Evoking the Lord of the Flies

[LYourLocalAutist]

The interesting thing about purely pragmatic adjectives is that they are nearly always twisted into possessing some moral undercurrent which can be used despite the original meaning of the word itself. For instance, the definition of "Aridity" is essentially universally recognised to hold a negative connotation. Beyond a simple adjective for a land in which rain falls rarely and vegetation turns scarce across the plains, it has taken on an entirely new meaning: something lacking in interest, meaning, excitement. Something sterile and benign. Monochrome and vapid and undeserving of any attention, save to perhaps spit on it. A purely descriptive word is seen and it is taken for implications and nuance it lacked, twisted, despite whatever lied beyond it.

I might be getting ahead of myself, but in my experience, this is just how people think about deserts. In an almost offensive manner, I might add, considering what still and gentle beauty lies within them. Not despite their aridity, but owing to it. I think my favourite example is

Red Rock Canyon.

On early Thursday evenings this time of year, when the days were still short enough that you could just start seeing stars around this time, there was no one around. Not the canyon, that is, but a certain football stadium which owed its name to the mountainous monolith. A monolith which made for an amazing evening backdrop. A backdrop the stadium provided an especially good view for. Céline had found this out through trial and error.

[Céline Sharpe continued from Eight of Cups]

Céline pressed her knees against her chest, perched rather comfortably upon one of the black plastic benches flanked by two reds. She could peek just far enough above this extra space in front of her to agreeably put down her thoughts in her journal and get her view of the beauty of Red Rock, which left her content where she rarely was. These spots, isolated from the populace and left simply with the world, were where she was safest. Free to think and breathe and fear nothing. She'd been coming here whenever she could since last winter. All she had to do get that little extra leave was tell Danika she had a club. Nothing beyond that. Not a speck of elaboration. Sometimes Céline thought about whether she actually knew by now. Her grip on her pen tightened and a particularly biting wind descended upon her as she pushed it from her mind. She was here for herself and no one else on this earth. She could have this.

She had to have this.

But the biting wind kept its fangs sunk. She stopped writing just a moment to tighten herself up, brace her muscles and bear it. Wind this cold doesn't happen this late in Nevada, she thought. It was a wind like an omen. Small hairs on her skin stood up beneath the layers, and her eyes tore themselves from book and view. Just up, down, left, right. Coming back to herself. Itching in her mind, entrenched. Nothing like that happened. Exhale, watch the warmth dance in the air. Nothing here but her... right?

[VoltTurtle]

Foolish was Céline to believe herself isolated, for the Devil lurks around every corner, waiting only for her perfect moment to rise and devour the hearts of men.

CHARITY "BEELZEBUB" SMITH - PREGAME START

Las Vegas was a city of rot. Parasitized by the Vegas Strip, it was filled to the brim with lowlifes, scammers, and scoundrels of all types. Atop this great pyramid of greed sat the fattened pigs of the upper crust, feasting on the innards of the city, with their dung and bile dripping down and down, serving as the only nourishment feeding the city's rotted roots. Here, on this putrid mound of decay, lived the Lord of the Flies, Beelzebub, and Céline had unknowingly drawn her attention. Now, she stalked forth, the Devil following wherever she tread.

She had been wandering the school grounds well after hours, having just parted ways with the gang of hooligans she commanded. Thereafter, her movements carried little rhyme or reason, guided only by the malodorous winds of Vegas to her destination. And lo, did the Devil spy with her little eye: a lost lamb wandering away from the flock. When something so small and feeble finds itself without the protection of its fellow sheep, that is when the black goat will greet it with its dark gaze and honeyed words.

Beelzebub came from around the side of the bleachers, bearing a smugly confident smirk as her heavy boots punctuated her climb up with loud, metallic CLANGs. For Céline, there would be no escaping the demon's approach. Although it may be possible to outwit the Devil, one could not run from her; for she was as equally omnipresent as God, and her temptations were as inevitable as the rising of the sun.

"Hey Céline," Beelzebub spoke her words with a smile, but they were laced with a hint of malice. "Didn't think I'd see you out here."

Beelzebub took a seat right next to Céline, the bleacher groaning under her weight.

"Whatcha writing?"

