"I don't — man, do we really think they just left supplies laying around here?"
((Morgan Dragosavich continued from You Give Love a Bad Name))
He had to admit; walking around made him feel a small bit better. Since they'd left the small house that they'd been cooped up within once Lizzie had taken a bullet, Morgan hadn't said much to Henry. The boy had tried occasionally to incite some idle chatter, but he wasn't feeling all that talkative. If he were being honest, his entire thought process right now was to search the infirmary, and get back to the house as soon as possible. Leaving your wounded girlfriend alone while you went for a walk seemed like a counterproductive idea, and the further they'd walked from the house, the more he wondered just how he'd let Henry and Lizzie talk him into it.
Simple: he'd accidentally shot Lizzie, and Henry had a really big gun. Guilt was a powerful motivator.
Of course, once his immediate guilt had been suppressed a little by the adrenaline of walking around outside without any protection save Henry, his brain had started questioning the veracity of the supposition that the infirmary might be full of anything useful at all. As they had just arrived in front of the building, its doors stood imposing in front of them, hiding all sorts of potential goodies — or horrors — within. It just seemed odd to assume that it wouldn't have already been searched or picked clean. Which Henry likely would have known and thought of, so what was the point of—
"Wait. Dude, you're not walking me away so that you can," Morgan turned to look at his friend, his eyes settling on Henry's extremely large sawed-off shotgun.
The blood drained from his face. Lizzie would never have asked that of him, right? She'd said that she loved him. Everything that he knew about her meant that it was an honest admission; the truth. So what was Henry's real plan, here? He'd been all but ready to take Michael out, and perhaps would have had Morgan and Michael not been having a moment when they'd arrived. Was Henry taking him here to kill him?
Morgan was exhausted, mentally and physically, and it was making him paranoid.
"Henry, we— we're good, right?" His voice came out as more of a squeak, pathetic and the tremble likely even more evident than it was to his own ears. He could barely take his eyes off of Henry's gun, but he looked up and met his friend's eyes.
"Right?"
He was terrified.
Shaka, When the Walls Fell
Day 8; private
((Henry Sparks continued from You Give Love a Bad Name))
He’d kept silent just about the whole way there, not straying far from Morgan’s side or allowing his mind to drift too far from the task at hand. Morgan had to be away from there, away from Lizzie. They were heading to the Infirmary. He knew damn well there weren’t any supplies in there, only half a dozen bodies. One of them, he put there.
One? Not two of them?
They reached the Infirmary, and he imagined for a moment that he could still smell it. Maybe he really was, given how hot it was and just how much the inside of that place resembled an abattoir. He knew just around the side of the building lay what was left of Marco, giant hole blown in his chest.
It was the last place he wanted to go to. Maybe the guilt had drawn him here, or perhaps it was just the most convenient excuse. They could’ve gone anywhere, and just said they were heading to the Infirmary. He could’ve just come clean with Morgan the moment they set foot outside of that house, but no doubt his friend would’ve turned back around and done something stupid. It would’ve been another knee-jerk decision on Henry’s part that again failed to save anybody.
His eyes were still fixed on the door to the Infirmary when a change in Morgan’s tone drew him from his thoughts. Turning to face him, he could see the panic in Morgan’s eyes. The way they focused on Henry’s gun, the way they looked at him as if he was a stranger in a dark alley. Given what had happened in the last week, they might as well have been strangers. A twitch at the corner of his mouth was the only sign that Henry was suppressing tears.
He stepped between Morgan and the doors to the Infirmary, taking his hand from its resting place on the stock of the punt gun and letting it hang at his side.
“Morgan - Morgan, it’s okay. We’re fine. We’re good, you hear me? You didn’t do anything wrong. I would never hurt you.”
All he knew about Morgan told him that was a promise he had a chance of keeping. There didn’t seem to be a chance, and he knew he would never believe, that Morgan could fall down the path that so many others had. At least if he was here, he could keep loss and despair from pushing him in that direction. Or a worse one.
There was an uncomfortable silence as they both stood in front of the Infirmary, Henry not budging for a moment to head inside. He shook his head, taking a sharp breath in and looked back towards the building, then back to Morgan.
“You’re right. There’s nothing in there. Well, there’s Violet Quinn, Demetri, Yuki, Sal, Jackson, and someone else I couldn’t identify. Marco’s outside, around to the left. We can just - we can stay here, for now.”
