Speaking of losing track; Morgan Dragosavich had to admit to himself that he wasn't much of a tracker. It had been more than an hour since he'd almost followed Michael into a danger zone, and since then, he'd not managed to pick the boy's trail up once he made his way back into safe territory. So that was great. Even better? He'd managed to get himself lost, and no longer had any reasonable idea just where the hell he was going.
An absolutely banner day for Morgan; amid what was turning out to be a real special kind of week. Hindsight being what it was, he hoped it would be a special kind of week for him. Otherwise, it would be his last.
That was a shitty thought.
((Morgan Dragosavich continued from Ninety-Nine Nights Just Means There's More He Can Find))
Once more, he found himself wandering the island, looking for any trace of his friend. He wasn't stupid; he knew exactly what kind of mental state Michael was in. The fact that he'd somehow managed to walk away from his encounter with Erika either meant that the two still had a semblance of humanity left within them, or both of his friends were further gone than he figured. His mind scrolled back to that day in the caves, that damned expedition that he'd spent nearly all semester planning out. In hindsight, it probably would have been far simpler to just write the essay, but by the time that Morgan had done all of the legwork and put everything together, he was already waist-deep. But the trip had been fun, if relatively uneventful. Jonah, Erika, Michael and Morgan were unlikely companions, but the afternoon had been full of laughs, silly jokes, and even a few genuine opportunities for learning. That was something all four of them had understood that they had in common — there were no passengers on that project. Each of them enjoyed the act of learning, and Morgan had come to think that each of them would probably be destined for great things in the future.
Hot damn, he'd been wrong.
It wasn't anything that they'd done, of course. Had their lives unfolded the way they were supposed to, he had zero doubt that his graduating class would have had some high achievers that made their way through the world in the years to come. The brainpower in Jonah's car alone that afternoon could have probably found a way to power said car, given enough time.
But instead, they were cut off, stolen away. Erika was a multiple murderer; seemingly killing without remorse. Michael — fucking Mikey Freeze — was a killer too, albeit one who was hiding just how utterly annihilated he was by the action. Morgan knew his friend well enough to know that he'd been faking being okay all of last night, but he'd tried for Morgan's sake. It was a nice gesture, but it was incredibly self-sacrificing.
He had to find Michael. If he didn't, Michael would kill again. And again. And again, until there was nothing left of him but a soulless, empty killing machine. He had to prevent that; Morgan didn't want to see his friend like that. Mike had a kind soul, was someone who cared about himself and the people around him — too much, at times.
This would destroy him, if it hadn't already.
Maybe it was futility on Morgan's part. As he wandered, he knew that there was fuck-all he could actually do. All he had to contribute were words, experiences, and things the two of them had shared. He wasn't armed, he barely had whatever supplies Camila hadn't used before she died. It probably wasn't enough.
Yet he still had to try.
To his relief, he hadn't heard Jonah's name on either side of the announcements yet. Morgan hoped that maybe he'd managed to find Arizona, and maybe the two of them were coming up with some way to cope with all of this, some way that didn't involve multiple murder or dying in a grotesque manner. With the likes of the Carters and Quinn and Blaise, Tyrell and Lorenzo running around killing people, it—
Morgan stopped in his tracks, having come to a collection of houses that he'd only just noticed as he came right up within them.
"Whoa," he muttered, surprised that he'd been in his own mind enough to completely blank on them. The other bit of surprise came from the realization that even though Bret and Wyatt Carter had robbed him and beaten the hell out of him almost immediately, the two of them somehow hadn't killed anyone yet.
"Bet that's not for lack of trying," he sighed as he paused to look at the houses. All of them looked more or less the same, and he couldn't discern any movement from the inside from where he was standing. Going inside of any of them was a risky proposition, especially considering that he was unarmed and probably looked like a strong wind would blow him over. If only he could will the eight-bit xenomorph on his shirt into existence. At least that might give him a fighting chance.
Nah. He'd seen the movies. Anyone who tried to weaponize a xenomorph inevitably ended up dead.
Why was that the conclusion for everything, lately?
The nearest house seemed unoccupied at the moment, and at this point he had to admit to himself that he'd had enough of wandering around in the rain, so it seemed as good a place as any to head toward. Eyeing the front door, he set out towards it, taking care enough that he'd hopefully see any threats coming before they could react to him.
He wasn't optimistic.
Shame, Shame Go Away, Come Again Some Other Day
Pm for entry; day 4
((Lizzie Lebowski continued from When you hurt me, you hurt yourself))
Lizzie Lebowski sat in the window of said house, sipping her water and pretending it was her living room. Little normalcy gestures like that helped. Not enough though.
After her encounter on the pier the day before, she had sought shelter from the rain. Her clothes had been laid out to dry, but not much had come of it in the humid atmosphere. She had opted to wear the still damp clothes, rather than risk someone walking in on her naked. Again. They weren’t comfortable, but it was preferable to someone seeing all her goods. Someone who wasn’t Morgan, anyway.
She let out a sigh. Even though she kept running away, she was at heart a social creature. She enjoyed a crowd to tell her jokes to, she enjoyed people to talk shop with. She enjoyed having friends around. She missed having friends around.
But at the same time, she was unharmed. She hadn’t even been attacked after the first day, and that was debatable as far as attacking went. She couldn’t deny that letting everyone else solve their problems had worked out in her favour, as far as not being shot went. She couldn’t pretend she was eager to rush in and get shot for their sake, either.
Maybe she wasn’t that good a person, after all.
She felt completely aimless. Sticking with any group had proven so hard, especially when they were pulling guns on you. The announcements made her classmates’ intentions clear. She wasn’t listening as close as she probably should have, because she felt like she’d be better off just forgetting the murderers. Whatever happened, whether she died in a ditch or got rescued or somehow wound up winning this thing, she didn’t want to bring those memories back with her. She knew her boyfriend was still out there too, but where?
She looked out the window again. Sipped at her water. Sprayed it all over the pane when she saw who was coming.
She bolted upright, knocking the chair she was sat on backwards. Her heart race as she ducked under the window, poking her head out just enough to see, as if being spotted would make Morgan vanish into thin air. There was no doubt about it.