[LYourLocalAutist]

Céline took a few more breaths, letting the cold air filter through her, striking her nerves and bringing herself back down. Grounded. She kept herself mindful, though even just that invited a biting reminder that she couldn't stop feeling this on edge even in times and places where she explicitly had peace. Like an impulse she could never put down for good. She wondered if she'd be able to, once she got out. That "true peace"... it was probably a sensation to behold. For now, though, she had to remember her practices and calm herself down. Even so, it was hard. The air itself felt a bit... tinged, somehow. Raw. Not as fresh and crisp as it should. Tainted with

Crnch crnch crnch crnch

Brimstone.

Céline's eyes shot wide open and every muscle in her body locked deadly still as the discrepancy in the air, the sounds, the world, was perceived. Breathing picked up only for a half second before she pressed her jaws as hard as she could against each other. She didn't have to turn. Out here, in perfect isolation, the rhythm and weight to the steps, the nature of the approach. She'd learned to tell the alarm signs among the crowds and constant stamping of normal school hours. In the quiet nothingness of the lonely evening, the signs were elevated into erupting reverbrations. She was here. How and why quickly took a precedent in her mind as she took to suppressing rising panic. The latter option, no matter how composed and detached a state Céline could beat herself into, would likely have no effect. She could tell when you were scared anyway. But why here? Now? It was safe. It was safe it was safe it was hers but it wasn't safe anymore and god no she had her journal. She never had her where she had even an inkling of a sense that she could be caught with it. It was a rule. She was realizing just now, far, far too late, that she was an idiot for taking it here of all places. Stupidstupidfuckingstupid. She thought fast. Options. No crowds to hide in here. No slipping away. She couldn't run. If she was already approaching, it was too late to do so. She was always faster, and she hated runners. Céline tried to hold fast, showing no thoughts on her face even as she realized there were no exit options here.

Thump.

Céline Sharpe was trapped alone with the devil.
Devil's fucking bitch slut fuck fuck fuck stupid
Still, she let nothing show on her face. She'd gotten good at it. It was one of the few things she was good at. At this point, she was able to make herself look a very natural and default sort of detached. It was a defence mechanism that sowed disinterest in most. Beel, for the most part, was not part of that most. Didn't really matter. Muscle memory more than anything. Her eyes momentarily flicked towards the woman now sitting next to her. Beelzebub Smith. Not her real name.Fucking delusional retardshit Charity fuck fuck me fuckCéline remembered from what had happened to a substitute as he read her legal name off of the register some years back. They'd gotten one of those "worst report ever" speeches the next day. She allowed her dull eyes simply to swivel and observe. That red tint and the sheer power simply noticeable by looking at her body. The world's fakest smile. And Céline had seen fake smiles. She worked with her mom, after all.

She thought a moment, still doing everything in her power to keep down the increasing amounts of desperation and fear wrought from the simple fact that Beel now knew about her journal. And was addressing it. Damn it. Damn. It. All. She couldn't try and close it or put it away. Not now, at least. That'd only make Beel more interested in it. She could only really set down her pen for now. All Céline knew she could do about now was go along with the prelude. And this was the prelude. The calm. In this setting, this situation, this opportunity? It was practically only a matter of time. Something terrible was going to happen.

"...Red Rock."

Louder and clearer than usual. "Speak the fuck up" was one of the more common points of instigation used by the devil. She was able to take her eyes off her for a moment, try to take a little bit more solace in the sight of the monolith. The devil, however, remained marked and painted in her peripherals. Omnipresent.

"It's... beautiful tonight. I'm writing about it."

[VoltTurtle]

Beelzebub's smile grew wider as Céline spoke, taking brief note that she spoke up without needing to be told this time. Perhaps, Satan willing, a lost little lamb could learn something new from time to time. Not that Beelzebub had any faith in Céline, for even after all of Beelzebub's lessons, she was still exactly the kind of person Beelzebub hated the most.

The Devil did despise the meek. Those sheep that mindlessly followed their herd, obeying all the rules, refusing both to enjoy the fruits borne of the Earth and to assert themselves against those that would seek to dominate them. Céline may not follow a herd like so many of the other sheep, but she was just as spineless, and just as easy to break. She was boring, and she shut down at the slightest sign of conflict. If she kept going like this, everyone would walk all over her like the doormat she was. There were men far worse than the Devil in this world, especially those men of faith, supposedly made in God's image, and speaking His word. If one of them happened to get his hooks into Céline...

No, perish the thought. May Satan protect this lamb, especially if she did not learn.

"Really now?" Beelzebub spoke through her devilish smile, her hair casting a shadow over her face, only the whites of her eyes and her bright red irises shining through. "I didn't take you for a writer."