Swallowing a lump in his throat, Henry struggled to say what came next. It didn’t feel right to say anything else, to keep lying by omission.
“It’s not - it’s not you, Morgan. Lizzie needed to - she had to - she needed space, she - fuck, I’m sorry.”
He’d kept silent just about the whole way there, not straying far from Morgan’s side or allowing his mind to drift too far from the task at hand. Morgan had to be away from there, away from Lizzie. They were heading to the Infirmary. He knew damn well there weren’t any supplies in there, only half a dozen bodies. One of them, he put there.
One? Not two of them?
They reached the Infirmary, and he imagined for a moment that he could still smell it. Maybe he really was, given how hot it was and just how much the inside of that place resembled an abattoir. He knew just around the side of the building lay what was left of Marco, giant hole blown in his chest.
It was the last place he wanted to go to. Maybe the guilt had drawn him here, or perhaps it was just the most convenient excuse. They could’ve gone anywhere, and just said they were heading to the Infirmary. He could’ve just come clean with Morgan the moment they set foot outside of that house, but no doubt his friend would’ve turned back around and done something stupid. It would’ve been another knee-jerk decision on Henry’s part that again failed to save anybody.
His eyes were still fixed on the door to the Infirmary when a change in Morgan’s tone drew him from his thoughts. Turning to face him, he could see the panic in Morgan’s eyes. The way they focused on Henry’s gun, the way they looked at him as if he was a stranger in a dark alley. Given what had happened in the last week, they might as well have been strangers. A twitch at the corner of his mouth was the only sign that Henry was suppressing tears.
He stepped between Morgan and the doors to the Infirmary, taking his hand from its resting place on the stock of the punt gun and letting it hang at his side.
“Morgan - Morgan, it’s okay. We’re fine. We’re good, you hear me? You didn’t do anything wrong. I would never hurt you.”
All he knew about Morgan told him that was a promise he had a chance of keeping. There didn’t seem to be a chance, and he knew he would never believe, that Morgan could fall down the path that so many others had. At least if he was here, he could keep loss and despair from pushing him in that direction. Or a worse one.
There was an uncomfortable silence as they both stood in front of the Infirmary, Henry not budging for a moment to head inside. He shook his head, taking a sharp breath in and looked back towards the building, then back to Morgan.
“You’re right. There’s nothing in there. Well, there’s Violet Quinn, Demetri, Yuki, Sal, Jackson, and someone else I couldn’t identify. Marco’s outside, around to the left. We can just - we can stay here, for now.”
Swallowing a lump in his throat, Henry struggled to say what came next. It didn’t feel right to say anything else, to keep lying by omission.
“It’s not - it’s not you, Morgan. Lizzie needed to - she had to - she needed space, she - fuck, I’m sorry.”
At Henry's insistence, Morgan's heart rate didn't slow down, but his eyes darted wildly from the door of the infirmary and back to the sizable weapon in his friend's hands. His words said one thing, but would his actions say another? Morgan had screwed up — it had been his action that had resulted in the discharged firearm, but he hadn't meant to. Henry was saying the right thing out loud, but did he truly mean it?
Suddenly, he regretted leaving the small house.
"I, it wasn't — I didn't mean to, I just didn't want Michael to get — he wasn't going to put it down, and so I —"
Morgan couldn't shake his terror, but Henry's interruption smacked him back from his frightened state into one of horror, particularly at the revelation as to what the infirmary truly contained. How did Henry know that the building was filled with bodies; what was—
"Henry, what— how do you know what's inside? How—"
Cutting him off again, Henry seemed to falter, and what he said next stunned Morgan. As he tried to make sense of the simple words, the timbre of his voice increased with every sentence.
"What do you mean — Henry what are we doing here? What do you mean, you're sorry?"
A thought crept through Morgan's mind, and he looked at his friend with a look of sour confusion. It was as though he'd farted in mixed company, and Morgan were playing the role of the prim and proper woman of high society.
Except this was no fart.
This was a bomb.
"What's going on? Henry, what, what have you done?"
He had stepped forward at some point; Morgan was running on autopilot. His hands were grasping his friend's shoulders; he was shaking him ever-so-gently.
It was obvious what was going on here, but he didn't want to see it.
"Please," he whispered.
Suddenly, he regretted leaving the small house.
