Alone again.
(Dhairyalakshmi Bhatia continued from Code of Honor)
Alone again, but different this time. A choice was made in good faith
(faith, ha! You're still funny!)
when you and Aliya parted ways with Tony's corpse behind you and the rising dawn to light your way, separated by space and bound by common cause. You were going to help You felt something like purpose, like clarity, like meaning, like inspiration. You felt alive, like you did when you calmed the demons in Carrie's reflected gaze, and dueled with Quinn about meaning and purpose and leashes and collars.
(Heavy as the setting sun...counting down the numbers between zero and one...)
You've got the old creative feeling flowing once again, like your brain is a thunderstorm crackling with bolts of inspiration, the winds churning your thoughts so you feel giddy with it. So what if the word "collars" made you jerk your hand up to the bomb around your neck? You're only human, and you know the stakes, and you might be dynamite but no star was ever born who could be perfect 24 hours a day. Let the storm build. Let it take you where it will.
And it takes you, step by winding step, back to the houses where you woke up. But that feels too final, like a last journey
(like Bilbo, maybe? No, not quite. Who are you thinking of?)
so instead you go to the Manor, as dusk begins to paint the place scarlet. You move, quietly but surely, not trying to sneak around, not trying to be so loud that the killers of the world (the Tirzah Fosses and the Erika Stieglitzes and all the rest) know you're coming. Trying to walk that fine line, like walking through a forest at night.
But when you see the broken lamp, and the crusted blood and vomit, and the deitrus and debris of some tragedy you don't understand, you reel back without thinking, and you try to make a joke-
(No, no, of course the big fancy house on nightmare island has a fucking murder mystery inside)
-but all you really way is to get away, staggering blindly as dusk begins to turn to proper twilight, off the circuitous route you took to avoid the overgrown gardens-
Chance reflection of dying light on a reflective surface. You blink, feel thought again. You approach slowly, your throat even drier than normal. Not sure why its shining, but you don't like that shape. You don't-
Your feet make contact with something solid. You stagger backwards, blinking down in consternation until you make out the bloated corpseface obscured by dirt.
You do not stagger this time. You do not scream, or run. You stare down at the corpse for a long time. You lift your head slowly towards the other shape, covered in leaves and shining silver.
You turn slowly, and head through the gardens. You find the house where you woke up--the house where you first decided you were going to beat and break this game that keeps killing everyone around you. You walk inside, and sit on a dusty, dilapidated armchair, and look out the window, watching night settle heavily across the island where you're going to die.
You're going to die.
You're going to die.
You're going to die.
All Eyes On We
open
All Eyes On We
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
I'm going to die.
It's dumb. Daria knows it's dumb. She's been reminder herself of that fact, day in and day out. Playing careless in the face of Carrie's crazy and Quinn's murderous madness, swaggering in to standoffs as though she has no fear of bullets. She's been flirting with death, teasing it, toying with it, pretending that all these games mean that she's somehow immune to it. But Danya's words have stayed with you since this morning, and if Aliya's example gave you courage enough to carry on, the blood and the bile and the bodies have managed to put that courage on ice.
I'm going to die.
She'd always known that, of course. She was conscious of it, the way she assumed everyone was conscious of it. Living meant dying. You see that the first time you lose a pet, or spray poison on intrusive ants crawling on the outside of your window, or hear about this old family friend dying, this old teacher passing, this high school senior dying in a car wreck while you're in school. And Daria saw it all the time, in the movies and shows she devoured. In found footage horror, in documentaries and documentaries, in zombie flicks and video games and plays from the most modern to the most ancient. Read a little Antigone, and see how well we reckon with death.
But knowing it is not quite the same thing as believing it. As understanding that one day you'll wriggle like dying ant as the poison takes you. That one day it'll be your broken body wheezing and gasping in the car wreck. That one day, even if you beat the odds and live nearly a century, your stinking corpse will fill the humid house in Indore, and your great grand daughter will look into your bloated face, and finally believe that she, too, will die.
There's no escaping it. There's no avoiding it. Those visions of corpses are real. You're going to be one of them. Your blood will coat that house. Your body will lie forgotten in an overgrown garden.
I'm going to die.
And alone in the house where she'd once sworn she wouldn't give her captors the satisfaction of crying, Daria Bhatia burst into tears. Huge, childlike, wracking sobs, a wail of grief rising up against the ceiling, burying her face in her dirty hands and shuddering with sadness.
It was a game, all a game, not just the murdering but Daria herself, always a game, trying to play pretend, to cling to any illusion of life. Like talking to Crazy Carrie, dancing with her demons, trying to act like she didn't scare you. Like arguing with Quinn, toying with a killer, baring her back to a murderer to show she was unafraid. Like shouting insults at the captors who had welded a bomb to her neck, daring them to pull the trigger.
Playing chicken with death, except you couldn't play chicken with death, you couldn't, because death was always coming for you and it wasn't going to stop and you were never charging towards it but to one side, pretending that one day you'd charge towards it, pretending that made you fearless, pretending, pretending, pretending.
Sobbing, louder and harder. Face sticky with tears trickling through the dust. Sobbing because you don't know where Carrie's body is, or how she died. Sobbing because you're sure Quinn died the same way she lived, wild and rabid like she was born for this. Sobbing because you barely got to talk to Tony before he died in his sleep.
Sobbing because you don't know how you're going to die, just that you're going to. That however this ends, whether you take your shot or not, your broken, bloody corpse is going to lie ignoble on this island, all alone.
I don't want to die.
Whoa, careful there, Daria! The Academy's not gonna give you an award for such an original take!
And Daria, in the middle of one of those rasping, trembling sobs, gives a gurgle that's almost a laugh, and the sound is so bizarre that she laughs again, harder, and soon she's just laughing, roaring with laughter in an empty house and who knows how many corpses nearby, her face still slick with tears as moonlight peeks in from the nearby window. Laughing and sobbing and aching, until at last the laughter dies and Daria is alone in a quiet house, looking out the window again.
I don't want to die.
How could you, when life was so sweet? The taste of her father's dahi bade, the delirious energy of wild dancing, the feel of sunlight on her skin or new lips against hers, the electric giddiness of performing (on stage or in front of a camera), the confidence and clarity of arguing with her mother over programming languages, the intellectual grandeur of flummoxing an opponent with a mathematical solution, so many memories and so many more she still wanted to make and she wasn't going to.
Your dreams are dead. You'll never stand on a stage in New York. You'll never own a poster from a movie you were in. Hell, even your fears are dead: you'll never be a programmer or a mathematician. You'll never follow your mother's path, or yours. Your path ends here, on this island. It doesn't matter what you want; you're going to die. Like Carrie. Like Quinn. Like Tony.
"Not fair," mutters Daria, in her most petulant voice, and almost laughs again. Not fair. Of course it's not fair. It's a fucking terrorist plot.
Hand to her collar again, tracing the metal. She takes a deep breath. In. Out. Not trying to run from her fear anymore. Not trying to run from her despair. Not even trying to use it. Just feeling it. Your road ends here. Just like your life.
It wasn't all pretend.
Sure it was.
You calmed Carrie down.
She died anyways.
You were mad at the terrorists.
Anger's a stage of grief.
You were mad about injustice.
It's pretty fucking unjust that I'm going to die.
It's pretty fucking unjust that we're all going to die.
You're damn right.
So was it pretend?
What?
When you got mad at them. Was it pretend?
Daria closed her eyes and shook her head. "No," she said. No, it wasn't pretend. No, she was pretty fucking pissed. Yeah, she'd used it as a way to run from that horrible, weighty nothingness, from visions of Ms. Garcia and visions of her great grandmother and all the visions of death her bright mind could concoct, but the anger was real. Like all the little injustices of her life brought down upon her at once. The powerful preying on the powerless. Not even content to kill them, but forcing them to kill each other. Daria didn't give a shit what Quinn said, Quinn hadn't wanted this. She was just like Daria. Another girl playing pretend. Better to be the confident killer than the cowardly cunt hiding in a house and sobbing for your life.
And even if she was wrong--even if Quinn really was a monster--by her own admission, Quinn would never had killed without the game letting her. Even if all they'd done was take the dog off the leash, that was still on them.
Am I still pretending?
Hard to say. Five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Maybe you've played with all five at the same time. Maybe you're still there. Maybe now you're at bargaining, trying to buy something with your death. Trying to make it all worthwhile.
I don't give a god damn fuck if it's worthwhile. Death is fucking pointless, I'm fucking spectacular, and these assholes are gonna kill me anyways!
"No," she said again.
So what now, Daria? All you're good at is playing pretend, and where has that gotten you?
"I'm still alive," she said.
And?