She sank against the wall. Her heart went aflutter as she beamed.
She stopped beaming. Swallowed. What was she going to do? What was she going to say?
She stood up. Walked over to the door. Reached out to open it. Paused. Opened it anyway.
“He-“
She swallowed again.
“Hey, Morgan.”
Smiled. Suddenly she felt exhausted.
Lizzie Lebowski sat in the window of said house, sipping her water and pretending it was her living room. Little normalcy gestures like that helped. Not enough though.
After her encounter on the pier the day before, she had sought shelter from the rain. Her clothes had been laid out to dry, but not much had come of it in the humid atmosphere. She had opted to wear the still damp clothes, rather than risk someone walking in on her naked. Again. They weren’t comfortable, but it was preferable to someone seeing all her goods. Someone who wasn’t Morgan, anyway.
She let out a sigh. Even though she kept running away, she was at heart a social creature. She enjoyed a crowd to tell her jokes to, she enjoyed people to talk shop with. She enjoyed having friends around. She missed having friends around.
But at the same time, she was unharmed. She hadn’t even been attacked after the first day, and that was debatable as far as attacking went. She couldn’t deny that letting everyone else solve their problems had worked out in her favour, as far as not being shot went. She couldn’t pretend she was eager to rush in and get shot for their sake, either.
Maybe she wasn’t that good a person, after all.
She felt completely aimless. Sticking with any group had proven so hard, especially when they were pulling guns on you. The announcements made her classmates’ intentions clear. She wasn’t listening as close as she probably should have, because she felt like she’d be better off just forgetting the murderers. Whatever happened, whether she died in a ditch or got rescued or somehow wound up winning this thing, she didn’t want to bring those memories back with her. She knew her boyfriend was still out there too, but where?
She looked out the window again. Sipped at her water. Sprayed it all over the pane when she saw who was coming.
She bolted upright, knocking the chair she was sat on backwards. Her heart race as she ducked under the window, poking her head out just enough to see, as if being spotted would make Morgan vanish into thin air. There was no doubt about it.
She sank against the wall. Her heart went aflutter as she beamed.
She stopped beaming. Swallowed. What was she going to do? What was she going to say?
She stood up. Walked over to the door. Reached out to open it. Paused. Opened it anyway.
“He-“
She swallowed again.
“Hey, Morgan.”
Smiled. Suddenly she felt exhausted.
Morgan wasn't sure what surprised him more — the sudden absence of the door that he was heading towards, or the face that suddenly appeared in its stead. He stopped short, his face an expression of confusion, disbelief; nearly every emotion of that flavour ran through his body.
His injured ribs stopped aching, for a moment.
For lack of better options, he'd thought about trying to find the ones who mattered to him. Why go through hell alone, right? That was just a baser human instinct. Misery loved company, and all of them were miserable; all of them were facing the worst situation a human being could face. He'd found Michael. That had been draining for him in every way. Michael was damaged, and his best friend was a danger to himself, not to mention the people around him. Henry could have been okay, but Morgan hadn't heard anything from anyone about his rocketry-inclined pal. He was alive, so that was the important thing.
At a time, he'd considered trying to go and find Toby; his third roommate for the trip, but that decision had been made for him after the first day. Toby was dead. At this point likely decomposing somewhere, shot by his prom date. By his prom date. Which lead him to his own prom date, later his girlfriend.
Who was now staring at him from the open door.
"L—Lizzie?"
She looked damp; as though she'd been days out in the rain, but her face was unbruised, unscathed, and she may as well have been an angel. Relief was trying to flood through his body, but the callouses that the last few days had built upon his soul was making that difficult. He couldn't imagine how he looked; bruised, bloody, soaked. They'd both gone through hell, of course.
No, scratch that — they were still in it.
"You're," he stammered, "you're alive."
His voice spoke almost with confusion. Of course she was, her name hadn't sounded over the horn and he was fairly sure not to be hallucinating. Yet it still didn't seem real.
Morgan couldn't move, so he stood, basically gaping at her as the rain gently ran down the sides of his face.
His injured ribs stopped aching, for a moment.
For lack of better options, he'd thought about trying to find the ones who mattered to him. Why go through hell alone, right? That was just a baser human instinct. Misery loved company, and all of them were miserable; all of them were facing the worst situation a human being could face. He'd found Michael. That had been draining for him in every way. Michael was damaged, and his best friend was a danger to himself, not to mention the people around him. Henry could have been okay, but Morgan hadn't heard anything from anyone about his rocketry-inclined pal. He was alive, so that was the important thing.
At a time, he'd considered trying to go and find Toby; his third roommate for the trip, but that decision had been made for him after the first day. Toby was dead. At this point likely decomposing somewhere, shot by his prom date. By his prom date. Which lead him to his own prom date, later his girlfriend.
Who was now staring at him from the open door.
"L—Lizzie?"
She looked damp; as though she'd been days out in the rain, but her face was unbruised, unscathed, and she may as well have been an angel. Relief was trying to flood through his body, but the callouses that the last few days had built upon his soul was making that difficult. He couldn't imagine how he looked; bruised, bloody, soaked. They'd both gone through hell, of course.
No, scratch that — they were still in it.
"You're," he stammered, "you're alive."
His voice spoke almost with confusion. Of course she was, her name hadn't sounded over the horn and he was fairly sure not to be hallucinating. Yet it still didn't seem real.
Morgan couldn't move, so he stood, basically gaping at her as the rain gently ran down the sides of his face.
“Yeah. Yeah I am.”
She stared at him. She kept on smiling. She smiled so hard.
He was a mess. He had been through hell, she knew. She hadn’t, not by comparison.
But he was here. He was alive.
She ran towards him. Wrapped her arms around him. Started to cry.
She was just so happy.
She stared at him. She kept on smiling. She smiled so hard.
He was a mess. He had been through hell, she knew. She hadn’t, not by comparison.
But he was here. He was alive.
She ran towards him. Wrapped her arms around him. Started to cry.
She was just so happy.