"I, it wasn't — I didn't mean to, I just didn't want Michael to get — he wasn't going to put it down, and so I —"
Morgan couldn't shake his terror, but Henry's interruption smacked him back from his frightened state into one of horror, particularly at the revelation as to what the infirmary truly contained. How did Henry know that the building was filled with bodies; what was—
"Henry, what— how do you know what's inside? How—"
Cutting him off again, Henry seemed to falter, and what he said next stunned Morgan. As he tried to make sense of the simple words, the timbre of his voice increased with every sentence.
"What do you mean — Henry what are we doing here? What do you mean, you're sorry?"
A thought crept through Morgan's mind, and he looked at his friend with a look of sour confusion. It was as though he'd farted in mixed company, and Morgan were playing the role of the prim and proper woman of high society.
Except this was no fart.
This was a bomb.
"What's going on? Henry, what, what have you done?"
He had stepped forward at some point; Morgan was running on autopilot. His hands were grasping his friend's shoulders; he was shaking him ever-so-gently.
It was obvious what was going on here, but he didn't want to see it.
"Please," he whispered.
Henry’s voice barely registered as a whisper. He had to repeat himself to cut Morgan off.
“Everything I - everything I could.”
It felt like falling. Leaving Lizzie was supposed to be the right thing, because it was what she wanted. People should have some agency in their lives, and they should have some in their deaths. One more thing the AT was trying to take away from them. One more cruel imposition on a bunch of innocent kids to serve whatever fucked up agenda drove this madness.
It was so easy to think in abstracts, to want to tell Morgan that it was about agency, that it was about having a choice, that things had to have meaning here because meaning was all they had left to them when time and dignity had been taken away.
But he couldn’t, because he was trying to tell an eighteen year old kid that his girlfriend wanted him to leave the room so that the last thing he saw of her wasn’t her dead body. So that she could die in peace, euthanized by the very person they’d both tried to protect her from. There wasn’t a good way to explain that.
Yet there weren’t any other options. Henry hated lying, and he was bad at it. This was a blow there wasn’t any way to soften. Hopefully with whatever time they both had left, Morgan wouldn’t see it as a betrayal.
He was just trying to help.
Henry spoke steadily, through tears that he didn’t seem to notice. All he’d seen had made it easier to ignore them. To ignore things that used to demand attention, and care. The empty feeling in his stomach, the pain from the messy cut on his shoulder, the distant drum of a gunshot.
“She wasn’t going to make it, Morgan. The only choice was how it was gonna end. She - she made a choice, I think.”
The pace of his speech crept up, anticipating a reaction from Morgan. Maybe he’d hit him, or scream, or try and run back to the house. There wasn’t a better time to get this out, a time he imagined Morgan would let him explain himself. More than that, he couldn’t imagine a time he deserved to be heard. He’d hoped finding Morgan might’ve led to a turn in their fortunes. A boost in morale from seeing a dear friend.
Instead, what was left of Morgan’s life seemed like it had been ruined, taking Henry’s delusion of being anything more than helpless with it.
“It was hers to make. That was hers and hers alone. No one would want that to be the last thing the person they loved remembered of them. I know, if I had - if I had a - I know I wouldn’t want that. Choices like that, it’s - it’s all we have left.”
“Everything I - everything I could.”
It felt like falling. Leaving Lizzie was supposed to be the right thing, because it was what she wanted. People should have some agency in their lives, and they should have some in their deaths. One more thing the AT was trying to take away from them. One more cruel imposition on a bunch of innocent kids to serve whatever fucked up agenda drove this madness.
It was so easy to think in abstracts, to want to tell Morgan that it was about agency, that it was about having a choice, that things had to have meaning here because meaning was all they had left to them when time and dignity had been taken away.
But he couldn’t, because he was trying to tell an eighteen year old kid that his girlfriend wanted him to leave the room so that the last thing he saw of her wasn’t her dead body. So that she could die in peace, euthanized by the very person they’d both tried to protect her from. There wasn’t a good way to explain that.
Yet there weren’t any other options. Henry hated lying, and he was bad at it. This was a blow there wasn’t any way to soften. Hopefully with whatever time they both had left, Morgan wouldn’t see it as a betrayal.
He was just trying to help.
Henry spoke steadily, through tears that he didn’t seem to notice. All he’d seen had made it easier to ignore them. To ignore things that used to demand attention, and care. The empty feeling in his stomach, the pain from the messy cut on his shoulder, the distant drum of a gunshot.
