Sleep Is The Cousin Of Death

[Emprexx Plush]

((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued From I Know in Darkness, I Will Find You (Giving Up Inside Like Me)))

Blaise needed practice. Still a relevant imperative, but one complicated by persistent annoyances. Fire-arms. Groups. Vengeful allies. The banality of slow, methodical stalking. Intolerable. Not in this weather and perhaps even not without it, they would not stoop to indignity any further. Yet was there another option? Something else that could simulate the movement and risks of a living target without exposing them to retribution? Mobile, so that they might chase it if needed? Abundant, so they could pursue as much as they desired? Unrestricted in access, so that they might pick up practice whenever they desired? Unwanted, so that they would not need to add more sights to the target on their back? Finding something that filled two of these requirements would be a delightful surprise. Satisfying them all?

Such was the proposition that led to Blaise's intimate acquaintance with macaques.

Ugly things in their resting positions. Bulbous frames bulging in all the wrong places, not so much humanoid forms as lumps jutting stub extremities in vulgar defiance of the purity form. More palatable to a degree when stretched out, the masses of fat and fur splitting into discernible arms and legs, but still undesirable. Digits gnarled with fat, wide nails, the imagined sensation of them digging through the fur upholstering these mistakes left them shuddering. The fur itself was dirty brown and matted in the least appealing way when wet, though the dry specimens they noticed were often caked with patches of what they hoped was mud but was more likely shit. God, they could imagine the smell at a glance alone, unable to decide which would be worse. The worst aspect by far, though, was the faces. Bare swathes of leathery faint red skin around each eye, extending oblong around the nose and mouth with little interruption in a manner unnervingly phallic. Beady eyes of tans and golds that blinked too little for their liking. Noses little more than upraised slits, as if each nostril was formed by sudden but equilateral violence, tools jammed into a mockery of a face that refused to expire even when distended with attempted lobotomy.

The sounds, though. They hadn't even begun to detail the sounds. Language was too high a form of communication to capture them. It could be said that when close they observed the young chittering as if animated by a swell of clicking squirming hard-shelled parasites burrowed into the flesh of their now rotting bodies, which would do much to explain the smell. If pushed one might elaborate on the high pitched squeals of alarm emanating from high branches on approach ripped straight from the mad science amalgamate breeding of a particularly distressed tea kettle and nails sliding across a chalkboard. It would not be accurate though, not nearly so. The hatred they inspired within Blaise was equally difficult to capture, but it kept them warm despite the chill on their bare skin. They lay naked in the brush, as close to primal kinship with these malformed branches of their evolutionary tree as they ever had been, and felt nothing but contempt. Practice was an excuse. This had become a service, not only to themselves but to everyone still living. Every dead monkey was one less pest for them all, and thankless as the task would be they would follow it as long as convenient.

There were five that they could see. One high in the branches looking south, paying them no attention. One pair lower in the trees, a mother and infant by the size. Another pair on the ground, what they assumed was the subservient of the pair plucking through the other's fur. Finally, the one that saw them. The one that stared from atop its own tree perch and had not looked away since they had settled. They had maintained eye contact for a minute at the least so far, waiting for it to give some warning. It continued to stare. Were it not for the occasional slow blink, Blaise could not be certain it was alive. Their eyes shifted first, then their body to contort their aim. If it would not take its opportunity than they would.

A shot rang out.

Squeals that defied comprehension rang from every corner of the group. Branches heaved and snapped with sudden activity, three bodies rushing to gather around the smallest on the ground, but another shot sent them fleeing without finding its target. Blaise's gaze did not linger on what was abandoned. They were drawn upwards to the silent, unmoving watcher. It continued to stare even as the gun came up a third time. The only acknowledgement they received was bared teeth.

The third shot cut through the rain.

A scream.

A fall.

A disappearance.

A rustling of branches.

A scream, now human, as beady golden eyes glinted from the foliage.

Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous to be this panicked. It was another of the little beasts come to observe the fallen, and even if it was not what did it matter? It was a helpless thing, wounded and stupid. So much that should have inspired fear here washed over them, but this? This was what rattled them? No. They would not accept that.