And I've been talking aloud all this time, there are cameras on me, there are people behind those cameras, people who have committed monstrous acts, but people, still people, A=B=C=D=E, remember?
I'm sorry, are you moving on from trying to convince your fellow students to commit suicide by trying to commit the terrorists to feel guilty?
I'm an actor, and I've got a camera and an audience.
And Daria's eyes flickered from the window to the camera over the granite countertop.
It's dumb. Daria knows it's dumb. She's been reminder herself of that fact, day in and day out. Playing careless in the face of Carrie's crazy and Quinn's murderous madness, swaggering in to standoffs as though she has no fear of bullets. She's been flirting with death, teasing it, toying with it, pretending that all these games mean that she's somehow immune to it. But Danya's words have stayed with you since this morning, and if Aliya's example gave you courage enough to carry on, the blood and the bile and the bodies have managed to put that courage on ice.
I'm going to die.
She'd always known that, of course. She was conscious of it, the way she assumed everyone was conscious of it. Living meant dying. You see that the first time you lose a pet, or spray poison on intrusive ants crawling on the outside of your window, or hear about this old family friend dying, this old teacher passing, this high school senior dying in a car wreck while you're in school. And Daria saw it all the time, in the movies and shows she devoured. In found footage horror, in documentaries and documentaries, in zombie flicks and video games and plays from the most modern to the most ancient. Read a little Antigone, and see how well we reckon with death.
But knowing it is not quite the same thing as believing it. As understanding that one day you'll wriggle like dying ant as the poison takes you. That one day it'll be your broken body wheezing and gasping in the car wreck. That one day, even if you beat the odds and live nearly a century, your stinking corpse will fill the humid house in Indore, and your great grand daughter will look into your bloated face, and finally believe that she, too, will die.
There's no escaping it. There's no avoiding it. Those visions of corpses are real. You're going to be one of them. Your blood will coat that house. Your body will lie forgotten in an overgrown garden.
I'm going to die.
And alone in the house where she'd once sworn she wouldn't give her captors the satisfaction of crying, Daria Bhatia burst into tears. Huge, childlike, wracking sobs, a wail of grief rising up against the ceiling, burying her face in her dirty hands and shuddering with sadness.
It was a game, all a game, not just the murdering but Daria herself, always a game, trying to play pretend, to cling to any illusion of life. Like talking to Crazy Carrie, dancing with her demons, trying to act like she didn't scare you. Like arguing with Quinn, toying with a killer, baring her back to a murderer to show she was unafraid. Like shouting insults at the captors who had welded a bomb to her neck, daring them to pull the trigger.
Playing chicken with death, except you couldn't play chicken with death, you couldn't, because death was always coming for you and it wasn't going to stop and you were never charging towards it but to one side, pretending that one day you'd charge towards it, pretending that made you fearless, pretending, pretending, pretending.
Sobbing, louder and harder. Face sticky with tears trickling through the dust. Sobbing because you don't know where Carrie's body is, or how she died. Sobbing because you're sure Quinn died the same way she lived, wild and rabid like she was born for this. Sobbing because you barely got to talk to Tony before he died in his sleep.
Sobbing because you don't know how you're going to die, just that you're going to. That however this ends, whether you take your shot or not, your broken, bloody corpse is going to lie ignoble on this island, all alone.
I don't want to die.
Whoa, careful there, Daria! The Academy's not gonna give you an award for such an original take!
And Daria, in the middle of one of those rasping, trembling sobs, gives a gurgle that's almost a laugh, and the sound is so bizarre that she laughs again, harder, and soon she's just laughing, roaring with laughter in an empty house and who knows how many corpses nearby, her face still slick with tears as moonlight peeks in from the nearby window. Laughing and sobbing and aching, until at last the laughter dies and Daria is alone in a quiet house, looking out the window again.
I don't want to die.
How could you, when life was so sweet? The taste of her father's dahi bade, the delirious energy of wild dancing, the feel of sunlight on her skin or new lips against hers, the electric giddiness of performing (on stage or in front of a camera), the confidence and clarity of arguing with her mother over programming languages, the intellectual grandeur of flummoxing an opponent with a mathematical solution, so many memories and so many more she still wanted to make and she wasn't going to.
Your dreams are dead. You'll never stand on a stage in New York. You'll never own a poster from a movie you were in. Hell, even your fears are dead: you'll never be a programmer or a mathematician. You'll never follow your mother's path, or yours. Your path ends here, on this island. It doesn't matter what you want; you're going to die. Like Carrie. Like Quinn. Like Tony.
"Not fair," mutters Daria, in her most petulant voice, and almost laughs again. Not fair. Of course it's not fair. It's a fucking terrorist plot.
Hand to her collar again, tracing the metal. She takes a deep breath. In. Out. Not trying to run from her fear anymore. Not trying to run from her despair. Not even trying to use it. Just feeling it. Your road ends here. Just like your life.
It wasn't all pretend.
Sure it was.
You calmed Carrie down.
She died anyways.
You were mad at the terrorists.
Anger's a stage of grief.
You were mad about injustice.
It's pretty fucking unjust that I'm going to die.
It's pretty fucking unjust that we're all going to die.
You're damn right.
So was it pretend?
What?
When you got mad at them. Was it pretend?
Daria closed her eyes and shook her head. "No," she said. No, it wasn't pretend. No, she was pretty fucking pissed. Yeah, she'd used it as a way to run from that horrible, weighty nothingness, from visions of Ms. Garcia and visions of her great grandmother and all the visions of death her bright mind could concoct, but the anger was real. Like all the little injustices of her life brought down upon her at once. The powerful preying on the powerless. Not even content to kill them, but forcing them to kill each other. Daria didn't give a shit what Quinn said, Quinn hadn't wanted this. She was just like Daria. Another girl playing pretend. Better to be the confident killer than the cowardly cunt hiding in a house and sobbing for your life.
And even if she was wrong--even if Quinn really was a monster--by her own admission, Quinn would never had killed without the game letting her. Even if all they'd done was take the dog off the leash, that was still on them.
Am I still pretending?
Hard to say. Five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Maybe you've played with all five at the same time. Maybe you're still there. Maybe now you're at bargaining, trying to buy something with your death. Trying to make it all worthwhile.
I don't give a god damn fuck if it's worthwhile. Death is fucking pointless, I'm fucking spectacular, and these assholes are gonna kill me anyways!
"No," she said again.
So what now, Daria? All you're good at is playing pretend, and where has that gotten you?
"I'm still alive," she said.
And?
And I've been talking aloud all this time, there are cameras on me, there are people behind those cameras, people who have committed monstrous acts, but people, still people, A=B=C=D=E, remember?
I'm sorry, are you moving on from trying to convince your fellow students to commit suicide by trying to commit the terrorists to feel guilty?
I'm an actor, and I've got a camera and an audience.
And Daria's eyes flickered from the window to the camera over the granite countertop.
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
“Good morning all! I hope you are all enjoying yourselves now that you know you are all on the path that leads to the end of our game."
As Danya's voice breaks across the warm morning, Daria sits cross-legged in front of the house she woke up in, her hands braced upon her knees, her sleep-puffed eyes closed. The outfit she is wearing is not of hers, but plundered from an old drawer crawling with bugs: a man's faded too-big yellow t-shirt over a long brown skirt, mismatched socks tucked into her shoes. She looks a little cleaner, a little more put-together, for the camera a little ways in front of her.
"There is a still a while yet, but I suggest keeping it in mind, just in case you need a morale boost in the coming days. In fact, speaking of boosts I have just the thing to perk you all up this morning. How about we run through those of you who passed on yesterday? Sound good?"
A moment's silence. Daria's eyes stayed closed.
"I thought so.”
And Daria's eyes opened.
"I'm sure you did, you pompous, insufferable, monstrous speck in the shape of a man!" Daria bellowed, at the top of her lungs, roaring for all to hear. "I'm sure it sounds just fine and fucking dandy to you, you arrogant shitstain, but I think I'm fucking done."
When Daria was fifteen years old, she had briefly become interested in ways to trick your body, including the fact that, by sleeping for fifteen minutes every hour through the night, you could essentially go the whole night without sleeping. Daria's mother was none to happy with her experiment, but it's served Daria well now. Through the night, she has slept in brief snatches, only to awake and go searching again. To find clothes, to clean herself a little, to feel comfortable in her skin, and to sharpen her thoughts for the performance to come.
"I mean, listen to yourself, you wheedling bore!" Daria shouted, over the name Catherine Zier. "All your sly comments on every little fucking tragedy that plays out because of what you and the walking abortions you work with have done, like you're a mean girl whispering in a fucking bathroom. You're like a rich bitch redditor who strapped bombs to our fucking necks so we'd have to listen to you and I just...I don't think I can do it anymore, man. I think I'm done."