“She wasn’t going to make it, Morgan. The only choice was how it was gonna end. She - she made a choice, I think.”
The pace of his speech crept up, anticipating a reaction from Morgan. Maybe he’d hit him, or scream, or try and run back to the house. There wasn’t a better time to get this out, a time he imagined Morgan would let him explain himself. More than that, he couldn’t imagine a time he deserved to be heard. He’d hoped finding Morgan might’ve led to a turn in their fortunes. A boost in morale from seeing a dear friend.
Instead, what was left of Morgan’s life seemed like it had been ruined, taking Henry’s delusion of being anything more than helpless with it.
“It was hers to make. That was hers and hers alone. No one would want that to be the last thing the person they loved remembered of them. I know, if I had - if I had a - I know I wouldn’t want that. Choices like that, it’s - it’s all we have left.”
She made a choice — I think were the words that echoed over and over in Morgan's mind as he stared at Henry, his hands grasping the boy's shoulders. The gentle shaking that he'd been trying to put all of his energy into doing with more force, more anger — he couldn't. Realization was setting in, and he knew exactly what his friends had done; what his girlfriend had done.
They had spared him.
Henry kept on saying words, trying to keep his voice neutral — soothing even, but they didn't mean anything to Morgan. All he could think of was what he'd seen, what he'd let happen. Michael and Aurelien had stayed behind, Henry had led him here, and she was, she was just going to — what, kill herself? Ask Michael to do it for her? End it all, just because she couldn't last any longer?
The questions all danced around the obvious, of course. There was a truth that he'd been battering himself over the head with for most of the last day, and that was the fact that everything which had occurred was his own fault.
Morgan's knees buckled, and he grasped Henry's shirt for support as he crumpled to the ground. His friend grabbed him and lowered him down; nothing was visible through the glassy blur that the world had become. Lizzie was gone forever; if she wasn't already, he'd never make it back in time.
"You— she's," he gasped, as though expecting Henry to smile, laugh, and tell him that he was just kidding, it was a sick joke.
All of this was someone's idea of a sick joke.
"What have I done, Henry? What have I—"
He lowered his head to the ground, feeling the cool dirt against his forehead. All he could feel was the world closing in upon him. It should have been him. That was all there was.
It should have been me, over and over again.
They had spared him.
Henry kept on saying words, trying to keep his voice neutral — soothing even, but they didn't mean anything to Morgan. All he could think of was what he'd seen, what he'd let happen. Michael and Aurelien had stayed behind, Henry had led him here, and she was, she was just going to — what, kill herself? Ask Michael to do it for her? End it all, just because she couldn't last any longer?
The questions all danced around the obvious, of course. There was a truth that he'd been battering himself over the head with for most of the last day, and that was the fact that everything which had occurred was his own fault.
Morgan's knees buckled, and he grasped Henry's shirt for support as he crumpled to the ground. His friend grabbed him and lowered him down; nothing was visible through the glassy blur that the world had become. Lizzie was gone forever; if she wasn't already, he'd never make it back in time.
"You— she's," he gasped, as though expecting Henry to smile, laugh, and tell him that he was just kidding, it was a sick joke.
All of this was someone's idea of a sick joke.
"What have I done, Henry? What have I—"
He lowered his head to the ground, feeling the cool dirt against his forehead. All he could feel was the world closing in upon him. It should have been him. That was all there was.
It should have been me, over and over again.
"It was an accident, you - you didn't do anything wrong."
Henry tried to catch Morgan as he crumpled to the ground, and found himself on his knees, holding his friend as he sobbed. All Morgan had done was the right thing. Michael shouldn't have been armed. If they'd been more ruthless in pursuit of their plan, if they'd been more decisive, if they just hadn’t -
Stop it. No more.
There ought to have been something more to say. Some comfort, some platitude that could occupy the void only occasionally broken by a sob or a sniffle. Henry couldn’t find anything, though. Nothing that he could say that wasn’t perfunctory or foolishly optimistic. Maybe one day Morgan could find a way to forgive himself, to realize this wasn’t his fault. They might not have long enough for that day to come, and nothing Henry said could bring it closer.
So, he said nothing more. Hoped that the fact he was still here was enough.