She leaned in, trying to get a look at the journal's contents.

"Read some to me," she said, her grin only growing more malevolent. "I want to hear it."

Perhaps this would reveal an interesting side to Céline that Beelzebub had yet to see. The Devil did love the arts, a perfect medium to act in defiance of God, proving His word is not the only one worth listening to. Even if Céline's words were just as boring as the rest of her, perhaps this would still make for a good test...

Far away from the two of them, a single shoe hung by its laces off a power line, waiting for its turn to drop.

[LYourLocalAutist]

The thing about Beelzebub was that any interaction with her from the perspective of a victim was inherently unfair. She forced you to learn and adhere to a completely different playbook than that belonging to the typical bully, and then took every opportunity she could to completely disregard it. The playbook in question was also about five inches thicker than any other set of invisible rules Céline had ever undergone learning. This was because Beelzebub was insane. Einsteinian insane, specifically.And the dictionary definition as well insane demon bitch get away fuck get awayThe most dangerous kind. As Céline had learned, no specific desire to inflict pain and suffering drove her to keep as many victims as she did. It was some manner of sheer, implacable, twisted faith. A perceived logic meant to "teach" and "change". There was meant to be nuance to the torture, apparently. Céline thought back for a moment, about how every encounter she'd had with the devil only ever served to teach her how to avoid her more effectively. But even so, the devil blindly and unrelentingly persisted. A soldier of hell with a vision of purest intent. She would do so until you changed according to her liking. The issue with this was that no one was ever going to do so because the logic behind it was completely ludicrous.

But that would never, ever stop the devil. She was insane, after all.

All the more reason for Céline to keep on her feet. Especially here. Especially now. Especially with that last little hope in her hands. Hope the devil's red eyes gazed at with a malign interest, as if just itching for a chance to grab it and strangle it and see where it could snuff out. But the other shoe hadn't dropped. And if Céline stayed calm, and adhered to the playbook, and kept watch of the devil's shifting whims, and if she was lucky, and only if she was lucky, it would stay that way.

Her eyes widened a twitch when Beel's request hit her, and she realised she'd been thinking a half-second too long. Nod. Nose back into the book. Flip. Red rock. Red rock. Breathe. Stop her heart. Stop her blood. There was an objective and the single choice was completion. She ignored the way the hair on her neck stuck up and the acute awareness she had of the devil breathing right over her shoulder. She had a passage to find. Pray the Devil doesn't catch note of the Mojave expeditions. Read something, anything. Pour your heart out to the devil. What other choice did she have?

Fingers stopped flipping at one particular passage. Recent as could be. Just last week, similar setting, probably similar descriptions to what would have been put down today. Hopefully enough to sate her. Céline's pupils widened and her eyes softened as she looked upon her own work, her passion. Something about her entirely unfroze just so as she straightened her posture and cleared her throat to read, and Céline realised, despite every single reason she had to cower and quake and maintain the projection of flesh... this was the first time she'd ever read something that belonged to her out to someone else. An entirely distinct nervousness, one for which she had no antibodies, crept up her spine. But her voice, when it came out, was clearer than ever. Even with this audience, that small creative at the back of her mind wanted to do her work some kind, any kind of justice.

"There's something utterly fascinating you notice when you get to any point at which you can see both the horizon of the city and the plains of the Mojave, especially in the wintertimes. It is a contrast, especially made clear if you've lived in Las Vegas, or any city, really. I think it's related to the way both biomes take the changing of seasons, but also beyond that. Let's use Red Rock as an example. Snowcapped, the canyons look nearly ethereal. Untouched and pure. There is an association of winter with fatigue and stagnation; it is entirely unpresent in the canyon, the red monolith stretching proudly and almost brightly into the skyline with its white cloak. Then you look at the city. Lightless and grey. Megaliths soar to the skyline in an impossible loop to satisfy themselves, and appear devoid of life as opposed to the desert's calm lushness. It almost seems abandoned. Something great happened there, but it's over with. The winter sky of the desert is boundless and blue, and Red Rock tends upwards to it in that wintry cloak with a quiet and entirely natural reverence. The land that lies around it vests itself in those same beautiful white garments of snow and pays its respects in tandem. So do I. I don't think I could ask for a better view."

Céline releases a breath, the calmest she's been today. The feeling is fleeting as the snow the written words wax about. She remembers where she is and who she's with. The fear and the rules and the survival. Posture sharpens once more. Her eyes only just turn towards Beel, barely visible through the loose ginger rags which fall from her scalp. And Céline thinks of very little as the typical mindset settles back in. Just watching. Just waiting.

[VoltTurtle]

Beelzebub tilted her head, the shadows now revealing one half of her face in full.

"Interesting," she said, her smile receding.

Not quite what she had been hoping for, but then again she hadn't been sure what to expect. Beelzebub had only a reluctant appreciation for the creations of God, the natural world included. She was much more interested in people. What they liked. What they did. How they break.

"A nature fan, huh?"

Not something she had known about Céline, but that wasn't surprising. People were secretive, especially those with much to lose. It made sense, especially for those hypocrites that preached love and tolerance, but really only held hate in their heart. The Devil had no respect for this kind of secrecy, for the only way to be truly free was to be true to yourself. In order to be true to yourself, you had to be truly yourself to others as well. That's why Beelzebub lived the way she lived, because hiding your true self was cringe.

Still, Beelzebub could not hold a grudge over this secrecy. It was reasonable to hide yourself from threats, and she was a self-identified threat to the meek and spineless. Céline, whose spine had the consistency of a condom full of jam, was a natural target. She did, at least, have the bravery to read and reveal some of herself, rather than simply go quiet all over again. She seemed to really care about this little book of hers. Would she be willing to defend it?

"Mind if I read some more?" Beelzebub asked, quickly snatching the journal out of Céline's hands before the girl had a chance to answer.

She stood up from the bleachers, the metal groaning as she eased off of it, and popped open the journal to a random page. She wasn't interested enough in the contents to actually read it. She just wanted to see how Céline would react.

[LYourLocalAutist]

In that moment, as the devil dropped its jubilant facade to make way for its simple and sheer morbid interest, every muscle in Céline Sharpe's body was dead silent. To the median person, it would appear uncanny. Stillness as if the devil's vision was based on movement, stillness like a trained street performer. But you paid to see them, their silly costumes and silver-sheen skin. You got this educated derangement gratis. Céline kept her eyes locked onto Beel, staring through the small gaps of her falling curls as though staring through prison bars. She might as well have been looking at a jailor, anyway. She didn't know how, or even if, she could move any more in this scenario. She just allowed herself a nod of acknowledgement at the posited question. A machine of composure suppressing a brewing cocktail of distress. She clutched her journal just slightly tighter, rubbing a thumb accross the comforting familiar roughness of the paper. Almost as though it could ground her, or save her from what terrible fate had dragged her kicking and screaming into this scenario.

She had very little time to think when that piece of hope was torn from her hands by that symbol of despair.

But she had ample time to feel.

There were several particular reasons Céline could name as to why she'd never brought her journal to school before. Safety, for it more than for her, way prime among them. The ink she spread across its pages were her lifeline. Everything that remained of Céline's will to keep hoping, to keep yearning that things could improve, was contained between them. She could never let it fall into the hands of the rats and devils of Red Rock. As long as that leather-bound hope of hers remained intact, she could endure any burden. There was light at the end of the tunnel. Here, she had failed it. Failed herself. That one thing in this life she cared for had been ripped from her hands as she stood by. A split second passed and Céline's eyes had just widened. Some horrid and discordant torrent, guilt, panic, dread, welled within her that no amount of practice and meditation could suppress. Some energy she had never felt before in her life. This could not happen. This could not happen. Another split second had passed. Beel had just enough time to stand up, just barely crack open that treasure of hers. Somewhere far away from the two of them, a single shoe's laces untied from a power line, plummeting down to earth.

And every muscle in Céline's body shrieked out in sheer, violent cacophany.

"NO"

Louder than any cry she'd made in years.

Near-instantly, acting on some long-shadowed instinct, Céline lept out of her seat and lunged for the journal. Arms flailing and hands grasping, clutching the leather and immediately pulling as hard as she ever had. There was no world under heaven or over hell in which she could even remotely match the devil in a contest of strength. Céline didn't care. She'd pull them down the bleachers, kick the devil off-balance, break their bones if she had to. This could not happen. Her heart raced and blood rushed in a way completely foreign to her, her face twisted and eyes wide in some resolute fear and anger as if possessed by a cornered, utterly violent animal. Her critical distance had been found and breached. Breath heavy, body thrashing, knuckles white and never letting go. Céline defied every rule she'd set for herself over years and years of silence, subterfuge, subliminality, and she thought of very little. Only of the journal in the devil's hands, and how she would not let this happen.