Danya is still droning on. She didn't expect otherwise.
"notch one up for ghost Lorenzo, wooooo spooky.”
"I mean, Christ, if you're going to try to be a fucking Die Hard villain, can't you give us some fucking quality?" Daria demanded. "I'm here hoping for Alan Rickman and it sounds like I've got a fucking reply guy trying to get in my DMs with the best joke his two braincells can squeeze together. It's like an incel got a fucking commenting gig at a paintball match and started trying to shoot the players. No, that's not fair. Limp-wristed asshole like you, I can't imagine you do much work. Gotta be your little fucking minions who put these things together. You pay'em enough to laugh at your jokes, too? I doubt it. You fuckers would probably go bankrupt if you had to pay them to listen to what passes for humor for you. Probably why you've gotta waste time telling them to us."
She fell silent, just in time to catch the tail-end of what he was saying: "the important lesson here is to never trust anyone"
Daria did not speak this time. She stood up slowly, rolling her head on her neck, shaking out her shoulders, posing for the camera and listening all the while
(Please refer to what I have said about trust previously.
yet another example of why you shouldn't trust anyone)
Waiting for Announcements to end. Waiting because she was sharp now, angry and afraid and aghast, certain in her own death and riding that certainty like a fucking wave. She would never make it to a Broadway stage, and her videos would never attract millions of views, and she'd never be a star. But there were hundreds of cameras, and an audience in need of a performance, and injustice in need of correcting, and Daria was going to die.
"I know you love hearing from me, but I promise we'll be able to talk again tomorrow, bye!"
"You'll talk to us tomorrow," Daria snarled. "I'm talking to you right fucking now." She jabbed a hand. "You tin can fake shit hollow pretense of an asshole, you're so fucking obvious in everything you do. Trust, trust, always gotta remind us about trust, always gotta act like we're doing this to ourselves. Zeroes and god damn ones, and if you wanna be a one you can't trust any one else, see what I did there? Made a fucking awful pun that's still about a hundred times better than your fucking yeet joke you unbelievable sack of shit!"
Channeling her rage into a clear, projected voice, ringing out for all to hear, every word carefully annunciated.
"But maybe I'm being too hard on you, maybe you're just the stupidest part of the crew, maybe that's why they let you make these dumbass speeches so you can feel like you're special, like you're part of something, like you and everyone you know, everyone watching this, listening to this, isn't a monster." She growled that word with all the malice, all the venom, all the rage she could muster: she made it vibrate from her chest down to her diaphragm, made it guttural.
"Because these kills you're describing? The ones you joke about? The ones you praise? Every trick, every tragedy, every murder, every mistake? It's all. On. You." She glared at the camera, letting the tears in her eyes sharpen her gaze to something predatory. "You put guns to the heads of two hundred kids and you told them to kill each other or you'd pull the fucking trigger."
She shook her head. "So make your Announcements. Make your jokes. Tell us not to trust each other. Tell yourselves it's not your fault. You know better. We know better. We know exactly who and what you are. We're not listening anymore. Pull the fucking trigger or stop wasting my fucking time."
She took a deep breath (In. Out). She managed a grin. "Talk to you tomorrow, assholes."
She'd never felt so scared. She'd never felt so alive.
As Danya's voice breaks across the warm morning, Daria sits cross-legged in front of the house she woke up in, her hands braced upon her knees, her sleep-puffed eyes closed. The outfit she is wearing is not of hers, but plundered from an old drawer crawling with bugs: a man's faded too-big yellow t-shirt over a long brown skirt, mismatched socks tucked into her shoes. She looks a little cleaner, a little more put-together, for the camera a little ways in front of her.
"There is a still a while yet, but I suggest keeping it in mind, just in case you need a morale boost in the coming days. In fact, speaking of boosts I have just the thing to perk you all up this morning. How about we run through those of you who passed on yesterday? Sound good?"
A moment's silence. Daria's eyes stayed closed.
"I thought so.”
And Daria's eyes opened.
"I'm sure you did, you pompous, insufferable, monstrous speck in the shape of a man!" Daria bellowed, at the top of her lungs, roaring for all to hear. "I'm sure it sounds just fine and fucking dandy to you, you arrogant shitstain, but I think I'm fucking done."
When Daria was fifteen years old, she had briefly become interested in ways to trick your body, including the fact that, by sleeping for fifteen minutes every hour through the night, you could essentially go the whole night without sleeping. Daria's mother was none to happy with her experiment, but it's served Daria well now. Through the night, she has slept in brief snatches, only to awake and go searching again. To find clothes, to clean herself a little, to feel comfortable in her skin, and to sharpen her thoughts for the performance to come.
"I mean, listen to yourself, you wheedling bore!" Daria shouted, over the name Catherine Zier. "All your sly comments on every little fucking tragedy that plays out because of what you and the walking abortions you work with have done, like you're a mean girl whispering in a fucking bathroom. You're like a rich bitch redditor who strapped bombs to our fucking necks so we'd have to listen to you and I just...I don't think I can do it anymore, man. I think I'm done."
Danya is still droning on. She didn't expect otherwise.
"notch one up for ghost Lorenzo, wooooo spooky.”
"I mean, Christ, if you're going to try to be a fucking Die Hard villain, can't you give us some fucking quality?" Daria demanded. "I'm here hoping for Alan Rickman and it sounds like I've got a fucking reply guy trying to get in my DMs with the best joke his two braincells can squeeze together. It's like an incel got a fucking commenting gig at a paintball match and started trying to shoot the players. No, that's not fair. Limp-wristed asshole like you, I can't imagine you do much work. Gotta be your little fucking minions who put these things together. You pay'em enough to laugh at your jokes, too? I doubt it. You fuckers would probably go bankrupt if you had to pay them to listen to what passes for humor for you. Probably why you've gotta waste time telling them to us."
She fell silent, just in time to catch the tail-end of what he was saying: "the important lesson here is to never trust anyone"
Daria did not speak this time. She stood up slowly, rolling her head on her neck, shaking out her shoulders, posing for the camera and listening all the while
(Please refer to what I have said about trust previously.
yet another example of why you shouldn't trust anyone)
Waiting for Announcements to end. Waiting because she was sharp now, angry and afraid and aghast, certain in her own death and riding that certainty like a fucking wave. She would never make it to a Broadway stage, and her videos would never attract millions of views, and she'd never be a star. But there were hundreds of cameras, and an audience in need of a performance, and injustice in need of correcting, and Daria was going to die.
"I know you love hearing from me, but I promise we'll be able to talk again tomorrow, bye!"
"You'll talk to us tomorrow," Daria snarled. "I'm talking to you right fucking now." She jabbed a hand. "You tin can fake shit hollow pretense of an asshole, you're so fucking obvious in everything you do. Trust, trust, always gotta remind us about trust, always gotta act like we're doing this to ourselves. Zeroes and god damn ones, and if you wanna be a one you can't trust any one else, see what I did there? Made a fucking awful pun that's still about a hundred times better than your fucking yeet joke you unbelievable sack of shit!"
Channeling her rage into a clear, projected voice, ringing out for all to hear, every word carefully annunciated.
"But maybe I'm being too hard on you, maybe you're just the stupidest part of the crew, maybe that's why they let you make these dumbass speeches so you can feel like you're special, like you're part of something, like you and everyone you know, everyone watching this, listening to this, isn't a monster." She growled that word with all the malice, all the venom, all the rage she could muster: she made it vibrate from her chest down to her diaphragm, made it guttural.
"Because these kills you're describing? The ones you joke about? The ones you praise? Every trick, every tragedy, every murder, every mistake? It's all. On. You." She glared at the camera, letting the tears in her eyes sharpen her gaze to something predatory. "You put guns to the heads of two hundred kids and you told them to kill each other or you'd pull the fucking trigger."
She shook her head. "So make your Announcements. Make your jokes. Tell us not to trust each other. Tell yourselves it's not your fault. You know better. We know better. We know exactly who and what you are. We're not listening anymore. Pull the fucking trigger or stop wasting my fucking time."
She took a deep breath (In. Out). She managed a grin. "Talk to you tomorrow, assholes."
She'd never felt so scared. She'd never felt so alive.
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
-
Emprexx Plush
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((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued From Who's To Know If Your Soul Will Fade At All?))
Suppose for a moment that Blaise was a much better shot than their record reflected. The distance between the screaming girl and them did not seem so different from the shot they took at Alexander, at least at an eyeball appraisal. She moved more. There were obstacles in the way, factors they did not know how to account for, but suppose that they did. Suppose from their position outside the house they found her down the barrel of their rifle and could say with a reasonable certainty they could put a shot in her head. No, not even her head. Anywhere in the torso the gods, genetics, or garden variety laziness had expanded; they had not had so generous a target in many days now. Adjust expectations downwards even further and say that the shot might not kill her, but it would immobilize her enough to make finishing the job a question of when, not if. Suppose Blaise drew their results in this middle ground between fantasy and failure. Would the outcome satisfy them?
That depended on her purpose. The rapidity with which she spoke drew them in. Vague sounds of frustration were all they could make out until they drew closer. Part came from the wall separating them but her insistence on speaking over the announcement did her no favors. From first blush the act appeared something of a psychotic break delivered to nothing and no one capable of response. Any meaningful pretense at response was lost in how quickly her rambling came. Blaise would be surprised if she heard more than a few words between her spasms. Not even when she stopped speaking. Silence would not open her ears. Yes, that is what steered them away from madness. Well, spontaneous madness. What they were witnessing was a product of deliberation. A performance. Perhaps one with significant rehearsal. Was it a repeat? No. They had made out enough of the contents that that would not make sense, but the spirit could have been. In some fit of misplaced conviction she had decided that their captors needed to hear her message in this and likely many other forms. A form of raging against inevitability that allowed her to delude herself with promises of a difference made. When they asked themself if shooting her would be enough to satisfy them, what they were really asking was if they could allow her to die with that notion, that comfort, held in her heart.
If they could say that they had destroyed someone with such clear disregard for her safety if they only broke her body. If they could take responsibility and pride in being the person who ruined everything they touched if her last breaths came with the solace that she had accomplished something in her time here.
The barrel of the gun tapped against the window. They stared through at the girl, waiting for her attention so they might wave her towards the door.
Suppose for a moment that Blaise was a much better shot than their record reflected. The distance between the screaming girl and them did not seem so different from the shot they took at Alexander, at least at an eyeball appraisal. She moved more. There were obstacles in the way, factors they did not know how to account for, but suppose that they did. Suppose from their position outside the house they found her down the barrel of their rifle and could say with a reasonable certainty they could put a shot in her head. No, not even her head. Anywhere in the torso the gods, genetics, or garden variety laziness had expanded; they had not had so generous a target in many days now. Adjust expectations downwards even further and say that the shot might not kill her, but it would immobilize her enough to make finishing the job a question of when, not if. Suppose Blaise drew their results in this middle ground between fantasy and failure. Would the outcome satisfy them?
That depended on her purpose. The rapidity with which she spoke drew them in. Vague sounds of frustration were all they could make out until they drew closer. Part came from the wall separating them but her insistence on speaking over the announcement did her no favors. From first blush the act appeared something of a psychotic break delivered to nothing and no one capable of response. Any meaningful pretense at response was lost in how quickly her rambling came. Blaise would be surprised if she heard more than a few words between her spasms. Not even when she stopped speaking. Silence would not open her ears. Yes, that is what steered them away from madness. Well, spontaneous madness. What they were witnessing was a product of deliberation. A performance. Perhaps one with significant rehearsal. Was it a repeat? No. They had made out enough of the contents that that would not make sense, but the spirit could have been. In some fit of misplaced conviction she had decided that their captors needed to hear her message in this and likely many other forms. A form of raging against inevitability that allowed her to delude herself with promises of a difference made. When they asked themself if shooting her would be enough to satisfy them, what they were really asking was if they could allow her to die with that notion, that comfort, held in her heart.
If they could say that they had destroyed someone with such clear disregard for her safety if they only broke her body. If they could take responsibility and pride in being the person who ruined everything they touched if her last breaths came with the solace that she had accomplished something in her time here.
The barrel of the gun tapped against the window. They stared through at the girl, waiting for her attention so they might wave her towards the door.
Scared. Alive. Scared. Alive. Thoughts beating at her in time with her pounding heart. The shaky grin on her face. The crackling of lightning on her skin. Taut with adrenaline. Alive.
(For now)
For now, yes. Just for now. For now, until...
Tap tap
Daria frowned, cocking her head. That sound...what was that sound? A woodpecker?
Tap tap tap
Daria turned, narrowed her eyes, lifted a hand to shade her eyes. Tapping? What was-
With her eyes shaded, Daria could make out the contrasts. With her eyes shaded she saw the small figure framed in the window, tapping the barrel of their gun against the glass. When they locked eyes, the figure waved towards the door.
For (a moment, a week, a lifetime), Daria froze. For (a lifetime a lifetime I don't want to die), Daria stared at the figure with the gun. Even with her hand shading her eyes, she couldn't quite recognize them.
But they had a gun, and there were so many dead, and...and odds were, this...
(a lifetime a lifetime but it ends here)
The (lifetime) passed, and Daria's grin steadied. She gave a cheery wave and moved to the door, not even looking back at the figure with the gun, watching her through the window.
She was gonna die, one way or another. Had to try while there was still a lifetime left.
(For now)
For now, yes. Just for now. For now, until...
Tap tap
Daria frowned, cocking her head. That sound...what was that sound? A woodpecker?
Tap tap tap
Daria turned, narrowed her eyes, lifted a hand to shade her eyes. Tapping? What was-
With her eyes shaded, Daria could make out the contrasts. With her eyes shaded she saw the small figure framed in the window, tapping the barrel of their gun against the glass. When they locked eyes, the figure waved towards the door.
For (a moment, a week, a lifetime), Daria froze. For (a lifetime a lifetime I don't want to die), Daria stared at the figure with the gun. Even with her hand shading her eyes, she couldn't quite recognize them.
But they had a gun, and there were so many dead, and...and odds were, this...
(a lifetime a lifetime but it ends here)
The (lifetime) passed, and Daria's grin steadied. She gave a cheery wave and moved to the door, not even looking back at the figure with the gun, watching her through the window.
She was gonna die, one way or another. Had to try while there was still a lifetime left.
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
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Emprexx Plush
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Grins and waves were not expected anywhere they went. In eight days they had to assume they had either killed or alienated the handful of warm welcomes they could have expected among their classmates. It was possible the girl did not recognize them, not so unlikely given they were having difficulty placing her.
Unequally likely was that this was some manner of trap. Two broad possibilities: Blaise had not been as discrete as they thought and all the shouting was meant as a signal for allies in nearby houses, or the girl had exposed herself to draw nearby victims to a location she was ready to defend. Were either particularly likely? They could not say, but they gained nothing from assuming she was naively welcoming. When she moved to the door they crept along the side of the house and waited to its left. Engaged here they could hear each other well enough, and if they decided it was time for the conversation to end, well. The door did not look so thick or so sturdy.
A lie crept to their lips. Give and take about how they do not trust each other but the door provides insurance. A lure they would have found tantalizing enough once that it tempted them out of habit.
"Why do you speak to the cameras?"
Flat. Unaccented. There was no curiosity in their tone, nor much of anything else. The wardrobe of moods and manipulation stood open in front of them and they still could not find the compulsion to dress themself.
Ah. No bullshit. Perhaps that was why they did not simply shoot her through the window. That despite their deluded isolation from influence they knew you did not dress up without wanting observation and reaction. Hate had draped their vulnerable form as gift or burden but it was not an outfit. Beneath it they were still naked. Imitations could do no better at clothing them than they could alone. They required inspiration.
The last person they encountered, the boy who would be a bandit. He had given them nothing to work with but more hate. Then again he had precious little to say beyond stroking his ego. This girl was full of words. She might inspire something more in them, and if not?
Well.
The door did not look so thick or so sturdy.
Unequally likely was that this was some manner of trap. Two broad possibilities: Blaise had not been as discrete as they thought and all the shouting was meant as a signal for allies in nearby houses, or the girl had exposed herself to draw nearby victims to a location she was ready to defend. Were either particularly likely? They could not say, but they gained nothing from assuming she was naively welcoming. When she moved to the door they crept along the side of the house and waited to its left. Engaged here they could hear each other well enough, and if they decided it was time for the conversation to end, well. The door did not look so thick or so sturdy.
A lie crept to their lips. Give and take about how they do not trust each other but the door provides insurance. A lure they would have found tantalizing enough once that it tempted them out of habit.
"Why do you speak to the cameras?"
Flat. Unaccented. There was no curiosity in their tone, nor much of anything else. The wardrobe of moods and manipulation stood open in front of them and they still could not find the compulsion to dress themself.
Ah. No bullshit. Perhaps that was why they did not simply shoot her through the window. That despite their deluded isolation from influence they knew you did not dress up without wanting observation and reaction. Hate had draped their vulnerable form as gift or burden but it was not an outfit. Beneath it they were still naked. Imitations could do no better at clothing them than they could alone. They required inspiration.
The last person they encountered, the boy who would be a bandit. He had given them nothing to work with but more hate. Then again he had precious little to say beyond stroking his ego. This girl was full of words. She might inspire something more in them, and if not?