The Infirmary seemed to shrink away from the two of them, fading into the background of trees and foliage. Someone could’ve been lurking in the woods, waiting to shoot them. Maybe Aurelien had killed Michael back at the house, or vice versa. It was easy to imagine, and Henry had given up pushing away visions his peers being maimed and killed. At this point it just seemed necessary to emotionally prepare himself for anything that could happen.
Most of it was out of his hands. There weren’t really any choices to make right now, past picking up the pieces and moving on. Assessing what there was to work with, what there was to rely on, and what he had to let go of.
He could rely on the fact that more people would try and kill them, and each other. He could trust that Morgan wouldn’t ever hurt anyone on purpose, and that Aurelien could be depended on to do so. They had weapons, and some food. A purpose, maybe not to fix things but at least something that could slow it all down.
It was quiet. Aside from the two of them, there was barely a trace of anyone else around. Even the birds seemed to have gone mostly silent. Something felt off. The character of the island had changed since the first day. Somehow it felt emptier, more abandoned.
Eight days in, there’s ninety-four of us dead. Couldn’t have been more than a hundred and fifty on the buses. That means there’s at least fifty or sixty of us left. And ninety-four - no, ninety-five corpses strewn about this place.
It wasn’t that it just felt empty. It was emptier. Time wasn’t on their side.
Henry waited as long as he felt it was safe to allow, before tapping Morgan on the shoulder and trying to meet his eyes.
“Come on. We can’t stay here, we’ve got to get moving.”
Henry tried to catch Morgan as he crumpled to the ground, and found himself on his knees, holding his friend as he sobbed. All Morgan had done was the right thing. Michael shouldn't have been armed. If they'd been more ruthless in pursuit of their plan, if they'd been more decisive, if they just hadn’t -
Stop it. No more.
There ought to have been something more to say. Some comfort, some platitude that could occupy the void only occasionally broken by a sob or a sniffle. Henry couldn’t find anything, though. Nothing that he could say that wasn’t perfunctory or foolishly optimistic. Maybe one day Morgan could find a way to forgive himself, to realize this wasn’t his fault. They might not have long enough for that day to come, and nothing Henry said could bring it closer.
So, he said nothing more. Hoped that the fact he was still here was enough.
The Infirmary seemed to shrink away from the two of them, fading into the background of trees and foliage. Someone could’ve been lurking in the woods, waiting to shoot them. Maybe Aurelien had killed Michael back at the house, or vice versa. It was easy to imagine, and Henry had given up pushing away visions his peers being maimed and killed. At this point it just seemed necessary to emotionally prepare himself for anything that could happen.
Most of it was out of his hands. There weren’t really any choices to make right now, past picking up the pieces and moving on. Assessing what there was to work with, what there was to rely on, and what he had to let go of.
He could rely on the fact that more people would try and kill them, and each other. He could trust that Morgan wouldn’t ever hurt anyone on purpose, and that Aurelien could be depended on to do so. They had weapons, and some food. A purpose, maybe not to fix things but at least something that could slow it all down.
It was quiet. Aside from the two of them, there was barely a trace of anyone else around. Even the birds seemed to have gone mostly silent. Something felt off. The character of the island had changed since the first day. Somehow it felt emptier, more abandoned.
Eight days in, there’s ninety-four of us dead. Couldn’t have been more than a hundred and fifty on the buses. That means there’s at least fifty or sixty of us left. And ninety-four - no, ninety-five corpses strewn about this place.
It wasn’t that it just felt empty. It was emptier. Time wasn’t on their side.
Henry waited as long as he felt it was safe to allow, before tapping Morgan on the shoulder and trying to meet his eyes.
“Come on. We can’t stay here, we’ve got to get moving.”
The only sounds that he could hear were coming from someone who was blubbering; sobbing into a pant leg. In another lifetime, Morgan knew that he might have made a crack, some snarky comment about manning up or something like that. In pretty much every situation where the odds weren't life or death, Morgan wasn't really much of an emotional guy — he was more liable to respond to something with a comment that would garner him a shove rather than a gentle embrace.
That was the one caveat, though. This was a life-or-death situation, and since he'd regained consciousness over a week ago, his emotional state had been nothing short of tumultuous. It had been a myriad of things; fear — at his encounter with the Carters, with Lorenzo, with this whole situation — happiness, sadness, sorrow. It seemed like every emotion was amplified. Every tear led to ten, every laugh led to a barrel of them. He couldn't control how he felt any more than he could control what he would do for the rest of his life. The remainder of his natural life, he would be running, fleeing from the inevitability of death. It was coming for all of them — Lizzie, Michael, even Henry.
