her tongue, doubt. She took a step away, unable to look the killer in the eyes, white-knuckled as she clutched the khopesh in her hands. "That, beneath the skin, we're not just monsters."
Claire turned. Then, with one last look at the gravestones, she left.
S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED IN "Last Words"
Evie, in turn, had killed. She had killed, and killed, and killed, and killed again, and again, and again, becoming the very sort of butcher that she would've loathed. Evie had killed. Chloé Delacroix, DeMarcus Miller, Lara Bullock, Danielle Bird. By this point—for all Claire knew—there would be yet more names on tomorrow's tally, people who were dead now, people who would be departed by the end of this day or the next, but who just weren't yet, as if their minds and bodies hadn't entirely caught up to it.
It was not a certainty that all of them would die, would have died anyway, were it not for Evie. That fact was a what-if, a realm of vague gray-hued questions and scarlet uncertainties, any question of "what could have been" answered with blades and bullets. If Claire had let Evie die back then, on that earliest of days, would they be alive now? Had she pulled the weed out at its roots before it could grow, would the other plants in the garden still have died, even without the kudzu there to strangle them?
In that awful moment of reflection, inside her hurting heart and hating head, Claire was more than a monster; she was the antecedent that created one, the deep-buried rootstock from which that strangling, garrote-like weed had sprouted. She was guilesome Pandora, how she opened the box that released evil unto the world; she was fierce Echidna, the she-viper, how she made the monster; she was the snake, how her actions cast them all from the garden, doomed them to their fates.
Claire, at that moment, and in every moment since, was cause-and-effect; a butterfly, how the flapping of her broken wings made hurricanes.
Her eyes, always in motion, tracing the other girl's figure as she readied her throw, were quick enough to catch the tin as it flew towards her; her left hand, slower, barely managed its task but did so nonetheless. With another breath, a small stream of cold mist from her like scattered fog, Claire stowed away in her jacket pocket—a tool for a later that may never come. Then, she paused, took in the sounds, of her voice, of her words, of their meaning; listened, listened, listened as the gunshots came again.
Their pinging sound, the register of a bang that came from somewhere else a universe away, made Claire hit the deck, falling to her knees with a glare in the direction of the sound. As she stared into that space, she knew, in just a moment, that it was too far away for the shot to have aimed at them; there was no sound of refraction or striking, no dusting of smoke or dirt kicked up by the impact, the only disruption to the space being in how their limbs shaped the earth's ground as they fell.
Once she was sure, sure beyond surety, that there was no more danger, she stood back up, back on her feet, and signaled to the other girl that there was no threat—at least, no threat here, no threat now. Then, she sighed. It was odd, not feeling afraid of that racket anymore; she had never expected to have become used to the harmony of gunshots. But, after ten days of living in Hell, you were bound to become accustomed to the heat of the flickering, dancing flames as they lashed at your feet.
First, her eyes drifted toward the church, the whole building slanted from the roots of its concrete chamber to the ailing edifice of its steeple, pure white veneer still as unholy as the last time she had been in its vicinity. Even in this Christmas-like truce, there was gunfire in the trenches. That sound—those gunshots—might have been Evie killing yet another person. Without the context, she couldn't know. Claire turned to Juanita, watching the other girl move towards the church. "Tell her I wanted to talk again."
Claire looked at Juanita for a moment and sighed. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe I won't get the answer I wanted. Maybe I won't get any answer at all. But there's a part of me that has to know. I can't leave that stone unturned, no matter how much I'm screaming at myself to stop moving, to give up." Then, she looked away. "I've got to try. As my friend, I owe her that much—to give her the benefit of the doubt. I just want to know why." Then, she gave a seconds-long pause, looking out across the graveyard.
"Because, in spite of everything, there's still a part of me that wants to believe. To believe, you know, that there's something more to us than this island. To believe that there's still something human left behind when you take our masks away," Claire continued with a fraying edge in her voice, a quiver that danced on the tip of her tongue, doubt. She took a step away, unable to look the killer in the eyes, white-knuckled as she clutched the khopesh in her hands. "That, beneath the skin, we're not just monsters."
Claire turned. Then, with one last look at the gravestones, she left.
S091: CLAIRE HAIG — CONTINUED IN "Last Words"
She watched Claire go. Didn't say a word.
Juanita already knew the "why" that Claire was looking for. To hear Evie tell it, she'd been a kind-hearted Kevorkian, putting down wounded friends and threatening villains alike. Juanita might have bought it, too, if not for the fact that she'd spent the last week and a half scrounging for justifications for her own cruddy behavior. Her actions were what they were, no matter how many layers of moral justification she tried to drape over them. Her motives weren't deep, in fact they were disgusting in their simplicity. She was selfish and scared, desperate to survive. Those same motives were mirrored in Evie. Sure, Evie was better at dancing around those motives, maybe even good enough to fool herself. But she couldn't fool Juanita. They had the same core, dressed differently.
Did that make them monsters? Maybe. But, if anything, Juanita thought it made them more human.
Another gunshot rang out, and cut off any further philosophical musing.
Juanita already knew the "why" that Claire was looking for. To hear Evie tell it, she'd been a kind-hearted Kevorkian, putting down wounded friends and threatening villains alike. Juanita might have bought it, too, if not for the fact that she'd spent the last week and a half scrounging for justifications for her own cruddy behavior. Her actions were what they were, no matter how many layers of moral justification she tried to drape over them. Her motives weren't deep, in fact they were disgusting in their simplicity. She was selfish and scared, desperate to survive. Those same motives were mirrored in Evie. Sure, Evie was better at dancing around those motives, maybe even good enough to fool herself. But she couldn't fool Juanita. They had the same core, dressed differently.
Did that make them monsters? Maybe. But, if anything, Juanita thought it made them more human.
Another gunshot rang out, and cut off any further philosophical musing.
V9 Characters:
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez
Zara Mohammad
Alexis Keller
Wyatt Latimer
Stephanie "Radical Steph" Raddison
Xiomara Ximenez