For the first time in four days, someone rushed at Morgan and didn't have malice in their heart. Her arms wrapped around him; her body began to shake as she cried. For a moment, his arms hung limply down at his side. This felt foreign, it felt like it couldn't possibly be real amidst all of the violence and savagery of the last few days. He half expected her to embrace him, to pull out her weapon and coldly put three bullets into his chest. It seemed as though everyone else had eventually gotten to that point. Kill or be killed, right?
Wrong. Not now, not with her. Lizzie squeezed him as tightly as he had ever been squeezed, and after a hesitation, after finally realizing that this was real and yes, she was actually here, he reciprocated. Reaching his arms up, he squeezed back, and as though it were contagious, his own eyes started to water. Morgan had been battered, threatened, beaten, concussed, abandoned, and menaced. For days he had wandered in fear, unable to trust and barely able to concentrate because of his lack of supplies. He had been truly alone.
Now, he wasn't.
"W—we should go inside," Morgan barely managed to stammer as he struggled to maintain his composure.
He was so damned happy, which made him confused — if he were so happy, why did he feel this overwhelming sadness? Finally separating herself from his embrace, the two finally started to walk, Morgan still feeling as though he were floating on air. As he had a roof over his head once again, he felt a sense of relief. The rain had yet to stop, though it was nowhere near as bad as it had been the day before. Nonetheless, it felt good to be indoors once more. Turning to close the door behind them, Morgan took stock of the small house that his girlfriend had holed up inside of. It was nothing remarkable, and very evidently no one had been here for some time, as the decor wasn't exactly high-tech. Even still, it would do.
Turning back to Lizzie, he tried a smile. It only half-worked. Morgan was still shell-shocked; still barely believed that he'd actually found her.
"I'm so fucking glad to see you," he whispered, his eyes watering again. "I didn't know if—"
He couldn't bring that thought into the world. It had thundered through his mind for days, but he'd never said it aloud. Morgan wasn't about to do it now.
"Jesus, Lizzie," his legs weakened, giving out. Back against the door, he slowly slid down to the floor, leaving a wet stain of water in his wake. This was all too much. His emotions were still going utterly haywire, yet they felt so far away.
He simply looked up at her, somehow managing to feel both joy and dread, wrapped into one terrible little ball that was lodged in the pit of his stomach.
Wrong. Not now, not with her. Lizzie squeezed him as tightly as he had ever been squeezed, and after a hesitation, after finally realizing that this was real and yes, she was actually here, he reciprocated. Reaching his arms up, he squeezed back, and as though it were contagious, his own eyes started to water. Morgan had been battered, threatened, beaten, concussed, abandoned, and menaced. For days he had wandered in fear, unable to trust and barely able to concentrate because of his lack of supplies. He had been truly alone.
Now, he wasn't.
"W—we should go inside," Morgan barely managed to stammer as he struggled to maintain his composure.
He was so damned happy, which made him confused — if he were so happy, why did he feel this overwhelming sadness? Finally separating herself from his embrace, the two finally started to walk, Morgan still feeling as though he were floating on air. As he had a roof over his head once again, he felt a sense of relief. The rain had yet to stop, though it was nowhere near as bad as it had been the day before. Nonetheless, it felt good to be indoors once more. Turning to close the door behind them, Morgan took stock of the small house that his girlfriend had holed up inside of. It was nothing remarkable, and very evidently no one had been here for some time, as the decor wasn't exactly high-tech. Even still, it would do.
Turning back to Lizzie, he tried a smile. It only half-worked. Morgan was still shell-shocked; still barely believed that he'd actually found her.
"I'm so fucking glad to see you," he whispered, his eyes watering again. "I didn't know if—"
He couldn't bring that thought into the world. It had thundered through his mind for days, but he'd never said it aloud. Morgan wasn't about to do it now.
"Jesus, Lizzie," his legs weakened, giving out. Back against the door, he slowly slid down to the floor, leaving a wet stain of water in his wake. This was all too much. His emotions were still going utterly haywire, yet they felt so far away.
He simply looked up at her, somehow managing to feel both joy and dread, wrapped into one terrible little ball that was lodged in the pit of his stomach.
“Yeah.” She smiled down at him, wiping the tears from her own eyes.
Different follow-ups played through her head. A witty one-liner, a crack about her abode, a grim assessment of their situations. She stood there silently throughout all of it. None of them were going to come out as she looked at Morgan.
She went down to her knees and joined him, huddled against the door. He was wet and he stank and she was afraid she’d touch him somewhere tender in a bad way. But he was so warm.
“I’m so glad you made it.” She finally whispered, her head resting on his shoulder. “I didn’t want to die alone.”
She let that stay there, between them. Of all the people she could’ve ended her painfully short life with, at least it was Morgan. They’d only reconnected for a short while, but she knew she could trust him. It was better than dying in a ditch to some scumbag you never even knew, with no-one there with you to hold your hand as you waltzed off the mortal coil.
And she’d been doing so well at not imagining that, too. She squeezed his hand for reassuarance that that was no longer possible.
The two of them sat there a while longer. Lizzie finally broke the silence. The question, she realised, was one she hadn't considered up until then.
“So what do we do now?”
Different follow-ups played through her head. A witty one-liner, a crack about her abode, a grim assessment of their situations. She stood there silently throughout all of it. None of them were going to come out as she looked at Morgan.
She went down to her knees and joined him, huddled against the door. He was wet and he stank and she was afraid she’d touch him somewhere tender in a bad way. But he was so warm.
“I’m so glad you made it.” She finally whispered, her head resting on his shoulder. “I didn’t want to die alone.”
She let that stay there, between them. Of all the people she could’ve ended her painfully short life with, at least it was Morgan. They’d only reconnected for a short while, but she knew she could trust him. It was better than dying in a ditch to some scumbag you never even knew, with no-one there with you to hold your hand as you waltzed off the mortal coil.
And she’d been doing so well at not imagining that, too. She squeezed his hand for reassuarance that that was no longer possible.
The two of them sat there a while longer. Lizzie finally broke the silence. The question, she realised, was one she hadn't considered up until then.
“So what do we do now?”
She was warm; that was nice. It gave credence to the fact that he wasn't hallucinating, that Lizzie Lebowski had actually managed to survive four days of this hellish inferno that the bastards called Survival of the Fittest. Morgan was aware that there would perhaps be a bit more incredulity at the fact that he was still alive, but for now, he could give a damn what anyone else thought. The two of them had found one another, and both were still kicking.
As a bonus, it seemed like they both had somehow managed to hold on to their humanity.
Feeling Lizzie's hand in his, Morgan felt nothing but guilt at his own good fortune. Finding her had been one of his first goals, the first thing that he had wanted to do aside from coming up with an honest-to-goodness escape plan and jettisoning himself away from wherever they were in the world where people turned a blind eye to the murder of innocent teenagers and supplied monsters with the weaponry and resources to do so.
It hadn't taken very long for him to understand that such a concept was not only highly unlikely, but incredibly dangerous. Other things had to be put towards the forefront — his own health and safety being paramount. As soon as he'd run into the Carters, all of his fears and his plans had been knocked from his head, courtesy of a gigantic boot and a beefy fist. Yet as he sat here, his girlfriend interlacing her fingers with his, she said the magic words, and instantly, his mind went to escape once more.
She didn't want to die alone. Words of someone who had given up; someone who had accepted that this was it. Morgan was in the ballpark, but as the proverbial gate was standing before him, he slammed the door shut. He wasn't ready to go.
He wasn't ready to die.
Lizzie squeezed his hand, probably sensing his anguish or his exhaustion — or both, in an attempt to make him feel better. It barely worked, but something was better than nothing.
"We don't die," he whispered, a frog caught in his throat as he broke his own silence. "There has to be a way — something. I don't know. We need to find people who could help, people who are smart. Henry, Micha—"
Morgan caught himself.
"Michael; dammit," he breathed.
Finally turning his head and looking at his girlfriend, Morgan's eyes glistened with the kind of pain that one felt in a time of loss. He hadn't lost his friend — not completely, but Michael may have truly gone and lost himself.
"We need to find Michael," Morgan whispered, knowing full well what kind of a reaction Lizzie would have to the proposal to find a killer. "I have to help him, before it's too late."
As a bonus, it seemed like they both had somehow managed to hold on to their humanity.
Feeling Lizzie's hand in his, Morgan felt nothing but guilt at his own good fortune. Finding her had been one of his first goals, the first thing that he had wanted to do aside from coming up with an honest-to-goodness escape plan and jettisoning himself away from wherever they were in the world where people turned a blind eye to the murder of innocent teenagers and supplied monsters with the weaponry and resources to do so.
It hadn't taken very long for him to understand that such a concept was not only highly unlikely, but incredibly dangerous. Other things had to be put towards the forefront — his own health and safety being paramount. As soon as he'd run into the Carters, all of his fears and his plans had been knocked from his head, courtesy of a gigantic boot and a beefy fist. Yet as he sat here, his girlfriend interlacing her fingers with his, she said the magic words, and instantly, his mind went to escape once more.
She didn't want to die alone. Words of someone who had given up; someone who had accepted that this was it. Morgan was in the ballpark, but as the proverbial gate was standing before him, he slammed the door shut. He wasn't ready to go.
He wasn't ready to die.
Lizzie squeezed his hand, probably sensing his anguish or his exhaustion — or both, in an attempt to make him feel better. It barely worked, but something was better than nothing.
"We don't die," he whispered, a frog caught in his throat as he broke his own silence. "There has to be a way — something. I don't know. We need to find people who could help, people who are smart. Henry, Micha—"
Morgan caught himself.
"Michael; dammit," he breathed.
Finally turning his head and looking at his girlfriend, Morgan's eyes glistened with the kind of pain that one felt in a time of loss. He hadn't lost his friend — not completely, but Michael may have truly gone and lost himself.
"We need to find Michael," Morgan whispered, knowing full well what kind of a reaction Lizzie would have to the proposal to find a killer. "I have to help him, before it's too late."
Lizzie held Morgan closer. “Of course we’re not going to die. But if I did die, I’m just glad it won’t be alone. Because now you’re here, and you won’t leave me, right?”
She felt his heart beating in her ear. They were both still alive. “I don’t want to die. I’m just glad you’re here. And we can find –“
She pulled back.
“Wait, Michael? As in Michael Froese? The one who was on the announcement this morning? Who won the best murder prize?”
She looked at Morgan, trying to see if he was just messing with her. Her lip curled as it became clear he was not. He did not have the face of someone who was likely to mess around any time soon. Her heart sank in an awkward fashion, because going after a player was not high on her list of things she wanted to do today.
“I get that he’s your friend, and that’s ok, but if he’s playing then it might be dangerous to go find him. And I really don’t want you to have the wrong idea about my wanting to stay alive…”
She squeezed his hand again. “Can’t we just forget about him? We can trust each other, you know. I hope you trust me.”
She felt his heart beating in her ear. They were both still alive. “I don’t want to die. I’m just glad you’re here. And we can find –“
She pulled back.
“Wait, Michael? As in Michael Froese? The one who was on the announcement this morning? Who won the best murder prize?”
She looked at Morgan, trying to see if he was just messing with her. Her lip curled as it became clear he was not. He did not have the face of someone who was likely to mess around any time soon. Her heart sank in an awkward fashion, because going after a player was not high on her list of things she wanted to do today.
“I get that he’s your friend, and that’s ok, but if he’s playing then it might be dangerous to go find him. And I really don’t want you to have the wrong idea about my wanting to stay alive…”
She squeezed his hand again. “Can’t we just forget about him? We can trust each other, you know. I hope you trust me.”
"Can't we just— I," Morgan withdrew his hand from Lizzie's, using it to pinch the bridge of his nose. It wasn't a surprise that Michael's name would draw that sort of reaction, particularly from people who didn't know him all that well. Lizzie likely didn't. He was incredibly glad that she was here, he trusted her, and yet...
"Of course I trust you. It's not that, not at all. It's just," Morgan hesitated, his voice cracking a little, "Michael's my best friend. I know what he's done. I know it's... it's all kinds of fucked up, but I, he," Morgan trailed off. The worst part about it was that he knew she was right. Going after Michael was a stupid idea, and staying here might have been the smartest thing to do at the moment.
Grabbing her hand again, he looked into her eyes. They were wide, the affection clearly visible. He felt safe with her, the rain quietly fading away as it slowly let up over the course of the afternoon. For just a second, he forgot where they were. It was just the two of them, alone in time. Morgan wanted this moment to last; he didn't want it to end.
But he couldn't help himself.
"I found him," he rasped, "yesterday, after it happened. He was rambling, talking crazy. Camila killed herself by his hand, she," Morgan could barely find it in himself to say the words.
"She asked him to kill her. Mike's always been easy to get to do stuff, you just have to," he sighed, ashamed at the manipulation he was exposing within himself. Lizzie would likely think less of him, but this was the truth. Right now it didn't seem worth glossing over it. "He's gentle, he's kind. But if you peer pressure him, guilt-trip him, well..."
Morgan reached out and grasped Lizzie's shoulder with his other arm. This was important to him; as important as finding her had been. He was overjoyed to have come across her safe and sound, but this was bigger than his immediate safety. This was about legacy.
"Michael's convinced himself that he's broken, that he's evil. He'll cast himself as the bad guy, he'll try and play the part, but that's not who he is. It's just a way of punishing himself for what he's done. I can't let him do that to himself. It's," his head sank.
"I don't want to die either, Lizzie. But I can't let my friend destroy himself."
Completely torn, he knew that his girlfriend was probably terrified in her own right. While she looked none the worse for wear, she had undoubtedly seen some things over the course of her own journey. He hadn't even asked her how her own hell had gone, hadn't explained to her the beatings he'd endured or the bodies he'd seen. He was still hungry, his stomach barely full from Camila's supplies.
Yet he had a purpose. A purpose that in all likelihood, would get him killed. Morgan didn't want his purpose to be Lizzie's undoing. Overcome by emotion, he hid his face in his hands. So much for being the strong, rock-solid boyfriend.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted through tears.
"Of course I trust you. It's not that, not at all. It's just," Morgan hesitated, his voice cracking a little, "Michael's my best friend. I know what he's done. I know it's... it's all kinds of fucked up, but I, he," Morgan trailed off. The worst part about it was that he knew she was right. Going after Michael was a stupid idea, and staying here might have been the smartest thing to do at the moment.
Grabbing her hand again, he looked into her eyes. They were wide, the affection clearly visible. He felt safe with her, the rain quietly fading away as it slowly let up over the course of the afternoon. For just a second, he forgot where they were. It was just the two of them, alone in time. Morgan wanted this moment to last; he didn't want it to end.
But he couldn't help himself.
"I found him," he rasped, "yesterday, after it happened. He was rambling, talking crazy. Camila killed herself by his hand, she," Morgan could barely find it in himself to say the words.
"She asked him to kill her. Mike's always been easy to get to do stuff, you just have to," he sighed, ashamed at the manipulation he was exposing within himself. Lizzie would likely think less of him, but this was the truth. Right now it didn't seem worth glossing over it. "He's gentle, he's kind. But if you peer pressure him, guilt-trip him, well..."
Morgan reached out and grasped Lizzie's shoulder with his other arm. This was important to him; as important as finding her had been. He was overjoyed to have come across her safe and sound, but this was bigger than his immediate safety. This was about legacy.
"Michael's convinced himself that he's broken, that he's evil. He'll cast himself as the bad guy, he'll try and play the part, but that's not who he is. It's just a way of punishing himself for what he's done. I can't let him do that to himself. It's," his head sank.
"I don't want to die either, Lizzie. But I can't let my friend destroy himself."
Completely torn, he knew that his girlfriend was probably terrified in her own right. While she looked none the worse for wear, she had undoubtedly seen some things over the course of her own journey. He hadn't even asked her how her own hell had gone, hadn't explained to her the beatings he'd endured or the bodies he'd seen. He was still hungry, his stomach barely full from Camila's supplies.
Yet he had a purpose. A purpose that in all likelihood, would get him killed. Morgan didn't want his purpose to be Lizzie's undoing. Overcome by emotion, he hid his face in his hands. So much for being the strong, rock-solid boyfriend.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted through tears.
Lizzie pushed her face into Morgan’s, kissing him deeply. She was crying too, she realised.
“Then, let’s do it together.” She whispered, as she pulled back. She was smiling again, even as she cried.
“I don’t want to die, I don’t want you to die, let’s neither of us die, ok? Let’s both live forever. Let’s live forever like this, and get married, and have babies and all that stuff. Let’s never die, ok? Please?”
She kissed him again. It was the only way she could deal.
“Then, let’s do it together.” She whispered, as she pulled back. She was smiling again, even as she cried.
“I don’t want to die, I don’t want you to die, let’s neither of us die, ok? Let’s both live forever. Let’s live forever like this, and get married, and have babies and all that stuff. Let’s never die, ok? Please?”
She kissed him again. It was the only way she could deal.
"Let's never die, okay? Please?"
It was a nice sentiment, Morgan considered through his tears, and while he'd have given absolutely anything in the world — an arm, his left nut, all of the Carters in Chattanooga — for it to be true, he knew that the odds were astronomically against them. Lizzie knew that. She had to. Her fear was dictating her mind right now; his own loss of control had shattered her fragile feelings of safety, but deep down inside, Morgan had been through too much to walk around with boundless optimism any longer. He had seen the look in Michael's eyes in the storeroom of the Commissary; he had listened to the awful, downcast words that came from his mouth. Michael Froese was one of the more measured, deliberate people he knew, and it had taken this horrible game less than a day to shatter all of that and send him into a miserable insanity.
If it could do that to Michael, what hope did the rest of them have?
Looking up through his tears, Morgan bolstered himself and mustered up some semblance of a smile. He didn't have a choice.
"Speak for yourself, Lizzie. I plan to live forever."
Gallows humour? Maybe. It was ripped directly from an old science-fiction movie that Henry had talked he and Ross into watching. The other two seemed to enjoy it more than he did, but that one scene stuck in his mind. The two men stood amidst the rubble of their starship; their home. After all of the hell they'd experienced, they still had to move forward and pick up the pieces. The Captain, an older man — Sir Patrick Stewart, if he wasn't mistaken — was wistfully talking about time. His second officer was a tall, jovial man with a beard, and he'd made the quip. It had been a great way to end the movie, and he'd always wondered if that were the way that successful people lived their lives. If one never believed they were going to die, they could live life at their own pace, they could accomplish whatever they needed to without feeling like time was running out.
As he looked at Lizzie's tear-streaked face, he considered his own words. Maybe that was how he needed to play this. Death was a companion, it was always lurking around. It took one push of a button somewhere or a mix-up of radio waves and the collars around their necks would explode and put them out of their misery. He'd almost forgotten about the collar, but it was true. They could die at any time, and the mortality rate of Survival of the Fittest was probably above 90%.
So why should he worry about that? The important thing was what he did before he was gone. Look after Lizzie; that was a good one. She was here, she was okay. Find his friends — Henry would have at least a plan in mind, no doubt.
Save Michael.
Michael needed to be saved from himself. The more his pal let himself pretend that he was a bad person, the further away from the good that Morgan knew to be inside of him he would go, and the more he would hate himself.
So that was that. He may not have been able to prevent his own death, but maybe he had the courage to do some good before he went. What was the old saying? His mother had hung it in the bathroom of their main floor washroom. It had been a decoration, something he'd barely remembered was there, but the words came to him forcefully.
"Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can't change," he sniffled and wiped some of his tears away, "the courage to change the things I can and wisdom," he stopped, and looked at Lizzie with a more fully realized smile.
"Wisdom to know the difference. That's not important anymore; worrying about how much time we have left. What's important is what we do with it."
He kissed her. It seemed like the right thing to do.
It was.
It was a nice sentiment, Morgan considered through his tears, and while he'd have given absolutely anything in the world — an arm, his left nut, all of the Carters in Chattanooga — for it to be true, he knew that the odds were astronomically against them. Lizzie knew that. She had to. Her fear was dictating her mind right now; his own loss of control had shattered her fragile feelings of safety, but deep down inside, Morgan had been through too much to walk around with boundless optimism any longer. He had seen the look in Michael's eyes in the storeroom of the Commissary; he had listened to the awful, downcast words that came from his mouth. Michael Froese was one of the more measured, deliberate people he knew, and it had taken this horrible game less than a day to shatter all of that and send him into a miserable insanity.
If it could do that to Michael, what hope did the rest of them have?
Looking up through his tears, Morgan bolstered himself and mustered up some semblance of a smile. He didn't have a choice.
"Speak for yourself, Lizzie. I plan to live forever."
Gallows humour? Maybe. It was ripped directly from an old science-fiction movie that Henry had talked he and Ross into watching. The other two seemed to enjoy it more than he did, but that one scene stuck in his mind. The two men stood amidst the rubble of their starship; their home. After all of the hell they'd experienced, they still had to move forward and pick up the pieces. The Captain, an older man — Sir Patrick Stewart, if he wasn't mistaken — was wistfully talking about time. His second officer was a tall, jovial man with a beard, and he'd made the quip. It had been a great way to end the movie, and he'd always wondered if that were the way that successful people lived their lives. If one never believed they were going to die, they could live life at their own pace, they could accomplish whatever they needed to without feeling like time was running out.
As he looked at Lizzie's tear-streaked face, he considered his own words. Maybe that was how he needed to play this. Death was a companion, it was always lurking around. It took one push of a button somewhere or a mix-up of radio waves and the collars around their necks would explode and put them out of their misery. He'd almost forgotten about the collar, but it was true. They could die at any time, and the mortality rate of Survival of the Fittest was probably above 90%.
So why should he worry about that? The important thing was what he did before he was gone. Look after Lizzie; that was a good one. She was here, she was okay. Find his friends — Henry would have at least a plan in mind, no doubt.
Save Michael.
Michael needed to be saved from himself. The more his pal let himself pretend that he was a bad person, the further away from the good that Morgan knew to be inside of him he would go, and the more he would hate himself.
So that was that. He may not have been able to prevent his own death, but maybe he had the courage to do some good before he went. What was the old saying? His mother had hung it in the bathroom of their main floor washroom. It had been a decoration, something he'd barely remembered was there, but the words came to him forcefully.
"Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can't change," he sniffled and wiped some of his tears away, "the courage to change the things I can and wisdom," he stopped, and looked at Lizzie with a more fully realized smile.
"Wisdom to know the difference. That's not important anymore; worrying about how much time we have left. What's important is what we do with it."
He kissed her. It seemed like the right thing to do.
It was.
Lizzie let the kiss finish, looking Morgan in his sweet blue eyes.
“You big dork.” She laughed, smiling. Happy. She punched him, very softly, in the shoulder.
She didn’t like thinking about limited time. Actually, she preferred to ignore it. Did she consider herself a ‘live in the moment’ sort of person? Perhaps this was the best time to find out. Well, really, it was by default.
As long as the moment had Morgan in it, it wouldn’t be so bad. Not unless someone came at her with a chainsaw, she supposed.
“We can go look for Michael, if you really want. It’s not like there’s much else to do anyway. Not unless you want to just make fun of the announcements and make out until someone blows our brains out. Only after we got the drop on him though, and I hedge clippered his fingers off or something.”
She sunk to his side, exhaling the morbid nonsense while she rested her head on his shoulder. Both their backs were against the door, and she grabbed his hand again with her own, rubbing his fingers. His knuckles were firm and rough, and they felt wonderful.
“Could we stay here today though? I’d like it if we could have at least one more night together, just the two of us. Let’s just pretend that we could’ve done this for real, for a lot longer than we had.”
“You big dork.” She laughed, smiling. Happy. She punched him, very softly, in the shoulder.
She didn’t like thinking about limited time. Actually, she preferred to ignore it. Did she consider herself a ‘live in the moment’ sort of person? Perhaps this was the best time to find out. Well, really, it was by default.
As long as the moment had Morgan in it, it wouldn’t be so bad. Not unless someone came at her with a chainsaw, she supposed.
“We can go look for Michael, if you really want. It’s not like there’s much else to do anyway. Not unless you want to just make fun of the announcements and make out until someone blows our brains out. Only after we got the drop on him though, and I hedge clippered his fingers off or something.”
She sunk to his side, exhaling the morbid nonsense while she rested her head on his shoulder. Both their backs were against the door, and she grabbed his hand again with her own, rubbing his fingers. His knuckles were firm and rough, and they felt wonderful.
“Could we stay here today though? I’d like it if we could have at least one more night together, just the two of us. Let’s just pretend that we could’ve done this for real, for a lot longer than we had.”
Lizzie hadn't changed; thank fucking God for that. Through days of running into people who were guided by their fear or altered by their circumstances, it was reassuring to know that some things never changed. For a long while, he thought she had. They'd been friends, once upon a time. She had tried to change, for a long while. In the end, it hadn't mattered. They had come together at the most opportune of inopportune times, what would undoubtedly be the end for both of them. Morgan was glad that things had happened as they had, happy that he could say that through it all, he'd experienced at least a few of the things that Survival of the Fittest was prone to deny others.
"Yeah, I'd like that."
There was so much more he wanted to say, to explain about just why going after Michael was important to him, but those thoughts could wait until later. That quest would undoubtedly get them both killed; he knew that. He was resigned to it — five days through hell, and he still possessed enough brainpower to know that even with the unlikeliest of odds as the two of them probably had, getting close wouldn't count for anything. Close, as his mother occasionally said, only counted with horse-shoes and hand grenades.
Here on death island, close still meant that in the end, you were dead. Not kind of dead. Not a little dead. Just plain dead.
"You never know, right? We could have ended up married, with a whole bunch of little gremlins running around."
A future that would never; could never come to pass.
"Old and decrepit, grumbling and mumbling about the way things used to be, about how in our day, we only had touch-screens, none of this newfangled holo-technology."
Memories were all they had, imagination of a lost future and the legacy that they left behind. He wouldn't let his own demise be in vain. Morgan outright refused to let that be his destiny.
"I'm glad you're still you," he started, looking into her eyes once more. He smiled.
Kissed her again.
This time, they didn't stop.
If each day could be their last, what did they have to lose?
The announcement was a rude awakening for both of them, and as he rolled over in the old bed that miraculously still had a pair of musty sheets on it, he forgot — just for a moment — where he was. For that moment, he could have been in Lizzie's house, in his (though realistically, his father would not have approved of such chicanery), or even back in the Washington hotel. They could have been anywhere but here, laying together as most couples did.
Most couples were not fitted with explosive collars, however. Most couples would live to see their nineteenth birthdays.
They weren't most couples, he supposed, and moved to pull her in close as the list of the damned made itself known.
"Yeah, I'd like that."
There was so much more he wanted to say, to explain about just why going after Michael was important to him, but those thoughts could wait until later. That quest would undoubtedly get them both killed; he knew that. He was resigned to it — five days through hell, and he still possessed enough brainpower to know that even with the unlikeliest of odds as the two of them probably had, getting close wouldn't count for anything. Close, as his mother occasionally said, only counted with horse-shoes and hand grenades.
Here on death island, close still meant that in the end, you were dead. Not kind of dead. Not a little dead. Just plain dead.
"You never know, right? We could have ended up married, with a whole bunch of little gremlins running around."
A future that would never; could never come to pass.
"Old and decrepit, grumbling and mumbling about the way things used to be, about how in our day, we only had touch-screens, none of this newfangled holo-technology."
Memories were all they had, imagination of a lost future and the legacy that they left behind. He wouldn't let his own demise be in vain. Morgan outright refused to let that be his destiny.
"I'm glad you're still you," he started, looking into her eyes once more. He smiled.
Kissed her again.
This time, they didn't stop.
If each day could be their last, what did they have to lose?
The announcement was a rude awakening for both of them, and as he rolled over in the old bed that miraculously still had a pair of musty sheets on it, he forgot — just for a moment — where he was. For that moment, he could have been in Lizzie's house, in his (though realistically, his father would not have approved of such chicanery), or even back in the Washington hotel. They could have been anywhere but here, laying together as most couples did.
Most couples were not fitted with explosive collars, however. Most couples would live to see their nineteenth birthdays.
They weren't most couples, he supposed, and moved to pull her in close as the list of the damned made itself known.
Lizzie kept her head rested on the bed as the announcement began, moving in closer to Morgan. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the upcoming obituaries. “Wouldn’t it be great if his jokes were actually, you know, funny?”
She recognised the repeat offenders, like Blaise and Quinn. Both guilty of the offense of butchering her classmates, and probably about to butcher her and Morgan too if they bumped into each other. Another day in paradise.
Saffron, the kind girl she’d ran into after that little unpleasantry on the first day, was dead. She hadn’t died alone, from the sound of it. That was little comfort. She felt Morgan’s chest under her palm, coarse with chest hair and his heart beating beneath. At least he was still alive. She hoped that she never felt him otherwise. Prayed, even.
She acknowledged the implication of that. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the idea of dying before Morgan. It wasn’t the case that she wanted to die before him; she wanted neither of them to die. She could still cling on to some hope that maybe a miracle would find them. Maybe they’d just convince the terrorists with their sugary sweet love to let them both live. Maybe they’d just get to fuck them all up and go home.
Maybe was nice.
The announcement wrapped up, and she looked up at Morgan. “Sounds like Michael’s still alive, and he didn’t kill anyone. That’s good, right?”
She recognised the repeat offenders, like Blaise and Quinn. Both guilty of the offense of butchering her classmates, and probably about to butcher her and Morgan too if they bumped into each other. Another day in paradise.
Saffron, the kind girl she’d ran into after that little unpleasantry on the first day, was dead. She hadn’t died alone, from the sound of it. That was little comfort. She felt Morgan’s chest under her palm, coarse with chest hair and his heart beating beneath. At least he was still alive. She hoped that she never felt him otherwise. Prayed, even.
She acknowledged the implication of that. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the idea of dying before Morgan. It wasn’t the case that she wanted to die before him; she wanted neither of them to die. She could still cling on to some hope that maybe a miracle would find them. Maybe they’d just convince the terrorists with their sugary sweet love to let them both live. Maybe they’d just get to fuck them all up and go home.
Maybe was nice.
The announcement wrapped up, and she looked up at Morgan. “Sounds like Michael’s still alive, and he didn’t kill anyone. That’s good, right?”
This never got any easier to listen to. Name after name, event after event, the terrorists almost seemed like they were bored. Danya sounded as though this were par for the fucking course, reading the names off like they were last week's grocery list. Every morning he had to listen to the list of the dead, it felt like a stabbing pain deep in his chest. Morgan wasn't the most popular kid in school, but dammit — he knew so many.
His mind went back to that day in the library, where he'd sat with Julien and Alton, going over whom in their class could be a hidden serial killer, who had dark secrets, or who was likely to run off and become president. He was pretty sure that between Alton and he, neither of them would have picked Julien to be the first one at the table to be capable of committing a murder. Lucky for Alton, he probably didn't expect that he'd be the last one alive by Christmas.
It was more of the same as it had been; Blaise and Quinn had evidently decided that a murderous rampage was far simpler than trying to fight for your life and stay hidden, and at the amount of kills both were racking up, it was almost like they were enjoying it. Them, and — Morgan felt that stabbing pain again. Erika had been his friend. They'd done that project together in the caves, Michael had been there, Jonah too. He'd always figured Erika was hippy-adjacent, so to imagine that she was murdering people left and right, it was — he had to shut his eyes as he listened. It was awful.
He'd figured that was the awful part, but the last two names on the list caused him more grief than he'd been ready for.
Ariana Moretti hadn't been someone that he was overly friendly with outside of the trip, but he'd helped her out when Ross; someone he was friends with, had gotten laid up and missed the trip. They were dating, and he'd spread the word that she wanted to bombard his social media pages with well-wishes and photos, almost give the guy the experience like he'd been there with all of the rest of them. Morgan was really glad that he wasn't. That shoulder injury had saved his life. On the other hand, he now got the unpleasant duty of watching all of his friends die — a fate for which his girlfriend had evidently succumbed. The terrorists were light on specifics, but if a chainsaw were involved, well. He tried to blink away tears. They'd spoken, right before the bus had left for Tennessee. He had thanked her for being a cool girlfriend to his buddy, a weird gesture, but Morgan had been shocked at some of the great gossip that Ross had given them when they'd spoken, shit he didn't even know about. He'd been so happy.
Morgan wondered if Ross would ever be happy again.
Finally, the wind was knocked completely out of him when it turned out that Lucas Brady; fucking Facefuck Lucas goddamn Brady had decided that he'd had enough of being the school punching bag, and had gone after Andy. He'd gone after him, and gotten him. Which was concerning, considering that Andy had been the one not to kick Brady when he'd been down. If Lucas was going after those who had wronged him...
"Oh fuck," he whispered out loud.
Lizzie had said something about silver linings, but Morgan was too busy sorting through it in his mind to really hear her. Andy had helped him out after the Carters had beat the hell out of him. Andy was a good guy, who had just gotten fed up with all of it and left him behind. Morgan felt guilty — was this on him? Was Andy Silverman's death because he'd freaked out and kicked Lucas Brady in the ribs?
"Lizzie, I," he choked on the word, clearing his throat. "I may have, uh, I may have done something."
Ominous, for sure. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he let his head sink down into the pillow.
"I think Lucas Brady is coming to kill me."
A ridiculous statement; one that wouldn't strike fear into anyone's heart, and yet Andy was dead, so maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all.
His mind went back to that day in the library, where he'd sat with Julien and Alton, going over whom in their class could be a hidden serial killer, who had dark secrets, or who was likely to run off and become president. He was pretty sure that between Alton and he, neither of them would have picked Julien to be the first one at the table to be capable of committing a murder. Lucky for Alton, he probably didn't expect that he'd be the last one alive by Christmas.
It was more of the same as it had been; Blaise and Quinn had evidently decided that a murderous rampage was far simpler than trying to fight for your life and stay hidden, and at the amount of kills both were racking up, it was almost like they were enjoying it. Them, and — Morgan felt that stabbing pain again. Erika had been his friend. They'd done that project together in the caves, Michael had been there, Jonah too. He'd always figured Erika was hippy-adjacent, so to imagine that she was murdering people left and right, it was — he had to shut his eyes as he listened. It was awful.
He'd figured that was the awful part, but the last two names on the list caused him more grief than he'd been ready for.
Ariana Moretti hadn't been someone that he was overly friendly with outside of the trip, but he'd helped her out when Ross; someone he was friends with, had gotten laid up and missed the trip. They were dating, and he'd spread the word that she wanted to bombard his social media pages with well-wishes and photos, almost give the guy the experience like he'd been there with all of the rest of them. Morgan was really glad that he wasn't. That shoulder injury had saved his life. On the other hand, he now got the unpleasant duty of watching all of his friends die — a fate for which his girlfriend had evidently succumbed. The terrorists were light on specifics, but if a chainsaw were involved, well. He tried to blink away tears. They'd spoken, right before the bus had left for Tennessee. He had thanked her for being a cool girlfriend to his buddy, a weird gesture, but Morgan had been shocked at some of the great gossip that Ross had given them when they'd spoken, shit he didn't even know about. He'd been so happy.
Morgan wondered if Ross would ever be happy again.
Finally, the wind was knocked completely out of him when it turned out that Lucas Brady; fucking Facefuck Lucas goddamn Brady had decided that he'd had enough of being the school punching bag, and had gone after Andy. He'd gone after him, and gotten him. Which was concerning, considering that Andy had been the one not to kick Brady when he'd been down. If Lucas was going after those who had wronged him...
"Oh fuck," he whispered out loud.
Lizzie had said something about silver linings, but Morgan was too busy sorting through it in his mind to really hear her. Andy had helped him out after the Carters had beat the hell out of him. Andy was a good guy, who had just gotten fed up with all of it and left him behind. Morgan felt guilty — was this on him? Was Andy Silverman's death because he'd freaked out and kicked Lucas Brady in the ribs?
"Lizzie, I," he choked on the word, clearing his throat. "I may have, uh, I may have done something."
Ominous, for sure. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he let his head sink down into the pillow.
"I think Lucas Brady is coming to kill me."
A ridiculous statement; one that wouldn't strike fear into anyone's heart, and yet Andy was dead, so maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all.