It finally occurred to Morgan that the sobbing noise was coming from himself.
What could any of them do, outside of trying to dictate their own fate for as long as they could? Henry seemed to try and absolve him of responsibility, but Morgan knew that for as long as he had left, he would own the responsibility of what had happened. Whatever anyone said wouldn't change that.
You didn't do anything wrong.
He could have just let it be.
But he didn't.
Straightening up, he wiped the snot away from his nose and used both of his hands to try and purge his ragged, red eyes of tears. It was only partially successful, but by the time he stood back up, he'd managed to retain at least a semblance of dignity. It wasn't much, but for now, it would be enough.
Morgan felt hollow. His voice followed suit.
"Wh— where are we going?"
Truly, at this point, it didn't matter.
That was the one caveat, though. This was a life-or-death situation, and since he'd regained consciousness over a week ago, his emotional state had been nothing short of tumultuous. It had been a myriad of things; fear — at his encounter with the Carters, with Lorenzo, with this whole situation — happiness, sadness, sorrow. It seemed like every emotion was amplified. Every tear led to ten, every laugh led to a barrel of them. He couldn't control how he felt any more than he could control what he would do for the rest of his life. The remainder of his natural life, he would be running, fleeing from the inevitability of death. It was coming for all of them — Lizzie, Michael, even Henry.
It finally occurred to Morgan that the sobbing noise was coming from himself.
What could any of them do, outside of trying to dictate their own fate for as long as they could? Henry seemed to try and absolve him of responsibility, but Morgan knew that for as long as he had left, he would own the responsibility of what had happened. Whatever anyone said wouldn't change that.
You didn't do anything wrong.
He could have just let it be.
But he didn't.
Straightening up, he wiped the snot away from his nose and used both of his hands to try and purge his ragged, red eyes of tears. It was only partially successful, but by the time he stood back up, he'd managed to retain at least a semblance of dignity. It wasn't much, but for now, it would be enough.
Morgan felt hollow. His voice followed suit.
"Wh— where are we going?"
Truly, at this point, it didn't matter.
((Aurelien Valter continued from You Give Love a Bad Name))
Back here again, huh?
He almost laughed, when he saw Morgan and Henry standing outside the Infirmary. No matter how hard he goddamn tried, he couldn’t get away from this place, could he? It was like they were both magnetised, the building constantly drawing him in, again and again and again. Didn’t matter where he was, on the other side of the village or the other side of the island. He kept coming back to this mausoleum. The monument to his failings.
Look upon my works, Aurelien, and despair.
It had taken him a while to get over here, enough time for what looked like a full on conversation and breakdown and cooldown to happen. It took him a while to do anything, whenever the adrenaline wasn’t rushing through him. There was a constant weight pressing down on him, accumulated mental and physical pressure latched onto his tired and battered body like an anchor.
Returning to this place, of course, only made it heavier.
“Hey,” he called out, standing a few paces away, using the mace to keep himself steady. There was a rough groove in the earth behind him, a divot tracking his path around the village.
“It’s just me. Michael… Michael’s gone.”
Back here again, huh?
He almost laughed, when he saw Morgan and Henry standing outside the Infirmary. No matter how hard he goddamn tried, he couldn’t get away from this place, could he? It was like they were both magnetised, the building constantly drawing him in, again and again and again. Didn’t matter where he was, on the other side of the village or the other side of the island. He kept coming back to this mausoleum. The monument to his failings.
Look upon my works, Aurelien, and despair.
It had taken him a while to get over here, enough time for what looked like a full on conversation and breakdown and cooldown to happen. It took him a while to do anything, whenever the adrenaline wasn’t rushing through him. There was a constant weight pressing down on him, accumulated mental and physical pressure latched onto his tired and battered body like an anchor.
Returning to this place, of course, only made it heavier.
“Hey,” he called out, standing a few paces away, using the mace to keep himself steady. There was a rough groove in the earth behind him, a divot tracking his path around the village.
“It’s just me. Michael… Michael’s gone.”
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
This is only heading one direction.
Henry tried to shake off the morbid thought, the self-doubt that kept pressing him to admit defeat. The lingering sense that no matter how far he pushed to make this situation somehow better, his resistance just made it worse. The evidence seemed to linger all around, in his friend, in what they left behind, and in the building that stood before them.
“Anywhere but here, Morgan. We’ve got to find -”
Aurelien appeared, before he could finish the thought. He was alone, Michael was - gone - whatever that meant. Henry quietly hoped it was a euphemism, but Aurelien’s demeanour didn’t seem to indicate as much. There wasn’t an easy way to tell.
Henry slowly stood up, and took a few steps closer.
“Aurelien. What happened? What do you mean, he’s gone?”
Henry tried to shake off the morbid thought, the self-doubt that kept pressing him to admit defeat. The lingering sense that no matter how far he pushed to make this situation somehow better, his resistance just made it worse. The evidence seemed to linger all around, in his friend, in what they left behind, and in the building that stood before them.
“Anywhere but here, Morgan. We’ve got to find -”
Aurelien appeared, before he could finish the thought. He was alone, Michael was - gone - whatever that meant. Henry quietly hoped it was a euphemism, but Aurelien’s demeanour didn’t seem to indicate as much. There wasn’t an easy way to tell.
Henry slowly stood up, and took a few steps closer.
“Aurelien. What happened? What do you mean, he’s gone?”
Gone didn't mean dead; Morgan knew that immediately. None of them could be so fortunate. His quest to find his best friend had ended up in the demise of his girlfriend and fate could not be so cruel as to take both of them out of the equation at once. No, fate was in fact a crueller mistress than he could have imagined — Michael had fled, and remained at large.
"He ran."
His voice still remained shaky, but he didn't have to wait for Aurelien to answer Henry's unspoken question. The other boy hadn't murdered Michael, as much as he'd probably wanted to. Aurelien seemed to be operating almost entirely on adrenaline and grief at the moment. Having the horrific knowledge that he'd taken a human life, even if the person was a multiple murderer and it could be described by law as justifiable given the circumstances was the kind of thing that would make Aurelien crack. That was why it was good that he was back with Henry. Stoic, calm Henry, and his distraught buddy.
Which of course, was Morgan himself. That was what he had been reduced to now, wasn't it? The grieving side character in someone else's story. His own story was all but over, his quest having ended in the worst possible way. For the time being, he would be a companion, he would be a shield, and eventually, he would just be one more person who someone else could push in the way to die before them.
"Thank— thank you for staying, Aurelien," the words barely whispered, but he meant them all the same. "Did he— did Michael— was the one who...?"
Morgan couldn't get the question out in its entirety, but his meaning was clear. He needed to understand, to know the true scope of what had happened; of what kind of knell he would need to sound upon his conscience.
"He ran."
His voice still remained shaky, but he didn't have to wait for Aurelien to answer Henry's unspoken question. The other boy hadn't murdered Michael, as much as he'd probably wanted to. Aurelien seemed to be operating almost entirely on adrenaline and grief at the moment. Having the horrific knowledge that he'd taken a human life, even if the person was a multiple murderer and it could be described by law as justifiable given the circumstances was the kind of thing that would make Aurelien crack. That was why it was good that he was back with Henry. Stoic, calm Henry, and his distraught buddy.
Which of course, was Morgan himself. That was what he had been reduced to now, wasn't it? The grieving side character in someone else's story. His own story was all but over, his quest having ended in the worst possible way. For the time being, he would be a companion, he would be a shield, and eventually, he would just be one more person who someone else could push in the way to die before them.
"Thank— thank you for staying, Aurelien," the words barely whispered, but he meant them all the same. "Did he— did Michael— was the one who...?"
Morgan couldn't get the question out in its entirety, but his meaning was clear. He needed to understand, to know the true scope of what had happened; of what kind of knell he would need to sound upon his conscience.
“Yeah. Morgan’s got it.”
Aurelien nodded, moving closer to the other two, now that they were both aware of his presence. He wasn’t entirely sure how Morgan knew, but he’d never been able to keep his emotions fully in check, he’d always worn his heart on his sleeve and his feelings front and center. Even when he didn’t realise exactly what he was feeling, everybody else around him seemed to. Once or twice, Dante had said ‘I love you too’, even before Aurelien had gotten a chance to say anything. It had always just been that obvious.
He didn’t respond to Morgan’s thanks. Didn’t mention that if he didn’t stay with somebody more grounded, he figured he’d be lost within a day. Perhaps his silence was redundant. