ZIER, CATHERINE
G057
DECEASED
G057
DECEASED
Sleet in June
open. day 7. some time after the announcements. come poke the corpse.
((continued from nowhere.))
Mikey was crouched down next to her, covered by the shade of the house he found her by. In one hand, he held his pistol. In the other, he held his PDM. He glanced at Catherine's face, then at the PDM's screen, then back at Catherine. He was still wearing his cult robes, hood up. They were one of his many protective shells.
"That's pretty fuckin' rough, Cathy," he muttered. "Sorry it took so long."
He wondered who'd given her the blanket; whether it was pre or post-mortem.
The announcements had played about fifteen minutes ago. She'd died fairly recently.
"Sorry I wasn't here sooner too, I guess."
He fiddled a bit with the PDM. Two beeps sounded out from the insulin pod stuck into her arm.
"Sorry 'bout shooting you in the first place."
He adjusted his sunglasses and sniffled.
"I... I thought you like - you wanted me to shoot you."
Charelle Chernyshyova burned to death. Aditi Sharma's collar was detonated. Tirzah shot Wyatt. Erika shot Tanisha Abbey. Valerija Bogdanovic, who Teresa'd said had been extolling the 'power of friendship,' shot Camille Bellegarde. Henry shot Marco V. Mikey was proud of Henry. Everyone who'd been present for Beryl's first burial had killed. Justin killed Jackson Sullivan. Adele Jones's collar was detonated. Justin bludgeoned Nia. Justin killed Nia. Nia was supposed to be the one who killed Michael. Nia was dead. Michael'd never gotten the chance to tell her Jeremiah's last words. It was sad, he guessed. Sadder than the baseline, which was already pretty sad. Justin had Nia's gun now, and her BKA weapon, whatever it was. "5D chess," Mikey'd said to the camera after Nia's name had been announced. Nia wasn't supposed to be dead. Justin bludgeoned Johnny Silva Ruiz. Tyrell Lahti pushed Lorenzo Tavares off a balcony. Yuka and Michael had shot and stabbed Roxie Borowski. He already knew about that. He was Michael Froese, he remembered. Arizona Butler stabbed Quinn. Quinn had told Michael he wasn't worth killing. Michael was still alive, and being alive hurt in an indescribably horrible way. Claude killed Meka Gibson in an unspecified way. Lori was still with Claude, or at least her drugs were. Her drugs were still with Michael too. He missed her. He still hoped she was doing okay. Somehow he'd tricked himself into caring about her more than his baseline care. Sven Vee fell off the waterfall. Paloma killed Tony. At least Tony'd died before Aliya.
Half the class was dead.
Michael was still here.
He was still here.
He still remembered every name. He still remembered the exact order.
"Sorry."
He sat against the wall, pulled a new insulin pod out of his pack, and started the tedious process of preparing it.
He was a spree killer now, he supposed.
Mikey was crouched down next to her, covered by the shade of the house he found her by. In one hand, he held his pistol. In the other, he held his PDM. He glanced at Catherine's face, then at the PDM's screen, then back at Catherine. He was still wearing his cult robes, hood up. They were one of his many protective shells.
"That's pretty fuckin' rough, Cathy," he muttered. "Sorry it took so long."
He wondered who'd given her the blanket; whether it was pre or post-mortem.
The announcements had played about fifteen minutes ago. She'd died fairly recently.
"Sorry I wasn't here sooner too, I guess."
He fiddled a bit with the PDM. Two beeps sounded out from the insulin pod stuck into her arm.
"Sorry 'bout shooting you in the first place."
He adjusted his sunglasses and sniffled.
"I... I thought you like - you wanted me to shoot you."
Charelle Chernyshyova burned to death. Aditi Sharma's collar was detonated. Tirzah shot Wyatt. Erika shot Tanisha Abbey. Valerija Bogdanovic, who Teresa'd said had been extolling the 'power of friendship,' shot Camille Bellegarde. Henry shot Marco V. Mikey was proud of Henry. Everyone who'd been present for Beryl's first burial had killed. Justin killed Jackson Sullivan. Adele Jones's collar was detonated. Justin bludgeoned Nia. Justin killed Nia. Nia was supposed to be the one who killed Michael. Nia was dead. Michael'd never gotten the chance to tell her Jeremiah's last words. It was sad, he guessed. Sadder than the baseline, which was already pretty sad. Justin had Nia's gun now, and her BKA weapon, whatever it was. "5D chess," Mikey'd said to the camera after Nia's name had been announced. Nia wasn't supposed to be dead. Justin bludgeoned Johnny Silva Ruiz. Tyrell Lahti pushed Lorenzo Tavares off a balcony. Yuka and Michael had shot and stabbed Roxie Borowski. He already knew about that. He was Michael Froese, he remembered. Arizona Butler stabbed Quinn. Quinn had told Michael he wasn't worth killing. Michael was still alive, and being alive hurt in an indescribably horrible way. Claude killed Meka Gibson in an unspecified way. Lori was still with Claude, or at least her drugs were. Her drugs were still with Michael too. He missed her. He still hoped she was doing okay. Somehow he'd tricked himself into caring about her more than his baseline care. Sven Vee fell off the waterfall. Paloma killed Tony. At least Tony'd died before Aliya.
Half the class was dead.
Michael was still here.
He was still here.
He still remembered every name. He still remembered the exact order.
"Sorry."
He sat against the wall, pulled a new insulin pod out of his pack, and started the tedious process of preparing it.
He was a spree killer now, he supposed.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Catherine had died some time in the morning.
It was perhaps the most peaceful death that the island had witnessed.
It was a quiet passing into the night until the morning's sun rose into the sky. Catherine was just not there to see it.
It was strange to Catherine, at least if she had been alive, that Michael had found her again. It was a disconcerting coincidence, the type of thing you saw in movies and in books. But it had happened right there, right beside her.
If she could hum, she would. It was quiet in the morning. It was something that Catherine enjoyed here. It was very quiet. You could even call it peaceful if you had the capacity to ignore certain things about the island.
Catherine had found that peace somewhere deep inside a house after her body deciding to fail on her. It was a nice thing for her body to do really. She knew for a fact that staying alive within this realm was just another way for her to find new sufferings to face. She wasn't put out of her misery or anything, a bullet between her eyes or a knife to her heart.
She had died peacefully in her sleep.
It was a luxury on this island. It was something that nobody really deserved either. Catherine knew she didn't deserve this fate. She had been a coward who had never faced anything until she had a bullet go through her chest.
Even if she was privileged to die like this, she still had one or two bones to pick with it. She wasn't quite sure how she had died. There was the obvious and clear and simple and clean reason that her body had simply given up. But it was too obvious. The type of red herrings people threw at you when you figured a little too much about them.
If she had to be honest, Catherine didn't like this fermata. It had left too much for interpretation. It wrapped around and spiraled out of control and into the white noise of the world back again. There wasn't anything to be held but her consciousness as it slipped. Her mouth was drooling, it was heavy.
She felt sick. Her body had trucked her to this place in the darkness, unable to see anymore. It made her feel sick. Was it the bullet inside of her? Was it the pain that had reached her brain? Catherine's breathing suddenly picked up. She had no idea what was going on and suddenly she felt pressure on the top of her skull.
Finally after all of her travels on the island, ((she had reached her final destination.))
It was perhaps the most peaceful death that the island had witnessed.
It was a quiet passing into the night until the morning's sun rose into the sky. Catherine was just not there to see it.
It was strange to Catherine, at least if she had been alive, that Michael had found her again. It was a disconcerting coincidence, the type of thing you saw in movies and in books. But it had happened right there, right beside her.
If she could hum, she would. It was quiet in the morning. It was something that Catherine enjoyed here. It was very quiet. You could even call it peaceful if you had the capacity to ignore certain things about the island.
Catherine had found that peace somewhere deep inside a house after her body deciding to fail on her. It was a nice thing for her body to do really. She knew for a fact that staying alive within this realm was just another way for her to find new sufferings to face. She wasn't put out of her misery or anything, a bullet between her eyes or a knife to her heart.
She had died peacefully in her sleep.
It was a luxury on this island. It was something that nobody really deserved either. Catherine knew she didn't deserve this fate. She had been a coward who had never faced anything until she had a bullet go through her chest.
Even if she was privileged to die like this, she still had one or two bones to pick with it. She wasn't quite sure how she had died. There was the obvious and clear and simple and clean reason that her body had simply given up. But it was too obvious. The type of red herrings people threw at you when you figured a little too much about them.
If she had to be honest, Catherine didn't like this fermata. It had left too much for interpretation. It wrapped around and spiraled out of control and into the white noise of the world back again. There wasn't anything to be held but her consciousness as it slipped. Her mouth was drooling, it was heavy.
She felt sick. Her body had trucked her to this place in the darkness, unable to see anymore. It made her feel sick. Was it the bullet inside of her? Was it the pain that had reached her brain? Catherine's breathing suddenly picked up. She had no idea what was going on and suddenly she felt pressure on the top of her skull.
Finally after all of her travels on the island, ((she had reached her final destination.))
Michael flinched as the insulin delivery cannula stabbed itself into his arm. He'd been using pods for a few years now, but he'd never gotten used to the changing process. Slowly, he stood up and shuffled over to a couch near Catherine's corpse.
"I only told you part of the story, you know."
Catherine did not answer. He stared down at her face and nudged her hand with his foot.
"The plane kept on sinking forever. There's no such thing as rock bottom. It's just," he made a falling whistle noise, "like that, forever."
Catherine did not answer. He poked the side of her torso with his foot. Catherine made a wet belch-esque noise as the air was forced out of her lung(s?).
"Thanks for the input."
He sat down on the couch.
"I wish we were somewhere else, Catherine."
Catherine did not answer.
"I think I get why you did what you did. There's that little voice in your head that tells you to do shit that you know's gonna hurt you and you finally found an excuse to listen to it."
Catherine did not answer.
"Me too."
He slipped off his sunglasses and clipped them onto his robe. Tears dripped blankly onto the floor.
"I think I'm just committing the world's least efficient suicide."
Catherine did not answer.
"I'm sorry I dragged you down with me."
Catherine did not answer.
"I miss us being people," he closed his eyes tight. His voice shook.
Catherine did not answer.
"I'm so fucking tired, Catherine," he choked. His mouth curled into a grimace.
Catherine did not answer.
Michael sank down, pulled his hood down over his eyes, and wept in silence.
Woe was him, or whatever.
"I only told you part of the story, you know."
Catherine did not answer. He stared down at her face and nudged her hand with his foot.
"The plane kept on sinking forever. There's no such thing as rock bottom. It's just," he made a falling whistle noise, "like that, forever."
Catherine did not answer. He poked the side of her torso with his foot. Catherine made a wet belch-esque noise as the air was forced out of her lung(s?).
"Thanks for the input."
He sat down on the couch.
"I wish we were somewhere else, Catherine."
Catherine did not answer.
"I think I get why you did what you did. There's that little voice in your head that tells you to do shit that you know's gonna hurt you and you finally found an excuse to listen to it."
Catherine did not answer.
"Me too."
He slipped off his sunglasses and clipped them onto his robe. Tears dripped blankly onto the floor.
"I think I'm just committing the world's least efficient suicide."
Catherine did not answer.
"I'm sorry I dragged you down with me."
Catherine did not answer.
"I miss us being people," he closed his eyes tight. His voice shook.
Catherine did not answer.
"I'm so fucking tired, Catherine," he choked. His mouth curled into a grimace.
Catherine did not answer.
Michael sank down, pulled his hood down over his eyes, and wept in silence.
Woe was him, or whatever.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
((Lizzie Lebowski continued from Memories Keep Haunting Me, Chase Them All Away))
Halfway. Fantastic. There was a crack to be made there, some witty sarcasm to take the edge off the death toll, but it was beyond Lizzie. Half the class being dead would do that to you. She let out a long sigh. Or maybe a groan would be more accurate. Michael hadn’t been found in the woods, nor had any other axe wielding psychopaths, so that was nice. They’d found him in the sound of the morning murder role call, as another murderer. The announcement of the name had stung far more than any of the victims; feeling guilty about that was just icing on the halfway cake.
She hadn’t said anything to Morgan. Oh how she wished he’d give up this chase before it got them both killed, but she could see the resolve in his eyes. The resolve to drive them both along the highway to hell, to absolve himself of some perceived mistake, no matter the cost. And here she was, sat in the passenger seat, holding the wallet that was buying the gas, also known as the weapon for stabbing anyone they didn’t like in the face. She’d rather use it to buy some sodas, but the island had no vending machines.
“Can you give me a minute?” she’d asked Morgan as they’d been making their way through the row of houses. With the announcements finished, they’d elected to move on and get back to their search. “I gotta use the little girl’s room.”
She pecked him on the cheek, lingering an extra second because she needed his warmth again to save herself from being frozen by the icy aura of death. She went to find a corner to squat behind and relieve herself, the highest of luxuries. She still didn’t care for it and blushed at the thought, but no-one had been kind enough to point her towards a functioning bathroom yet. She held the shears in her hands, not considering that Morgan might have needed them. She was only going to be gone for a second, after all.
She was caught up in contemplating their plans as she did so. Trying to put names to the faces, wondering how much longer their food would last as hunger gnawed at her belly, questioning whether the people they met today would be as harmless as Jon of yesterday; all of it made her just careless enough to not check where she was walking as she rounded the corner.
“Oh! Uh-“ she instinctively yelped, seeing the hooded figure crying whom she did not recognise immediately, crying. “Sorry, I-“
She saw Catherine. She stared.
She wanted to run, but like her jokes, that skill had deserted her when she needed it most.
Halfway. Fantastic. There was a crack to be made there, some witty sarcasm to take the edge off the death toll, but it was beyond Lizzie. Half the class being dead would do that to you. She let out a long sigh. Or maybe a groan would be more accurate. Michael hadn’t been found in the woods, nor had any other axe wielding psychopaths, so that was nice. They’d found him in the sound of the morning murder role call, as another murderer. The announcement of the name had stung far more than any of the victims; feeling guilty about that was just icing on the halfway cake.
She hadn’t said anything to Morgan. Oh how she wished he’d give up this chase before it got them both killed, but she could see the resolve in his eyes. The resolve to drive them both along the highway to hell, to absolve himself of some perceived mistake, no matter the cost. And here she was, sat in the passenger seat, holding the wallet that was buying the gas, also known as the weapon for stabbing anyone they didn’t like in the face. She’d rather use it to buy some sodas, but the island had no vending machines.
“Can you give me a minute?” she’d asked Morgan as they’d been making their way through the row of houses. With the announcements finished, they’d elected to move on and get back to their search. “I gotta use the little girl’s room.”
She pecked him on the cheek, lingering an extra second because she needed his warmth again to save herself from being frozen by the icy aura of death. She went to find a corner to squat behind and relieve herself, the highest of luxuries. She still didn’t care for it and blushed at the thought, but no-one had been kind enough to point her towards a functioning bathroom yet. She held the shears in her hands, not considering that Morgan might have needed them. She was only going to be gone for a second, after all.
She was caught up in contemplating their plans as she did so. Trying to put names to the faces, wondering how much longer their food would last as hunger gnawed at her belly, questioning whether the people they met today would be as harmless as Jon of yesterday; all of it made her just careless enough to not check where she was walking as she rounded the corner.
“Oh! Uh-“ she instinctively yelped, seeing the hooded figure crying whom she did not recognise immediately, crying. “Sorry, I-“
She saw Catherine. She stared.
She wanted to run, but like her jokes, that skill had deserted her when she needed it most.
Michael raised his gun before he raised his head. The sudden upward jerking movement of his body caused his hood to kinda flumph off. He almost pulled the trigger on reflex, but he managed to catch himself.
Then, he saw the intruder's face. He saw her deer-in-headlights stare. He stared back with, unbeknownst to him, the same look in his eyes.
Lizzie. Morgan was supposed to be finding her. Morgan was in love with her and she was in love with Morgan and Michael didn't want to hurt her and he didn't want to hurt anyone but he knew he'd hurt them anyways because the things he wanted to do would hurt them and-
His hands were shaking. Most of him was shaking. The tears sped up. He tried to will something resembling words from his mouth, but instead his body wracked forward and his throat made a choked sob.
He kept staring up into her eyes, still blindly pointing the gun at her. He'd forgotten how to move.
"Please don't," he managed to mouth.
Then, he saw the intruder's face. He saw her deer-in-headlights stare. He stared back with, unbeknownst to him, the same look in his eyes.
Lizzie. Morgan was supposed to be finding her. Morgan was in love with her and she was in love with Morgan and Michael didn't want to hurt her and he didn't want to hurt anyone but he knew he'd hurt them anyways because the things he wanted to do would hurt them and-
His hands were shaking. Most of him was shaking. The tears sped up. He tried to will something resembling words from his mouth, but instead his body wracked forward and his throat made a choked sob.
He kept staring up into her eyes, still blindly pointing the gun at her. He'd forgotten how to move.
"Please don't," he managed to mouth.
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
She saw the barrel before she saw Michael’s face. Flashbacks to the first day. She still didn’t want to die. No blind kids to take hostage this time though.
She stammered, legs unable to decide between trying to run for her life, or doing what the guy with the gun said. Rationality won out: she was no SuperLizzie; she couldn’t outrun a speeding bullet.
She switched focus, settling on the face that she had to take an extra moment to recognise, It wasn’t just because she had only seen him a few times when she’d been meeting up with Morgan, or because they’d both been through the ringer of a week living in the great outdoors.
It was because this wasn’t the same face as before. He had tired eyes.
She swallowed, not saying anything. She saw that he was crying, that he was shaking, that he didn’t want to be there. Neither did she, believe it or not. She wasn’t sure if she was going to cry, because she wasn’t ready for it to be over. She wasn’t ready for everything she’d thought would happen when they met Michael to actually happen for reals.
She only just managed to read his lips, but it was too open a plea. Don’t run? Don’t scream? Don’t cry? Don’t fight back? Don’t what, Michael? Don’t what to stay alive?
She just stood there, not raising her hands or dropping her shears. Her own eyes darted between the corpse and Michael and the gun, trying to find a way out of the dead end she’d walked into. There wasn’t one.
“Why?” was all she could think to ask. If this was how she was going to die because of Morgan's quest to redeem Michael, she at least deserved to know that much.
She stammered, legs unable to decide between trying to run for her life, or doing what the guy with the gun said. Rationality won out: she was no SuperLizzie; she couldn’t outrun a speeding bullet.
She switched focus, settling on the face that she had to take an extra moment to recognise, It wasn’t just because she had only seen him a few times when she’d been meeting up with Morgan, or because they’d both been through the ringer of a week living in the great outdoors.
It was because this wasn’t the same face as before. He had tired eyes.
She swallowed, not saying anything. She saw that he was crying, that he was shaking, that he didn’t want to be there. Neither did she, believe it or not. She wasn’t sure if she was going to cry, because she wasn’t ready for it to be over. She wasn’t ready for everything she’d thought would happen when they met Michael to actually happen for reals.
She only just managed to read his lips, but it was too open a plea. Don’t run? Don’t scream? Don’t cry? Don’t fight back? Don’t what, Michael? Don’t what to stay alive?
She just stood there, not raising her hands or dropping her shears. Her own eyes darted between the corpse and Michael and the gun, trying to find a way out of the dead end she’d walked into. There wasn’t one.
“Why?” was all she could think to ask. If this was how she was going to die because of Morgan's quest to redeem Michael, she at least deserved to know that much.
'Please don't stay. Please don't tell Morgan I'm here,' was what he'd wanted to say. He didn't know if Morgan was with Lizzie, but he knew it made sense for Morgan to have found Lizzie, so he knew Morgan was with Lizzie.
"Why?" Lizzie asked, potentially referring to any number of things.
Michael stared for a few seconds, his mouth half-open.
'Because I'm generally both very sad and very angry,' he wanted to say.
'Because I'm very sad and very angry specifically because my crush died for no fucking reason,' he wanted to say.
'Because I've already seen how this ends,' he wanted to say.
'Because I don't want to spend the last week of my life as a third wheel,' he wanted to say.
'Because it makes them happy,' he wanted to say.
'Because I care,' he wanted to say.
'Because I want to be hated,' he wanted to say
'Because it makes me feel like somebody other than myself,' he wanted to say.
'Because it's the only thing that still makes me feel like myself,' he wanted to say.
'Because just waking up here on the first day was enough to break me and I'm afraid that the people watching will make fun of me if I ever let them know,' he wanted to say.
'Because it hurts me too. It's like the original version of Hurt, with Trent Reznor. Not the Johnny Cash version. It's an important distinction to make; the songs convey different messages,' he wanted to say.
'Because it's all I have left,' he wanted to say.
'Because we're already dead,' he wanted to say.
'Because I want your knife thingy,' he wanted to say.
'Because I've only ever felt actual hope once in my life, and it was enough to break me,' he wanted to say.
'Because I'm not even alive on my own terms,' he wanted to say.
'Because falls are the only thing I know how to take,' he wanted to say.
'Gucci Gang,' he wanted to say.
'Because I can't justify it,' he wanted to say.
'Because I'm still here,' he wanted to say.
There were more things he wanted to say — an infinite number, in fact — but it would be impractical to list them all.
Nothing he wanted to say was a lie.
Michael instead said nothing, and shook his head slightly. The shaking in his hands stopped, as did his tears. He inhaled deeply through his nose. He blinked. The gun did not move.
The emotion in his voice went blank.
"Give me a reason why not."
"Why?" Lizzie asked, potentially referring to any number of things.
Michael stared for a few seconds, his mouth half-open.
'Because I'm generally both very sad and very angry,' he wanted to say.
'Because I'm very sad and very angry specifically because my crush died for no fucking reason,' he wanted to say.
'Because I've already seen how this ends,' he wanted to say.
'Because I don't want to spend the last week of my life as a third wheel,' he wanted to say.
'Because it makes them happy,' he wanted to say.
'Because I care,' he wanted to say.
'Because I want to be hated,' he wanted to say
'Because it makes me feel like somebody other than myself,' he wanted to say.
'Because it's the only thing that still makes me feel like myself,' he wanted to say.
'Because just waking up here on the first day was enough to break me and I'm afraid that the people watching will make fun of me if I ever let them know,' he wanted to say.
'Because it hurts me too. It's like the original version of Hurt, with Trent Reznor. Not the Johnny Cash version. It's an important distinction to make; the songs convey different messages,' he wanted to say.
'Because it's all I have left,' he wanted to say.
'Because we're already dead,' he wanted to say.
'Because I want your knife thingy,' he wanted to say.
'Because I've only ever felt actual hope once in my life, and it was enough to break me,' he wanted to say.
'Because I'm not even alive on my own terms,' he wanted to say.
'Because falls are the only thing I know how to take,' he wanted to say.
'Gucci Gang,' he wanted to say.
'Because I can't justify it,' he wanted to say.
'Because I'm still here,' he wanted to say.
There were more things he wanted to say — an infinite number, in fact — but it would be impractical to list them all.
Nothing he wanted to say was a lie.
Michael instead said nothing, and shook his head slightly. The shaking in his hands stopped, as did his tears. He inhaled deeply through his nose. He blinked. The gun did not move.
The emotion in his voice went blank.
"Give me a reason why not."
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
He should have known. All along, he should have known exactly what would happen once he finally laid eyes upon Michael Froese, and the announcement had only affirmed that. He'd barely had a moment to reconsider this fool's errand before the errand had exploded in his face.
Or at least, it was about to.
"Mike?"
((Morgan Dragosavich continued from Memories Keep Haunting Me, Help Me Chase Them All Away))
Lizzie taking a moment to relieve herself wasn't anything out of the ordinary — after all, they'd been on the move for a while, trying not to stay too long in one spot. The conditions hadn't gotten any better, and Morgan's green shirt was starting to almost look brown in spots, thanks to a week's worth of wear. The pixelated orange cat was starting to fade and its hiss was still legible but far less ferocious. Since the horrible words had poured from the speakers, Morgan's stomach had twisted into knots.
Michael had killed again.
Even more worrisome, another one of his friends, Henry Sparks — who had been high on his list of people to find — had killed as well. The list of people that he knew who were both alive and not murderers was starting to become a very, very short list.
How much longer would any of them be able to maintain their humanity? How much longer would it take until he or Lizzie or any of the other kind, gentle human beings that he knew from school became unhinged killing machines? Nearly everyone that he considered a friend had drawn blood at this point, save maybe Jonah.
Morgan had been glad that Lizzie was gone for the moment as he'd processed all of that information, because his distress would have undoubtedly been a catalyst for her own emotional reaction. She needed him to be strong — which was stupid, because she was strong enough on her own for the two of them — but he had to keep trying. He had to at least imagine that his friends weren't beyond saving. Erika and Michael may have been off the deep end, but he could at least try and toss the life preserver.
Whether they accepted it or shot holes in it was a whole other question.
It had taken a few moments before he'd started to wonder where Lizzie had gotten off to, and carefully following her path, he'd silently crept along the path to the rear of the building. Between the two of them, modesty was barely a thing any longer; there was no longer a need for it, but he wanted to at least give the impression of being courteous. It wasn't until he'd turned the corner and taken in the sights in front of him — the robes, the gun, the two figures frozen, locked in a tense standoff, that he straightened up and made his presence known.
Since the last time he'd seen his friend, Michael looked decidedly the worse for wear. The robe he was wearing was a strange adornment and looked unfamiliar, and his eyes were darting, haunted. He looked like a wild animal.
Morgan barely recognized him.
"Mike, what— Michael, it's me. It's Morgan. I found her, man. It's okay. It's going to be okay."
It probably wasn't, but his voice sounded strong and that had to count for something.
Or at least, it was about to.
"Mike?"
((Morgan Dragosavich continued from Memories Keep Haunting Me, Help Me Chase Them All Away))
Lizzie taking a moment to relieve herself wasn't anything out of the ordinary — after all, they'd been on the move for a while, trying not to stay too long in one spot. The conditions hadn't gotten any better, and Morgan's green shirt was starting to almost look brown in spots, thanks to a week's worth of wear. The pixelated orange cat was starting to fade and its hiss was still legible but far less ferocious. Since the horrible words had poured from the speakers, Morgan's stomach had twisted into knots.
Michael had killed again.
Even more worrisome, another one of his friends, Henry Sparks — who had been high on his list of people to find — had killed as well. The list of people that he knew who were both alive and not murderers was starting to become a very, very short list.
How much longer would any of them be able to maintain their humanity? How much longer would it take until he or Lizzie or any of the other kind, gentle human beings that he knew from school became unhinged killing machines? Nearly everyone that he considered a friend had drawn blood at this point, save maybe Jonah.
Morgan had been glad that Lizzie was gone for the moment as he'd processed all of that information, because his distress would have undoubtedly been a catalyst for her own emotional reaction. She needed him to be strong — which was stupid, because she was strong enough on her own for the two of them — but he had to keep trying. He had to at least imagine that his friends weren't beyond saving. Erika and Michael may have been off the deep end, but he could at least try and toss the life preserver.
Whether they accepted it or shot holes in it was a whole other question.
It had taken a few moments before he'd started to wonder where Lizzie had gotten off to, and carefully following her path, he'd silently crept along the path to the rear of the building. Between the two of them, modesty was barely a thing any longer; there was no longer a need for it, but he wanted to at least give the impression of being courteous. It wasn't until he'd turned the corner and taken in the sights in front of him — the robes, the gun, the two figures frozen, locked in a tense standoff, that he straightened up and made his presence known.
Since the last time he'd seen his friend, Michael looked decidedly the worse for wear. The robe he was wearing was a strange adornment and looked unfamiliar, and his eyes were darting, haunted. He looked like a wild animal.
Morgan barely recognized him.
"Mike, what— Michael, it's me. It's Morgan. I found her, man. It's okay. It's going to be okay."
It probably wasn't, but his voice sounded strong and that had to count for something.
She started to panic. She was racking her brain for the response, the justification for why she should walk away without any additional bullet wounds. It wasn’t hard to come up with some ‘Because I don’t want to die’, ‘Because you don’t have to’, ‘Because getting shot probably hurts like hell’, ‘Because I’m too pretty to become a corpse today’, but everything sounded wrong in her head. Her hands started to shake as her pulse quickened.
“Be-because...” she stammered, looking more and more frightened with every second the barrel was aimed at her. Michael’s face was blurred in the background behind it. “Because-“ she repeated, no answer forthcoming. She felt tears of fear welling up in her own eyes. Not yet, not like this.
Morgan’s voice.
She turned around, breaking her fix on the gun that had consumed her world. A brief relief came over her, only to be washed away when she turned back and the gun was still there.
She swallowed. A part of her brain was screaming to get out of there, to grab Morgan and start running, SuperLizzie or not. She suppressed the instinct, difficult as it was as all the muscles in her legs prepared to do so. Maybe it was a determination to see this through, but more than likely it was that she knew she wouldn’t make it two steps if she did.
“Yeah, Michael, it’s ok. Let’s just talk this out, yeah?”
‘Morgan, please don’t let me die because of this’ she thought, with tears still in her eyes.
“Be-because...” she stammered, looking more and more frightened with every second the barrel was aimed at her. Michael’s face was blurred in the background behind it. “Because-“ she repeated, no answer forthcoming. She felt tears of fear welling up in her own eyes. Not yet, not like this.
Morgan’s voice.
She turned around, breaking her fix on the gun that had consumed her world. A brief relief came over her, only to be washed away when she turned back and the gun was still there.
She swallowed. A part of her brain was screaming to get out of there, to grab Morgan and start running, SuperLizzie or not. She suppressed the instinct, difficult as it was as all the muscles in her legs prepared to do so. Maybe it was a determination to see this through, but more than likely it was that she knew she wouldn’t make it two steps if she did.
“Yeah, Michael, it’s ok. Let’s just talk this out, yeah?”
‘Morgan, please don’t let me die because of this’ she thought, with tears still in her eyes.
Any reason would have done, really. Michael hadn't been asking for one; he'd been pleading for one.
Someone stepped around the same corner Lizzie had. He didn't need to hear their voice or even look at them to know who they were. He'd known even before they'd rounded the corner. He'd known as soon as Lizzie'd stumbled in. He already knew what they were going to try to do.
He didn't want sympathy. He didn't want to get better. He didn't want Morgan to throw his and Lizzie's lives away trying to save someone who didn't want to be saved.
He'd ruined his own life; been trapped by his own actions. He didn't deserve to get better. He wasn't supposed to get better.
"It's okay," Morgan said. "It's okay," Lizzie said.
He stood up from his seat at the couch and took a step backward, away from Morgan and Lizzie. His heel grazed against Catherine's shoulder. The gun stayed pointed at Lizzie. He knew it would deter Morgan better than pointing the gun at him.
"Let's talk it out," Lizzie said. She and Morgan were saying his name a lot. They were talking to him like he was a kid who'd just burst into a classroom with an assault rifle. They were talking to him like he was a spree killer.
He was a spree killer.
He'd forgotten about that, for a moment.
"I'm not -" his eyes drifted over to meet Morgan's. He scowled. "- It's too fucking late for that. I can't go back from what I've done. I don't get to be okay -" he cut himself off, "- just, both of you - just please," a little bit of emotion bled into his voice, "if you're still free, just start running. Get - get the fuck away from this while you still can."
Someone stepped around the same corner Lizzie had. He didn't need to hear their voice or even look at them to know who they were. He'd known even before they'd rounded the corner. He'd known as soon as Lizzie'd stumbled in. He already knew what they were going to try to do.
He didn't want sympathy. He didn't want to get better. He didn't want Morgan to throw his and Lizzie's lives away trying to save someone who didn't want to be saved.
He'd ruined his own life; been trapped by his own actions. He didn't deserve to get better. He wasn't supposed to get better.
"It's okay," Morgan said. "It's okay," Lizzie said.
He stood up from his seat at the couch and took a step backward, away from Morgan and Lizzie. His heel grazed against Catherine's shoulder. The gun stayed pointed at Lizzie. He knew it would deter Morgan better than pointing the gun at him.
"Let's talk it out," Lizzie said. She and Morgan were saying his name a lot. They were talking to him like he was a kid who'd just burst into a classroom with an assault rifle. They were talking to him like he was a spree killer.
He was a spree killer.
He'd forgotten about that, for a moment.
"I'm not -" his eyes drifted over to meet Morgan's. He scowled. "- It's too fucking late for that. I can't go back from what I've done. I don't get to be okay -" he cut himself off, "- just, both of you - just please," a little bit of emotion bled into his voice, "if you're still free, just start running. Get - get the fuck away from this while you still can."
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
The gun never wavered, which for Morgan's own personal safety was fine, but it was aimed squarely in Lizzie's direction, which wouldn't do. Whatever hole that Michael had placed himself in since they'd parted ways in the Commissary had only gotten deeper and his friend was undoubtedly madder than he'd been days before. He could see the tension coursing through his girlfriend's face as she looked helplessly at him, wordlessly urging him to do something, anything. Much like before, his friend was trying to push him away.
Much like before, Morgan knew that he couldn't, so he slowly stepped closer.
"I'm not going to run away from you, man. I told you that already. I tried— I tried to follow you, before."
When Michael had made the choice for the both of them; to ditch Morgan. He'd almost ended up dead by way of a beeping collar.
"So you've killed people. So what, man? That doesn't make you special anymore. More and more names get read off every day, which means that more and more people have had to do what they feel needs to be done," he swallowed, trying very hard to keep his voice even-keeled and not sanctimonious or sarcastic.
"What's the plan, then? You're just going to," he paused, hunting for the right words. He'd tried before to use emotion and guilt to break Michael from what he'd thought had been a suicidal guilt-trance. This seemed different. He wasn't sure that the same tactic would work, and his friend would likely put the pieces together and see right through it. "You don't have to do this alone, man. It's what I keep trying to tell you."
He let the words sink in, and then as casually as he could muster, he stepped in front of Lizzie. The angry knot in his stomach felt more like a gut-punch, particularly now as he took note of the corpse that was soundlessly taking notice of this little reunion.
Catherine Zier; discarded like yesterday's trash.
"Shit," he breathed as his eyes darted down to the body and back up to his friend. He was certain that to the masses watching the cameras, he was probably getting some serious boyfriend points right about now. Anyone who knew him who'd been lucky enough to avoid the trip was probably floored at the audacity.
Morgan could only hope that he wasn't about to cash those points in for a one-way ticket to the afterlife.
"C'mon, Mike. I don't care what you're saying to yourself. This isn't you. This is them."
He only half believed it.
Much like before, Morgan knew that he couldn't, so he slowly stepped closer.
"I'm not going to run away from you, man. I told you that already. I tried— I tried to follow you, before."
When Michael had made the choice for the both of them; to ditch Morgan. He'd almost ended up dead by way of a beeping collar.
"So you've killed people. So what, man? That doesn't make you special anymore. More and more names get read off every day, which means that more and more people have had to do what they feel needs to be done," he swallowed, trying very hard to keep his voice even-keeled and not sanctimonious or sarcastic.
"What's the plan, then? You're just going to," he paused, hunting for the right words. He'd tried before to use emotion and guilt to break Michael from what he'd thought had been a suicidal guilt-trance. This seemed different. He wasn't sure that the same tactic would work, and his friend would likely put the pieces together and see right through it. "You don't have to do this alone, man. It's what I keep trying to tell you."
He let the words sink in, and then as casually as he could muster, he stepped in front of Lizzie. The angry knot in his stomach felt more like a gut-punch, particularly now as he took note of the corpse that was soundlessly taking notice of this little reunion.
Catherine Zier; discarded like yesterday's trash.
"Shit," he breathed as his eyes darted down to the body and back up to his friend. He was certain that to the masses watching the cameras, he was probably getting some serious boyfriend points right about now. Anyone who knew him who'd been lucky enough to avoid the trip was probably floored at the audacity.
Morgan could only hope that he wasn't about to cash those points in for a one-way ticket to the afterlife.
"C'mon, Mike. I don't care what you're saying to yourself. This isn't you. This is them."
He only half believed it.
Lizzie’s heart sank even further as Morgan stepped in front of her. She wanted to push him away. She didn’t want him to get more involved in the situation. She didn’t want him to put his life on the line for her sake. She didn’t want him to be here in the first place.
She just wanted to be back in their adopted house, lying in bed, hand on his chest, and pretending that everyone outside would leave them alone for the rest of their days.
Her foot shifted backwards, but she didn’t run. Her other foot seemed rooted to the spot. She was looking past Morgan, at Michael and Michael’s gun. He was giving them a free pass to get out of there. Maybe he’d shoot them in the back as they were doing so, but at least he wasn’t shooting them in the face without any chance whatsoever.
So why couldn’t Morgan just take it? Why did he insist on trying to save Michael, even when there was a dead body right in front of him, even when he’d pulled a gun on her and made her so terrified for her life?
In that moment, she found herself mad at Morgan, instead of Michael.
But she didn’t say anything. She stood there, her boyfriend between herself and a bullet with her name on it, and did nothing.
She just wanted to be back in their adopted house, lying in bed, hand on his chest, and pretending that everyone outside would leave them alone for the rest of their days.
Her foot shifted backwards, but she didn’t run. Her other foot seemed rooted to the spot. She was looking past Morgan, at Michael and Michael’s gun. He was giving them a free pass to get out of there. Maybe he’d shoot them in the back as they were doing so, but at least he wasn’t shooting them in the face without any chance whatsoever.
So why couldn’t Morgan just take it? Why did he insist on trying to save Michael, even when there was a dead body right in front of him, even when he’d pulled a gun on her and made her so terrified for her life?
In that moment, she found herself mad at Morgan, instead of Michael.
But she didn’t say anything. She stood there, her boyfriend between herself and a bullet with her name on it, and did nothing.
"No," Michael spat. "You don't fucking get it, Morgan. You don't get any of it. You know how I can tell?" he could taste blood. He wasn't sure whose blood it was or where it came from, but he could taste it. He had no memory of anything that had happened in the time between him killing Roxie and the morning announcements going off, like he'd just become a part of the jungle for the better part of a day. He hoped it was his own blood. "Hypothetically, Michael fires the gun. The bullet goes into Morgan's chest, smashes his sternum, shreds some important blood stuff, and then exits through his back. The bullet keeps going, hits Lizzie in the chest, hits a lung, doesn't go out the other side. Morgan dies in seconds, Lizzie takes hours, maybe even days," he broke eye-contact with Morgan, staring blankly at nothing. "Took twenty-four hours for Catherine. Would've been longer without the insulin."
He blinked. Eyes back to Morgan. Lizzie was kinda sneaking away a little. She was smart. She got it.
"Morgan, you haven't seen just how bad things can get out here. It's the - war isn't - you know how Aliens is like an allegory for the Vietnam War, with the xenomorphs being the Vietcong, and the - fuck, I don't - we fight like we're soldiers and we die like animals. I can't be the person you want me to be, Morgan. I'm - you wouldn't believe the shit I've seen — the shit I've done willingly. War changes people. This is who I am now, get the fuck over it," his aim faltered. "I'm not telling you to run because I'm going to kill you; I'm telling you to run because if you stay with me, I'm gonna drag you in, and then you're gonna drag Lizzie in."
He slowly, shakily lowered the gun to his side.
"I don't want your sympathy. I need your empathy."
He blinked. Eyes back to Morgan. Lizzie was kinda sneaking away a little. She was smart. She got it.
"Morgan, you haven't seen just how bad things can get out here. It's the - war isn't - you know how Aliens is like an allegory for the Vietnam War, with the xenomorphs being the Vietcong, and the - fuck, I don't - we fight like we're soldiers and we die like animals. I can't be the person you want me to be, Morgan. I'm - you wouldn't believe the shit I've seen — the shit I've done willingly. War changes people. This is who I am now, get the fuck over it," his aim faltered. "I'm not telling you to run because I'm going to kill you; I'm telling you to run because if you stay with me, I'm gonna drag you in, and then you're gonna drag Lizzie in."
He slowly, shakily lowered the gun to his side.
"I don't want your sympathy. I need your empathy."
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
"How high are you?"
The question kind of slipped out; it was more mumbled than anything. He hadn't meant to ask it. As Michael had gone on and on about how fucked they all were and how he was a changed man now, and how he'd gone and done horrible things, a realization had begun to slide its way into Morgan's mind. Maybe it was more of a realization about all of the things he'd been trying to shield himself against, all of the pain and horrible shit to come that would befall him, and Lizzie, and Michael, and literally everyone in his class at school that he even gave half a damn about.
Survival of the Fittest changed people. It didn't expose who they truly were, but it made them into what they needed to be. It injected desperation into a bunch of ordinary high school students and made them into the monsters that the terrorists knew they would become. In every class, there were a handful of kids who had the right screws loose, the wrong experiences growing up, the bad family life — whatever it was, they would buy in.
They would buy in, others wouldn't, and all of them would die, shells of themselves. That was what Michael was trying to tell him. It was the reality that through drugs, or murderous impulses, or even by fucking accident, that Michael had accepted. He'd tried to tell him that days ago, but Morgan hadn't been willing to listen. He'd just wanted to find his best buddy, he just wanted to find his girlfriend, and he just wanted to be in a world where Wyatt and Bret Carter weren't beating him up for whatever was inside of his knapsack anymore.
For better or for worse, he supposed that he wasn't living in that world anymore.
The Carters were dead. They no longer existed. They would no longer hurt anyone, ever again.
Lucas Brady wasn't around, either. The boy who'd beaten him out for class presidency and had ignited the firestorm of what had once been his social life? He was dead, too. There was no more Nathan, no more Lucas, no more Lorenzo or Jackson or Ariana or Andy or Stepney, Dolly, Caroline, Kyle or Christine. No more Beryl, no more hashtag #Swiftball, no more Abel.
So many people were dead.
And for what?
"I guess I just didn't want to believe it," his voice was a whisper. "That whatever shit you did, you had it in you. That you found some sort of— fuck, I don't know— some sort of satsifaction, or purpose, or whatever the hell you're telling yourself."
Morgan's shoulders slumped, even as Michael lowered the gun. For the years that he'd known him, Michael had been a gentle soul, sardonic at times but a lover of animals and a treasurer of life. He'd wanted to be a marine biologist; Morgan had always thought that was a badass career.
"Who else would have known what a ctenophore even is," he absently mumbled.
The two guys had been content to be somewhat nerdy; Morgan maybe being a bit more upon the periphery of the standard social groupings in George Hunter, but still having as much fun with his pal who just wanted to sit in the aquarium and watch the majestic sea creatures roam around. That had been the guy that he'd been searching for. His best friend.
As it turned out, that guy maybe wasn't around anymore. In his place was someone who was killing people for no other reason than he could. Or he should. Honestly, Morgan wasn't really sure anymo—
Jesus, he'd said that out loud.
The blood draining from his face, Morgan stared a hole in his friend — in Michael's — forehead.
"I don't. I don't feel sorry for you, and I— I," he tried so very hard to bring the strength back to his voice, but it just wasn't there. Morgan couldn't even make it through the sentence. He was sad; so goddamn sad. This is where they were. This was the world that they lived in now, and nothing would ever change that.
"If there was, if— I can't. If there was a reason, I could try and understand, but I don't even think you know what that is. You're lying to yourself, and — and you know it."
His eyes watered. They were fucked, and it was his fault.
"You know it."
The question kind of slipped out; it was more mumbled than anything. He hadn't meant to ask it. As Michael had gone on and on about how fucked they all were and how he was a changed man now, and how he'd gone and done horrible things, a realization had begun to slide its way into Morgan's mind. Maybe it was more of a realization about all of the things he'd been trying to shield himself against, all of the pain and horrible shit to come that would befall him, and Lizzie, and Michael, and literally everyone in his class at school that he even gave half a damn about.
Survival of the Fittest changed people. It didn't expose who they truly were, but it made them into what they needed to be. It injected desperation into a bunch of ordinary high school students and made them into the monsters that the terrorists knew they would become. In every class, there were a handful of kids who had the right screws loose, the wrong experiences growing up, the bad family life — whatever it was, they would buy in.
They would buy in, others wouldn't, and all of them would die, shells of themselves. That was what Michael was trying to tell him. It was the reality that through drugs, or murderous impulses, or even by fucking accident, that Michael had accepted. He'd tried to tell him that days ago, but Morgan hadn't been willing to listen. He'd just wanted to find his best buddy, he just wanted to find his girlfriend, and he just wanted to be in a world where Wyatt and Bret Carter weren't beating him up for whatever was inside of his knapsack anymore.
For better or for worse, he supposed that he wasn't living in that world anymore.
The Carters were dead. They no longer existed. They would no longer hurt anyone, ever again.
Lucas Brady wasn't around, either. The boy who'd beaten him out for class presidency and had ignited the firestorm of what had once been his social life? He was dead, too. There was no more Nathan, no more Lucas, no more Lorenzo or Jackson or Ariana or Andy or Stepney, Dolly, Caroline, Kyle or Christine. No more Beryl, no more hashtag #Swiftball, no more Abel.
So many people were dead.
And for what?
"I guess I just didn't want to believe it," his voice was a whisper. "That whatever shit you did, you had it in you. That you found some sort of— fuck, I don't know— some sort of satsifaction, or purpose, or whatever the hell you're telling yourself."
Morgan's shoulders slumped, even as Michael lowered the gun. For the years that he'd known him, Michael had been a gentle soul, sardonic at times but a lover of animals and a treasurer of life. He'd wanted to be a marine biologist; Morgan had always thought that was a badass career.
"Who else would have known what a ctenophore even is," he absently mumbled.
The two guys had been content to be somewhat nerdy; Morgan maybe being a bit more upon the periphery of the standard social groupings in George Hunter, but still having as much fun with his pal who just wanted to sit in the aquarium and watch the majestic sea creatures roam around. That had been the guy that he'd been searching for. His best friend.
As it turned out, that guy maybe wasn't around anymore. In his place was someone who was killing people for no other reason than he could. Or he should. Honestly, Morgan wasn't really sure anymo—
Jesus, he'd said that out loud.
The blood draining from his face, Morgan stared a hole in his friend — in Michael's — forehead.
"I don't. I don't feel sorry for you, and I— I," he tried so very hard to bring the strength back to his voice, but it just wasn't there. Morgan couldn't even make it through the sentence. He was sad; so goddamn sad. This is where they were. This was the world that they lived in now, and nothing would ever change that.
"If there was, if— I can't. If there was a reason, I could try and understand, but I don't even think you know what that is. You're lying to yourself, and — and you know it."
His eyes watered. They were fucked, and it was his fault.
"You know it."