Well.
The door did not look so thick or so sturdy.
Grinning, and waving, and acting like your soul wasn't filled with mortal terror. Still playing pretend, Dhairyalakshmi Bhatia. Thought we were done with that.
Not done. Changing the role. Changing the script.
How is this any different?
It is.
How?
Maybe this conversation can wait? There's a murderer waiting for us.
Closer and closer to the door. Lifetimes ending with every step.
"Why do you speak to the cameras?"
Daria stopped. She stared at the door. The voice was muffled, but it tickled a part of her brain. She thought she knew that voice. But funnier still, the voice was asking the same question she was. What's changed, Daria? After your long, dark night, why is today different than yesterday?
"Been doing it since I woke up," Daria said, raising her voice to carry through the door. "First 'cause I was checking rules. Then 'cause I was mad. I'm still mad, but..." She took a deep breath. "We're gonna die. So if I've gotta die, I'm sure as shit not gonna let this psycho supervillain wannabe go thinking I don't know exactly whose fucking fault this is." The same anger in her voice, febrile heat. That was true, and that was pure, and she relished it. "I'm not playing his fucking game. I'm not dancing to his fucking tune. I'm still me. Dead or alive."
She couldn't fight the tension in her voice. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. She looked at the closed door, and asked the question that scared her.
"You could've shot me before. Why didn't you?"
Not done. Changing the role. Changing the script.
How is this any different?
It is.
How?
Maybe this conversation can wait? There's a murderer waiting for us.
Closer and closer to the door. Lifetimes ending with every step.
"Why do you speak to the cameras?"
Daria stopped. She stared at the door. The voice was muffled, but it tickled a part of her brain. She thought she knew that voice. But funnier still, the voice was asking the same question she was. What's changed, Daria? After your long, dark night, why is today different than yesterday?
"Been doing it since I woke up," Daria said, raising her voice to carry through the door. "First 'cause I was checking rules. Then 'cause I was mad. I'm still mad, but..." She took a deep breath. "We're gonna die. So if I've gotta die, I'm sure as shit not gonna let this psycho supervillain wannabe go thinking I don't know exactly whose fucking fault this is." The same anger in her voice, febrile heat. That was true, and that was pure, and she relished it. "I'm not playing his fucking game. I'm not dancing to his fucking tune. I'm still me. Dead or alive."
She couldn't fight the tension in her voice. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. She looked at the closed door, and asked the question that scared her.
"You could've shot me before. Why didn't you?"
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
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Emprexx Plush
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They wanted a cigarette. It felt the sort of conversation that would be improved by leaning against the wall with smoke burning their lungs. The familiar sting would allow them to feel. Focus. An act of casual disinterest was so much preferable to the very real detachment they were mired in now. Because when the zealous girl spoke there was an impulse to lash out. She would wash the blood from their hands and reduce all that they had done to the manipulation of unseen passive observers and there was a time not so far when they would have grabbed on to that proposal with both hands. Darkly ironic, yes, that as soon as they stopped trying to run away from what they were they found the first person that would absolve them, and they wanted to hate her. They wanted to retch venom that would leave her naive moralizing scarred and bubbling. That's what they did, correct? It was unnatural to interact with someone they were fond of and not find ways to drag them down in thought if not in speech, and there was no such protective filter for those that did not entertain them.
Their expression twisted but with curiosity rather than malice.. It did not matter so much since she could not see them. The tilt of their head was similarly unnecessary. All she would experience was their voice, which did not alter its neutral presentation.
"Would it have been my fault if I did?"
Bile would not rise in their chest. Without the projected desire...mm, call it as it was, the underlying insecurity...to be better than her they found no rush to cut her legs out in anger. The prospect bullying her into momentary submission brought no pleasure. What they sought now was understanding. Nudging calculation to reveal the way she processed her experiences to wind up at this conclusion.
"If I opened this door and shot you now, whose tune would i dance to? Yours? Mine? Or Danya's?"
Only once they understood her could they unravel her.
Their expression twisted but with curiosity rather than malice.. It did not matter so much since she could not see them. The tilt of their head was similarly unnecessary. All she would experience was their voice, which did not alter its neutral presentation.
"Would it have been my fault if I did?"
Bile would not rise in their chest. Without the projected desire...mm, call it as it was, the underlying insecurity...to be better than her they found no rush to cut her legs out in anger. The prospect bullying her into momentary submission brought no pleasure. What they sought now was understanding. Nudging calculation to reveal the way she processed her experiences to wind up at this conclusion.
"If I opened this door and shot you now, whose tune would i dance to? Yours? Mine? Or Danya's?"
Only once they understood her could they unravel her.
"Would it have been my fault if I did?"
Daria did not speak for a moment. Her eyes flickered to the closed door. She felt a cold chill on her back, and the urge to run-
like she can't shoot you while you're running
-or to burst through the door first like James fucking Bond
she can shoot you up close just as easy as she can far away
-to do something, anything that would buy her a few more precious seconds of-
No. No running. No fighting. If you're putting on a show, it's not for them. Your lifetime's all you got, however long it lasts.
Perhaps five seconds of silence, staring at the door.
"Huh," she said, too quietly, and then again, louder, "Huh. That's...gimme a sec."
She thought for a moment, trying to put her thoughts in order, "When I first got here...the first person I met was...did you know Caroline? Some...some people called her Crazy Carrie." She visibly winced. She didn't like to say it out loud. She remembered the hurt and the fury in Carrie's voice when she thought Daria was making fun of her. She remembered the kindness in her, before they'd parted ways.
"She was off her meds and hearing voices and seeing demons in the eyes of other students. We separated before she...killed her friend." She found the nearest camera and glared at it. "Danyuh says she died hitting his camera, so I don't...I don't know what happened, but..."
She trailed off. She looked away from the camera, up at the sky. "I'm not sure she was wrong," Daria said. "Carrie, I mean. The student she saw demons in? Our very own Quinn Abert. I met her later, after Carrie died. I'm gonna let you in on a secret: that bitch was crazy. Crazier than the literal schizo, pardon my un-PC language." Daria paused. "Quinn...Quinn said this was always in her. That none of us ever mattered to her. That she would have killed us, if she could."
"But I..." Daria closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the person on the other side of the door, the nameless killer she'd probably seen a hundred times in school hallways. "I think she missed the point."
The next words poured out of her in crescendo and accelerando, louder and faster with every word: "Because Quinn didn't go all Colombine on us at GH, and Carrie didn't see demons and shoot her friends, and even if they could have done those things they didn't, there was never a reason to, and Quinn was a monster, I spoke to her and I can't pretend she wasn't, but she was only a monster like this because they put her here and said, 'kill your friends or you get killed,' and they took Carrie's meds, and you..."
She trailed off, came to a stop. Very gently, she placed a hand against the wall.
"I don't know what you've done. What you've seen. It's...it's been hard for me, and I'm starting to think I had it easier than most people." She gave a short laugh, and did not have to fake it, nor the ragged edge of tears she could hear in her own voice. She was surprised to find she'd been acting very little this whole time. Just trying to tell the truth. In her own rambling way.
"TL;DR," she said, with another short laugh. "I don't know. Maybe your fault. Maybe mine." She paused, gave another one of those laughs. "Well, not mine," Daria said, with all the haughtiness she could muster. "I was just a crazy bitch screaming at the sky when you waved me over. Unless you were gonna shoot me because I was being too loud. Guess I couldn't blame you if you did." Her voice lowered again. "But the reason there's a gun in your hand...the reason there's bombs on our necks...the reason for this fucked up game...that's on Danyuh. No, not just him. On them. On the assholes who put us here. On the assholes who put this thing in motion. More than Carrie. More than Quinn. More than me. More than you."
Quiet for a moment.
"Can I ask..." Daria hesitated. "Who am I talking to?"
Daria did not speak for a moment. Her eyes flickered to the closed door. She felt a cold chill on her back, and the urge to run-
like she can't shoot you while you're running
-or to burst through the door first like James fucking Bond
she can shoot you up close just as easy as she can far away
-to do something, anything that would buy her a few more precious seconds of-
No. No running. No fighting. If you're putting on a show, it's not for them. Your lifetime's all you got, however long it lasts.
Perhaps five seconds of silence, staring at the door.
"Huh," she said, too quietly, and then again, louder, "Huh. That's...gimme a sec."
She thought for a moment, trying to put her thoughts in order, "When I first got here...the first person I met was...did you know Caroline? Some...some people called her Crazy Carrie." She visibly winced. She didn't like to say it out loud. She remembered the hurt and the fury in Carrie's voice when she thought Daria was making fun of her. She remembered the kindness in her, before they'd parted ways.
"She was off her meds and hearing voices and seeing demons in the eyes of other students. We separated before she...killed her friend." She found the nearest camera and glared at it. "Danyuh says she died hitting his camera, so I don't...I don't know what happened, but..."
She trailed off. She looked away from the camera, up at the sky. "I'm not sure she was wrong," Daria said. "Carrie, I mean. The student she saw demons in? Our very own Quinn Abert. I met her later, after Carrie died. I'm gonna let you in on a secret: that bitch was crazy. Crazier than the literal schizo, pardon my un-PC language." Daria paused. "Quinn...Quinn said this was always in her. That none of us ever mattered to her. That she would have killed us, if she could."
"But I..." Daria closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the person on the other side of the door, the nameless killer she'd probably seen a hundred times in school hallways. "I think she missed the point."
The next words poured out of her in crescendo and accelerando, louder and faster with every word: "Because Quinn didn't go all Colombine on us at GH, and Carrie didn't see demons and shoot her friends, and even if they could have done those things they didn't, there was never a reason to, and Quinn was a monster, I spoke to her and I can't pretend she wasn't, but she was only a monster like this because they put her here and said, 'kill your friends or you get killed,' and they took Carrie's meds, and you..."
She trailed off, came to a stop. Very gently, she placed a hand against the wall.
"I don't know what you've done. What you've seen. It's...it's been hard for me, and I'm starting to think I had it easier than most people." She gave a short laugh, and did not have to fake it, nor the ragged edge of tears she could hear in her own voice. She was surprised to find she'd been acting very little this whole time. Just trying to tell the truth. In her own rambling way.
"TL;DR," she said, with another short laugh. "I don't know. Maybe your fault. Maybe mine." She paused, gave another one of those laughs. "Well, not mine," Daria said, with all the haughtiness she could muster. "I was just a crazy bitch screaming at the sky when you waved me over. Unless you were gonna shoot me because I was being too loud. Guess I couldn't blame you if you did." Her voice lowered again. "But the reason there's a gun in your hand...the reason there's bombs on our necks...the reason for this fucked up game...that's on Danyuh. No, not just him. On them. On the assholes who put us here. On the assholes who put this thing in motion. More than Carrie. More than Quinn. More than me. More than you."
Quiet for a moment.
"Can I ask..." Daria hesitated. "Who am I talking to?"
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
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Emprexx Plush
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"My name is Blaise."
Quinn had killed many people. Possibly more than they had, they had not been keeping track so closely. So there was a certain appeal to wondering if she had always been capable of the damage she had done. Everyone they encountered seemed to think that Blaise was and they had internalized that expectation, so was Quinn any different? According to this girl she had said it herself so she must believe it. It was possible that nothing but luck saved them from a rash of serial murders that would almost certainly start with them and Garren after the incident with her love letters, but then was that not what disqualified her? Quinn, awkward, edgy, pining, useless in senses both queer and mundane Quinn was a murderer lying in wait all along?
No. They would not believe that. Did she have the desire and the means? Almost certainly. She would never have acted though. If anything would have pushed her over the edge it would have been the exposure and ridicule she suffered. But she didn't have the spine to so much as speak to a girl she wrote manifestos of passion for and that did not bode well for her will to take a life under any normal circumstance. Quinn had ruined no lives. She had not tormented anyone for sport. Her urges, dark as they may be, were not strong enough to overcome the restraint of polite society. She could have lived a normal, boring life full of unrequited love and middling opportunities that did not demand too much of her, unless she was brought here. Here her inhibitions were released. She could live out the fantasies she was too weak to face when there were consequences.
Tears started to fall down their face.
Quinn was not like Blaise.
They began to laugh against the wall.
The girl wanted them to be the same though. That was useful.
"I had almost given up, you know?" It was a lie. Every part of it falsehood. Their relief was as fake as the girl's conviction, but she had given away her game while theirs was just starting. She wanted so desperately to believe this was all the fault of a faceless voice rather than the people right in front of her, that was where she drew her hope, but she was still afraid to die. She wanted to know who was waiting for her on the other side of the door and not so she could convince them to her point of view but so she could prepare herself if this had all been a preamble to her assault. They could not blame her. It had been exactly that, but she had convinced them.
"You must have heard. I, there have been so many, I kept telling myself I had no choice but it was wearing hollow, I was going to...but I heard you first. You're so right. It's all his fault."
Unraveling her delusions would not be done in a moment. They could not see which thread to pull. With time though they could hurt her so much more than any bullet just by being themself. They sighed deep as if they'd just set down a large weight and sniffled.
"They were all his fault. The rest will be too."
They did not believe her, but she would believe them.
"Thank you. Don't worry, I won't hurt you. It's the least I can do to repay you."
Every time she heard their name going forward, it would because she "inspired" them to continue on. She freed them from responsibility for their actions. When she shouted at the cameras each morning she was fighting for the right of Blaise D'Aramitz to murder their way through her classmates with a clear conscience. That was how they would poison her delusion.
Yes. That would satisfy them.
Quinn had killed many people. Possibly more than they had, they had not been keeping track so closely. So there was a certain appeal to wondering if she had always been capable of the damage she had done. Everyone they encountered seemed to think that Blaise was and they had internalized that expectation, so was Quinn any different? According to this girl she had said it herself so she must believe it. It was possible that nothing but luck saved them from a rash of serial murders that would almost certainly start with them and Garren after the incident with her love letters, but then was that not what disqualified her? Quinn, awkward, edgy, pining, useless in senses both queer and mundane Quinn was a murderer lying in wait all along?
No. They would not believe that. Did she have the desire and the means? Almost certainly. She would never have acted though. If anything would have pushed her over the edge it would have been the exposure and ridicule she suffered. But she didn't have the spine to so much as speak to a girl she wrote manifestos of passion for and that did not bode well for her will to take a life under any normal circumstance. Quinn had ruined no lives. She had not tormented anyone for sport. Her urges, dark as they may be, were not strong enough to overcome the restraint of polite society. She could have lived a normal, boring life full of unrequited love and middling opportunities that did not demand too much of her, unless she was brought here. Here her inhibitions were released. She could live out the fantasies she was too weak to face when there were consequences.
Tears started to fall down their face.
Quinn was not like Blaise.
They began to laugh against the wall.
The girl wanted them to be the same though. That was useful.
"I had almost given up, you know?" It was a lie. Every part of it falsehood. Their relief was as fake as the girl's conviction, but she had given away her game while theirs was just starting. She wanted so desperately to believe this was all the fault of a faceless voice rather than the people right in front of her, that was where she drew her hope, but she was still afraid to die. She wanted to know who was waiting for her on the other side of the door and not so she could convince them to her point of view but so she could prepare herself if this had all been a preamble to her assault. They could not blame her. It had been exactly that, but she had convinced them.
"You must have heard. I, there have been so many, I kept telling myself I had no choice but it was wearing hollow, I was going to...but I heard you first. You're so right. It's all his fault."
Unraveling her delusions would not be done in a moment. They could not see which thread to pull. With time though they could hurt her so much more than any bullet just by being themself. They sighed deep as if they'd just set down a large weight and sniffled.
"They were all his fault. The rest will be too."
They did not believe her, but she would believe them.
"Thank you. Don't worry, I won't hurt you. It's the least I can do to repay you."
Every time she heard their name going forward, it would because she "inspired" them to continue on. She freed them from responsibility for their actions. When she shouted at the cameras each morning she was fighting for the right of Blaise D'Aramitz to murder their way through her classmates with a clear conscience. That was how they would poison her delusion.
Yes. That would satisfy them.
"My name is Blaise."
Daria smiled, and placed her forehead against the wall. "Hey, Blaise."
In and out, but this time it was relief, full-body relief, full-soul relief. She didn't have to pretend to be brave anymore, like visions of her splattered, broken corpse (Tony the gardens the boy on the beach) dead on this island, her
(lifetime lifetime lifetime)
ending her.
But not anymore. She remembered Blaise: too-thin (girl, no, not girl, nb, or was it enby? fuck, she couldn't remember, probably not the point, focus) presence in a few classrooms (didn't she fuck no they pull a coin out of Daria's ear once?). Never knew them well.
Knew them a little better now. How many times had their name been on the Announcements? And how many names had followed hers? Only one had stuck out, tall Dolores with the fabulous dresses and the fabulous legs, but one was enough. One was too much.
But she could hear the relief in Blaise's laughter.
"I had almost given up, you know?"
"I know," Daria whispered, thinking back to the night before, and drowning in despair.
"You must have heard. I, there have been so many, I kept telling myself I had no choice but it was wearing hollow, I was going to...but I heard you first. You're so right. It's all his fault."
And there were tears in Daria's eyes again, and she didn't want to cry but it had worked, she was heard, someone listened and believed her, and it didn't matter if Blaise was a killer, none of them were innocent anymore (if they ever had been) and it was enough that Daria wasn't going to be alone anymore.
"They were all his fault. The rest will be too."
And relief blows away like leaves in a chill wind, and Daria's head jerks back from the wall, and the tears prickling in her eyes go as cold as her insides.
The rest?
"Don't worry, I won't hurt you. It's the least I can do to repay you."
Repay her. For what? For absolving her of guilt? For giving her permission to murder? Was that what Daria had done?
For a long (lifetime), Daria stared at the wall. The cold kept spreading through her insides.
run run run run run run run
For what? To get shot in the back? To die somewhere else? Your life ends today or tomorrow or next week but it ends here stop running live damn you)
"I appreciate that," she said. She took another deep breath (in...out...) so that when she spoke again, her voice would do exactly what she wanted it to. When she spoke again, it was with genuine curiosity, so hint of accusation or malice. "Blaise. Do you think you can win their game?"
Daria smiled, and placed her forehead against the wall. "Hey, Blaise."
In and out, but this time it was relief, full-body relief, full-soul relief. She didn't have to pretend to be brave anymore, like visions of her splattered, broken corpse (Tony the gardens the boy on the beach) dead on this island, her
(lifetime lifetime lifetime)
ending her.
But not anymore. She remembered Blaise: too-thin (girl, no, not girl, nb, or was it enby? fuck, she couldn't remember, probably not the point, focus) presence in a few classrooms (didn't she fuck no they pull a coin out of Daria's ear once?). Never knew them well.
Knew them a little better now. How many times had their name been on the Announcements? And how many names had followed hers? Only one had stuck out, tall Dolores with the fabulous dresses and the fabulous legs, but one was enough. One was too much.
But she could hear the relief in Blaise's laughter.
"I had almost given up, you know?"
"I know," Daria whispered, thinking back to the night before, and drowning in despair.
"You must have heard. I, there have been so many, I kept telling myself I had no choice but it was wearing hollow, I was going to...but I heard you first. You're so right. It's all his fault."
And there were tears in Daria's eyes again, and she didn't want to cry but it had worked, she was heard, someone listened and believed her, and it didn't matter if Blaise was a killer, none of them were innocent anymore (if they ever had been) and it was enough that Daria wasn't going to be alone anymore.
"They were all his fault. The rest will be too."
And relief blows away like leaves in a chill wind, and Daria's head jerks back from the wall, and the tears prickling in her eyes go as cold as her insides.
The rest?
"Don't worry, I won't hurt you. It's the least I can do to repay you."
Repay her. For what? For absolving her of guilt? For giving her permission to murder? Was that what Daria had done?
For a long (lifetime), Daria stared at the wall. The cold kept spreading through her insides.
run run run run run run run
For what? To get shot in the back? To die somewhere else? Your life ends today or tomorrow or next week but it ends here stop running live damn you)
"I appreciate that," she said. She took another deep breath (in...out...) so that when she spoke again, her voice would do exactly what she wanted it to. When she spoke again, it was with genuine curiosity, so hint of accusation or malice. "Blaise. Do you think you can win their game?"
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
Good lies, as they commented often, were always based in some truth. Now that they were feeling more in their element though they could expand on that thought. Great lies weren't lies at all. They were misdirection. Answers to questions that weren't asked rather than the ones that were in ways close enough to the subject matter that the conversation gently followed where you wanted it to go. Delicacy was a technique of minute degree. Once you knew how to tune to your target you touched little and let the momentum carry you. Blaise knew they had hit their mark. On the other side of the door there had been relief, the quiet thud of some extremity relaxing against the wall and deep breaths. They imagined her ear pressed against the door with hands clasped to her breast because she was alone, oh so alone, and perhaps no one had lent her an ear in days. They'd hit all the notes she wanted to hear. The hope they'd pretended to gain from her was blossoming in her chest as they spoke.
And then they plucked it by the root.
Silence shifted the atmosphere around them from one of two vulnerable people willing themselves through self-erected barrier to a child hearing the monster in their closet talk back for the first time. The girl did not respond at first. It did not sound like she even dared breathe. It was okay. Blaise had the patience to dwell in this moment, no, more than patience. Desire. They wanted to preserve it. No objection would come if she chose to stay here frozen indefinitely. In this moment that would define all of hers yet to come doubt had crept in and it would not leave her again. They had exposed an unconsidered flaw in her rhetoric and they intended to make her live with the consequences. Of course it had to end eventually and when it did the girl gathered herself for a brave front. One worth applause, if they had not been there beside her all along they might believe she was truly unfazed. It was better if she believed they believed that. Earnest relief would scar her deeper than exposure.
Which brought them back to misdirection, and the truth at the center of a lie. "I play...played a lot of games. I was, you know, I was a gambler." They spoke with the tinge of embarrassment one might expect in a confession. As if they were unburdening their private sins with her now through the trust she had fosters. They were kindred spirits, no? Friends. Allies. Accomplices. Remind her that everything they did after they parted was on her head. "I was good, and I was good in part because I was confident. Do you understand?" Now they weaved the narrative. A sort of truth if you squinted. "I did not believe I would win. I knew. Regardless of odds I knew I was going to win every time. That is how I played." She did not know them. Accuracy was irrelevant. They said what she wanted to hear. "But," and they let a tremor into their voice, "I know when I am being cheated. This game, it is not fair, no? What is it they say, the house always wins? So victory was never an option for you and me."
Their gun tapped against the wall. "For anyone. You said it, this, this monster, he put the guns to our heads. So if I pull the trigger enough times...no. I will not win. But I may walk away with something, and we will all die anyway so, so what is the harm? It's all on him. Not me. Right?" They did not wait for an answer before stepping away from the door with a sigh. "But you should go. It does not seem your taste to...the things I have done, they are not for you. I would hate to get you caught up in something, I haven't heard your name on the..." They paused as if reaching a sudden revelation. "I'm sorry. I don't think I asked. What is your name?" They sandwiched the horror between hesitance and a reminder of their connection. Name for name so neither of them would forget. Well, that was what they wanted her to believe. Blaise would try because they wanted to remember to follow up after she'd had time to marinate in her mistakes. They could not promise they wouldn't sink back into null detachment in hours, even minutes, after she departed though. There were many names they no longer remembered. When this spark faded hers may not be so different.
And then they plucked it by the root.
Silence shifted the atmosphere around them from one of two vulnerable people willing themselves through self-erected barrier to a child hearing the monster in their closet talk back for the first time. The girl did not respond at first. It did not sound like she even dared breathe. It was okay. Blaise had the patience to dwell in this moment, no, more than patience. Desire. They wanted to preserve it. No objection would come if she chose to stay here frozen indefinitely. In this moment that would define all of hers yet to come doubt had crept in and it would not leave her again. They had exposed an unconsidered flaw in her rhetoric and they intended to make her live with the consequences. Of course it had to end eventually and when it did the girl gathered herself for a brave front. One worth applause, if they had not been there beside her all along they might believe she was truly unfazed. It was better if she believed they believed that. Earnest relief would scar her deeper than exposure.
Which brought them back to misdirection, and the truth at the center of a lie. "I play...played a lot of games. I was, you know, I was a gambler." They spoke with the tinge of embarrassment one might expect in a confession. As if they were unburdening their private sins with her now through the trust she had fosters. They were kindred spirits, no? Friends. Allies. Accomplices. Remind her that everything they did after they parted was on her head. "I was good, and I was good in part because I was confident. Do you understand?" Now they weaved the narrative. A sort of truth if you squinted. "I did not believe I would win. I knew. Regardless of odds I knew I was going to win every time. That is how I played." She did not know them. Accuracy was irrelevant. They said what she wanted to hear. "But," and they let a tremor into their voice, "I know when I am being cheated. This game, it is not fair, no? What is it they say, the house always wins? So victory was never an option for you and me."
Their gun tapped against the wall. "For anyone. You said it, this, this monster, he put the guns to our heads. So if I pull the trigger enough times...no. I will not win. But I may walk away with something, and we will all die anyway so, so what is the harm? It's all on him. Not me. Right?" They did not wait for an answer before stepping away from the door with a sigh. "But you should go. It does not seem your taste to...the things I have done, they are not for you. I would hate to get you caught up in something, I haven't heard your name on the..." They paused as if reaching a sudden revelation. "I'm sorry. I don't think I asked. What is your name?" They sandwiched the horror between hesitance and a reminder of their connection. Name for name so neither of them would forget. Well, that was what they wanted her to believe. Blaise would try because they wanted to remember to follow up after she'd had time to marinate in her mistakes. They could not promise they wouldn't sink back into null detachment in hours, even minutes, after she departed though. There were many names they no longer remembered. When this spark faded hers may not be so different.
Daria listened, though the listening had changed. Daria listened the way she imagined horror movie characters listen in the taut silence that presages a killer's attack. Daria listened the way she listened to an empty house after one too many scary movies. Daria listened like a woman whose life depended on what she heard.
No need for simile or metaphor. Who's in a more fucked-up place than the two of you?
But she appreciated that, unlike Quinn, Blaise bought her central premise. This was a game, rigged from the start. Quinn had pretended there was no game. At least Blaise was aware of the stakes. Even if she was...
Playing to win playing to win killing people like you killing you
"House always wins," Daria murmured, echoing Blaise. But was her only interruption, as the other girl spoke. Listening with all her attention razored in.
guns to our heads
we will all die anyway so, so what is the harm?
would hate to get you caught up in something
Victory was never an option for you and me.
Blaise asked her name. Daria closed her eyes one last time. In, out.
"Wow, I guess someone never liked and subscribed to my channel," Daria grumbled, with a touch of genuine irritation and a little amusement. "It's Daria, Blaise. And no. I'm not gonna be on the Announcements. Not until..."
She trailed off.
caught up in something
what is the harm?
Victory was never an option
Lose-lose scenario. Like nuclear war. God, Daria was scared of nukes. Moment she'd watched (shit, what was it? Something with Hiroshima, and she'd asked her mom, and found out what they could do 70 years ago, what nukes could do now) that movie. A nuke was one of the worst things she could imagine. At least with a meteor, it would be a cosmic accident. A nuke was malice without the possibility of survival. Daria would die by violence she could never have escaped.
You can't escape it now.
"You ever see War Games?" Daria asked. "80s movie? With the guy who plays Ferris Bueller. It's about the Cold War, and this computer that's running nukes At the end of the movie, this computer almost starts a nuclear war, because it doesn't understand..."
She knew what she wanted to say. She was terrified to say it.
"House always wins," Daria said. "But your metaphor's a little off. This ain't-" (shit shit what was the game where you said hit me was it hit me shit) "-a casino," she said, without missing a beat. "We're not supposed to play against the house. House ain't even playing. Just making us play."
The metaphor hit her, so obvious she felt like smacking herself in the head. She opened her eyes. "Can't play the house, because it's not a casino. It's a coliseum. Can't beat the coliseum if we're too busy trying to survive it."
She shook her head and rapped her knuckles against the side of the house. "It was...it was interesting talking to you, Blaise. I'm gonna clear out. Give you some space. But if you change your mind about...about how you want to die, you're welcome to come back. Sometimes..."
Terrified to say it. But not much of a lifetime left.
"Sometimes the only winning move is not to play."
Daria turned, and walked back to the house where she'd woken up. Her neck ached with longing to turn back and see if the murderer would open the door. She didn't let herself turn. Maybe she'd open the door and call out. Maybe she'd open the door and shoot Daria down. Maybe she'd keep the door closed. Had to make the most of their deaths.
Victory's an option, Blaise. As long as we don't play by their rules.
(Daria Bhatia continued in Terminal Gardener)
No need for simile or metaphor. Who's in a more fucked-up place than the two of you?
But she appreciated that, unlike Quinn, Blaise bought her central premise. This was a game, rigged from the start. Quinn had pretended there was no game. At least Blaise was aware of the stakes. Even if she was...
Playing to win playing to win killing people like you killing you
"House always wins," Daria murmured, echoing Blaise. But was her only interruption, as the other girl spoke. Listening with all her attention razored in.
guns to our heads
we will all die anyway so, so what is the harm?
would hate to get you caught up in something
Victory was never an option for you and me.
Blaise asked her name. Daria closed her eyes one last time. In, out.
"Wow, I guess someone never liked and subscribed to my channel," Daria grumbled, with a touch of genuine irritation and a little amusement. "It's Daria, Blaise. And no. I'm not gonna be on the Announcements. Not until..."
She trailed off.
caught up in something
what is the harm?
Victory was never an option
Lose-lose scenario. Like nuclear war. God, Daria was scared of nukes. Moment she'd watched (shit, what was it? Something with Hiroshima, and she'd asked her mom, and found out what they could do 70 years ago, what nukes could do now) that movie. A nuke was one of the worst things she could imagine. At least with a meteor, it would be a cosmic accident. A nuke was malice without the possibility of survival. Daria would die by violence she could never have escaped.
You can't escape it now.
"You ever see War Games?" Daria asked. "80s movie? With the guy who plays Ferris Bueller. It's about the Cold War, and this computer that's running nukes At the end of the movie, this computer almost starts a nuclear war, because it doesn't understand..."
She knew what she wanted to say. She was terrified to say it.
"House always wins," Daria said. "But your metaphor's a little off. This ain't-" (shit shit what was the game where you said hit me was it hit me shit) "-a casino," she said, without missing a beat. "We're not supposed to play against the house. House ain't even playing. Just making us play."
The metaphor hit her, so obvious she felt like smacking herself in the head. She opened her eyes. "Can't play the house, because it's not a casino. It's a coliseum. Can't beat the coliseum if we're too busy trying to survive it."
She shook her head and rapped her knuckles against the side of the house. "It was...it was interesting talking to you, Blaise. I'm gonna clear out. Give you some space. But if you change your mind about...about how you want to die, you're welcome to come back. Sometimes..."
Terrified to say it. But not much of a lifetime left.
"Sometimes the only winning move is not to play."
Daria turned, and walked back to the house where she'd woken up. Her neck ached with longing to turn back and see if the murderer would open the door. She didn't let herself turn. Maybe she'd open the door and call out. Maybe she'd open the door and shoot Daria down. Maybe she'd keep the door closed. Had to make the most of their deaths.
Victory's an option, Blaise. As long as we don't play by their rules.
(Daria Bhatia continued in Terminal Gardener)
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
Daria revealed much in her responses. Who could say how much was intentional? They could not know, but Blaise suspected she did not intend for their focus to be on throw away details such as 'liked and subscribed to my channel.' That told them so much more than the message she wanted to convey. Of course they had suspicions that she was putting on a performance, perhaps even came from an acting background, but now they were in new light. Daria did not play characters. By her, what, profession? Hobby? They did not know her well enough to say. Nature, perhaps, would do. By the nature of her work Daria did not play characters, not based on how she presented herself. Daria was the character, and on another day they might have dismissed that with a sort of sneering hypocrisy but there was a certain connection in it they could not deny. They found themselves in similar positions. Blaise's had crumbled. So how long would Daria's last when she began to face real pressure now that its foundation had eroded?
The door did not look so thick or so sturdy.
They could dispense with all the lies. She did not seem like a fighter. It would be over quickly and they could see with their own eyes if the shock was enough. That was the gamble, no? To see if their sudden betrayal would be enough to knock her into freefall despair? Perhaps it would not be so quick then. They might let her run. Between the two of them she would not get far, far enough to escape at least, and every step she took would remind her of the mistakes she made. With her death staring her down just steps away behind her she might break and regret that in all these days instead of trying to protect herself she wasted her time screaming at deaf ears who would forget her the moment they no longer had to keep track of her.
Yes. She might.
Or she might not.
Blaise was not ready to test luck that had so clearly betrayed them at every turn so far. It would be better to let her stew. Her last suggestion though, they could do something with that. They moved to the door and let their forehead rest against it before calling out to her. "We all play, Daria. The game moves on without note for protest. I will make you an offer as well. When you can't do this anymore. When you are ready to lose. Find me. I will make it peaceful."
What was one more lie?
((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued In The Edge Of Heaven))
The door did not look so thick or so sturdy.
They could dispense with all the lies. She did not seem like a fighter. It would be over quickly and they could see with their own eyes if the shock was enough. That was the gamble, no? To see if their sudden betrayal would be enough to knock her into freefall despair? Perhaps it would not be so quick then. They might let her run. Between the two of them she would not get far, far enough to escape at least, and every step she took would remind her of the mistakes she made. With her death staring her down just steps away behind her she might break and regret that in all these days instead of trying to protect herself she wasted her time screaming at deaf ears who would forget her the moment they no longer had to keep track of her.
Yes. She might.
Or she might not.
Blaise was not ready to test luck that had so clearly betrayed them at every turn so far. It would be better to let her stew. Her last suggestion though, they could do something with that. They moved to the door and let their forehead rest against it before calling out to her. "We all play, Daria. The game moves on without note for protest. I will make you an offer as well. When you can't do this anymore. When you are ready to lose. Find me. I will make it peaceful."
What was one more lie?
((Blaise D'Aramitz Continued In The Edge Of Heaven))