But they were already moving without so much as pausing to dress. Because of the gunshots, they rationalized a few paces down the line, and the compromise of their position. If Nia had followed them from the Gardens they could not afford to stay in one place for long. They would see to their things once they were somewhere more secure, where they could watch what was left of the light die and retire for an early morning before the announcements woke the others. Doubtless many had come to use them as an alarm clock of sorts, secure that something would wake them before they slumbered for too long. Rising well before the hour gave them an edge on ambushing the unsuspecting.

Brush moved a few feet behind them and to the right. Their pace quickened.

---

The announcement stirred them awake in grumbling stupor. Sleep held them loose all through the night, so they'd woken to far less no fewer than a dozen times. Aside from their own name there were only two of note:

"Camila Cañizares was the next to go when Michael Froese shot her. In our opinion, it was simple and effective work."

That had brought a smile to their face. What had they wished upon her when they parted? Death slow, painful, unwanted? A 'Simple and effective work' by a complete unknown satisfied at least one of those conditions, and one could dream the others were fulfilled alongside it. Not even their hosts could pretend to care that she had died. It would be a shock if anyone mourned or even noticed her in all the chaos. Fatigue could not steal how delicious that was for them. Assuming some lingering spirit of Dante remained they were certain he would be pleased given the perspective the afterlife provided. Her shoddy work had robbed them an untold number of blissfully ignorant days, and just as he would understood Blaise had done what was necessary for him he would appreciate how much more painful she had made the decision. Yes, that seemed reasonable, no?

It was almost enough to survive Lorenzo's arrival. Another fight, another victim. Anger came as quick as joy. How dare he? What selfish, senseless rage drove him? It was a waste, an unquestionable waste, but would he care? Would he even consider it? Of course not. Deep down, Lorenzo had only ever cared about himself. He did not realize that his life was theirs, and every one of these crude outbursts risked denying them the right to snatch it by their own hands. A dispassionate line blared through the woods was not good enough. They were going to watch the life leave his body, but only after he'd atoned. hey thought of Artem, unwashed, under-nourished, glassy-eyed and hidden in whatever place he had turned into his personal sanctuary of shame. Trapped and watching, waiting, hoping for the release of retribution he would not be able to take himself. To see Lorenzo receive anything approaching mercy in his final moments, even in the form of an unthinking bullet to the skull, would send him into a pit of utter despair he would never leave again.

No one else could be trusted to do what was necessary. It was their duty not for Dolly, or even for Artem, but for the world his captivity denied to release him.

They had to prepare.

The area they'd found themself in had been off-limits until this morning. They could be certain that no one was here to trouble them. Dolly's bag and their own contributed to a new identity, one that would not require a new name but would not so easily evoke their own. From Dolly they took a dark teal romper, shoulders bare save for the thin strings tied around their neck, thin slit cut through a few inches along their belly button to just below the bottom of their breasts, and a sewn on belt tied in a large bow to their right side. An spare pair of white tights helped draw the ensemble together in stark contrast to the hideous sneakers they were still forced to wear. Out their own bag they drew a long, red wig and its cap, as well as a maroon scarf with golden line accents along its length. The original look had called for a simple ribbon tie, but they did not imagine Parker would object to embellishment at the time. They wondered how he was as they dressed; it was not in their nature to be sentimental for the absent, but it was curious to be four days in and not have heard him on one end or the other of the game. Perhaps he had managed to escape it all. Unlikely, but it brought a new smirk to their lips to envision him having outmaneuvered even their captors, nothing but a decoy on the bus to mark he'd ever been there in the first place before an unmarked car carried him away from a trap he'd uncovered months prior. Fantasy, but entertaining.

There had been a plan with their kit at some point. A look both ravishing and distracting enough to make observers uncertain of who they were at first glance. Dazzle then death, some unimaginative commentator would describe it. It had oozed out of their mind staring into their remaining supplies. In their contemplation their eyelids had sagged lower, lower, lower, until they drifted back to fitful slumber a few feet to the left of the Menagerie's ajar door.

Beady golden eyes watched above from ruined netting.

[Maraoone]

((Joanne Coleman continues from we keep these promises, write it in a letter))

It had passed. The satisfaction, the calmness had passed. The tracers and breathing and blurriness had passed. The trip was over.

It had left some remnants, however. Even when Joanne finally emerged from the woods, finally revealed herself to the sun, the world still seemed a bit darker from before, as if she had never stopped falling. But, despite that, there had been relief, relief that the trees no longer surrounded her. Things felt calmer, clearer, even after everything had worn off. Lighter. Probably because of that missing bag, the weapon bag, the one that wasn't hers, but she had never even bothered to open it, so it's not like she had lost anything of importance. Anything worth mourning, worrying over.

There was still that gash, from the fall. The physical reminder of what had happened. She hadn't bothered cleaning it, she hoped the rain would wash it off, really. It still stung, but nothing more, so that had to be a good sign, right?

She also remembered. The thoughts that had occurred to her before, during, and after the fall. The restlessness, the energy that still coursed through her up to now. The wish that there had been more time. And now there was, and she was living it, experiencing it.

Wasting it.

Another announcement had passed by before she had left the woods. Another 24 hours. More names with faces and voices and aspirations. A lot of them she remembered seeing from their parties. A lot of stinging involved. Tanisha and Adele hadn't been on them, thankfully. Teresa had. And she was still alive.

She emerged from the woods, and in front of her, there was a building, a beautiful one. The first she had seen in her four days on the island, in fact.

To do something, anything, be it escape, or hunting players, or laying down arms, she had to find someone. She couldn't do anything on her own, after all.

She saw the building, and she entered.

[Emprexx Plush]

The creak of a body passing through the door was followed by a sharp intake of breath to the left.

Limbs shifted, one finger half-curled around the trigger of an assault rifles.

Eyes darted back and forth without comprehension, lids a barrier between the intruder and their discovery.

Blaise let out an unseemly snort and rolled their shoulders. No more.

[Maraoone]

As soon as she entered the building, Joanne felt an absence. It took her a few seconds to realize that it had been the first time in days that she'd been under a roof. The absence was that of rain constantly, consistently dropping on her skin. She should've taken the time to laugh, smile, celebrate somehow. After four days in the wilderness, Joanne found shelter. Bear Grylls is shaking, she thought to herself, lowercase, no exclamation points. She didn't feel in the mood for any more thoughts like that, right now. It didn't fit. The atmosphere here was different, she thought. Maybe a hunch, or something she'd glimpsed unconsciously.

She consciously glimpsed it again. Heard it, rather. A snort, a shuffle. There was her person, the one she needed to start, do anything.

Joanne regarded the person from her position, just a step from the threshold of the building. Red hair, teal romper. Worse choices had been made in fashion, she thought, winced at, before remembering that Kenzie's name hadn't been on the announcements. She smiled. Maybe she hadn't been swallowed by the forest just yet.

She had an eye for clothes. Style was a signifier, after all. Distinguisher. It's part of what had kept Kenzie at the forefront of her mind for so long, even if she was more an acquaintance than a friend, before the island. Try as she may to deny it, if one pressed Joanne hard enough, she would eventually admit that she did, indeed, judge a book by its cover. Remembered books by their covers.

The sleeve of the cover was on wrong. Not that this romper had sleeves, but. She had seen this romper before. But not in this context, not on this person, whoever they were. Joanne didn't know why the thought disturbed her so much, but it did. That romper didn't belong here.

The person was sleeping. She couldn't see their face, just yet. The shadows made it hard to see. Encroached upon them, it seemed.

It felt wrong, being here. As if she, too, was encroaching, intruding. Or, as if something else was lurking.

But this was where it would all begin. Escape, hunting, pacifying. All, or none of the above. And she had taken far too long to make her first step, so.

She approached.

[Emprexx Plush]

There were no dreams to distract Blaise's mind. Sleep had come too recently. Their thoughts were clear and empty. It was inconceivable that a shadow could loom over them so close without jolting them awake.

Eyes narrowed. Blinked. Perspective too high to be human.

Blaise's only response was the steady rise and fall of their chest.

[Maraoone]

Pieces of the picture fell into place as Joanne got closer.

There was a rifle in their hands. Hand in the vicinity of the trigger. Maroon scarf, with a golden border. Bold, daring. Fortune favors the bold, Joanne had told Kenzie a long time ago. She herself wouldn't have had the guts to buy such a thing, back then. It seemed a bit grandiose. Brash, in an old school bourgeoisie manner, rather than a Joanne manner. She would've liked the look, in another context.

There was also the pair of white tights, covering their legs. Teasing. Somewhat of a cabaret look. Interesting.

She'd seen this before.

And below that, sneakers. Muddied. Browned sneakers beneath a pair of clean, pristine white tights. Browned sneakers beneath a crisp romper, a luscious set of hair.

The face, she couldn't forget that. Pale skin. Cheeks to die for, jaw so sharp it could kill.

She didn't forget the face.

Muddied sneakers, clean attire.

Blaise, a tinny voice said through speakers hours ago, twice in a row.

That dress had belonged to one of the goth girls. Blaise wasn't among them.

There would be no pacifying here. Not voluntarily.

She stepped closer, enough to see the rise and fall of their chest. She laid her hands on the gun.

[Emprexx Plush]

The rise and fall paused.

Muscles tensed from shoulders to arms to fingers around the rifle, clutched in their grasp as a if a security blanket they were not quite ready to admit they had out grown.

Precious.

Vulnerable.

In this moment of temptation their head rolled to face Joanne. Their eyes did not open.

[Maraoone]

Joanne didn't notice. Blaise had looked still enough, after all. She had taken the stillness of her chest to be that of sleep, the roll of the head to be part of tossing and turning. She had seen the signs, and given them the most favorable interpretations possible. She wanted it. She wanted that gun out of a killer's hands, and into her own.

Her hands tightened around the gun. Around the barrel. A slight tug. There was no give. But their hand, it was too close. Too dangerous.

Part of her wanted to step back, rather than pull back. Her heart hammered in her chest, more than it had when she had been running from the woods. But she was right here. That something she had been searching for for so long, right in her hands. Energy coursed and pulsed and pushed and rushed through her. This was it. She couldn't walk away. She was in too deep.

She continued to pull and push the gun, trying to wiggle it out of their grasp.

[Emprexx Plush]

Inches were too generous a measure of progress. Centimeters, perhaps no more than millimeters, marked her attempts. In the mounting pressure of the moment, could either of them breathe? Had Joanne blinked since her hand found the barrel? Did any part of her move and risk discovery other than the necessary finesse of her wrist?

Blaise had no sense operating at adequate function to answer these questions.

One hand slipped off the stock.

The other moved with the lethargic weight of a dreamer. Three fingers curling around the grip as one might in half-awake awareness take a lover's hand, one hanging against the trigger's tension.

Blaise's mouth hung slightly agape. Their tongue flicked against the back of their front teeth.

[Maraoone]

Joanne stilled.

The first step to something of meaning hung off three of Blaise's fingers. One on the trigger.

Now was her chance. But, if she pulled the gun towards her, the trigger would pull. The gun was pointed toward her, she could almost see into the barrel.

She put another hand on the barrel. Both hands now on the gun. All in.

She yanked the gun sideways.

[Emprexx Plush]

The barrel flew forward. Naturally the rest of the gun came with it, pointing straight into Joanne's stomach.

Blaise was tired. A truly comfortable's night sleep had eluded them since, well, likely their first attempt at a nap on the beach. What peace Dante and Violet had disturbed would not return. A thousand threats ranging from mediocre to infinitesimal had stolen slumber from them in the nights since, one such watching from above now with unreadable intent. Joanne now found herself among those threats, though closer and clearer than most that had come before her. An uninvited thief whose burglary turned literal once she laid hands on their gun. It would be a rude awakening to jerk forward, eyes bleary and sunken, limbs heavy, drool running off their lips, to find their weapon in the hands of an incompetent whose only asset was their own fatigue. The dramatic irony was powerful. The rush Joanne must feel watching the gun come forward even with Blaise's limp form dragged along behind it must border somewhere between triumph and orgasm.

But Blaise was tired.

It was time for this game to end.

Their eyes which stirred behind their lids as soon as Joanne crept creaking past the threshold opened wide. Imagination would have to fill the sequence they did not have time to confirm; a vision of their eyes meeting Joanne's and traveling opposite paths, theirs up the barrel now firmly anchored towards her stomach and hers down the opposite way to Blaise's fingers still clinging to the rifle's grip with underestimated strength. It felt a fitting capstone for them to be the last thing she saw.

Ah, well. They could pretend it was so in recollection regardless of confirmation in the moment. It was not as if there would be conflicting accounts.

Their finger snapped snug on the trigger.

[Maraoone]

The gun went off, a bullet tore through Joanne, in pants, wheezes, came "How—" could you, "How—" dare you, "Why—," "No—," "Don't—" do this, "Don't—" kill me, but nothing was ever enough, no word could ever capture everything Joanne had to say, so after came a wordless wheeze, attempts at a scream, then a thud as she fell back, hands trying but failing to staunch the wound, flat on her ass but somehow upright, eyes wild, staring at Blaise.

[Emprexx Plush]

Anything intelligible in Joanne's babble was lost on them. Their thoughts were preoccupied with the curious state of her breath, or lack thereof. It seemed a tremendous amount of effort for an action that only grew more pathetic with each attempt. There was no hope for her. There never had been; if she had hope, she would have grasped the gun decisively, tore it from their grasp with no concern for waking them. It was not some precious jewel to be exchanged with a bag of weighted sand but a weapon, and once it was in her hands the odds would have been in her favor. In retrospect Blaise had not considered how badly this could have gone for them; it would have been wiser to shoot her as soon as they were disturbed. Kinder, too.

Not nearly as much fun, though.

What Blaise was experiencing now was a rare moment of moral high ground. In this encounter they were not the aggressor. Joanne could have just as easily turned around and left when seeing them, as many before her should have, but she did not. Not only did she choose to act but she did so selfishly, without the conviction of righteous indignation or the carelessness of grief. Her motivations had been calculated, risk averse to a fault. As they'd already concluded if she really had pried the rifle from them she would have turned and fired without another thought. Joanne was, if in intent but not act, a murderer.

Blaise could not fault her for that.

She was a thief.

Again, they were not so different.

She was a failure.

Ah, now there. There they differed.

Blaise leveled the barrel at Joanne's head, now audibly clicking their tongue against their teeth. "That sounds unpleasant. Would you like it to stop? It seems mercy has become my specialty."

[Maraoone]

Make it stop, she almost pleaded, before remembering the other connotations of mercy, merciful end, short and quick, and so she stopped herself. Her future, non-existent English degree finally coming into use, she thought—she was supposed to get an English degree, she was supposed to go to Wesleyan, she was supposed to make something of herself—she coughed, spluttered, sobbed, viscuous specks of blood spat from her lips.

That step to something pressed against the temple of her forehead, cold, she wished it would slip against her skin, downwards, graze against her arm, or hit her away from her gut, any escape, any hope, please, the wound she had could be healed, she could manage, she could stick it out, please, "Don't," she wheezed, begged voicelessly, breathlessly, hands digging deeper into the wound, leaning forward, collapsing inward, gun moving with her, pressing inward, "I- I'll go away, I won't fight back, Blaise"—the speakers said their name thrice, did they fight back, did it matter—"you don't have to do this."

[Emprexx Plush]

A motion not dissimilar to a wave of excitement in a crowded arena crested through Blaise's eyebrow, reaching its end in the standing ovation of a goal well scored. It was plain to them both that Joanne was going to die. Desperation had robbed her of much of her intelligence, but surely enough remained to know she would not stand up again. Her grief had deftly maneuvered around denial and anger to hook on bargaining, it would not remain inert for long. It was minimal kindness to allow her the dignity of pace, no? A few rounds of begging opposed by silence and she would draw conclusions herself, one singular success to take into oblivion with her. In minutes it would be all she had, they imagined.

Mm.

They did have things to do though.

C'est la vie.

Blaise nodded to the door. "You did not need to come inside. You were not held at gunpoint and told to rob me." The barrel prodded against Joanne's forehead. "We are all making choices. It is not my fault mine are correct."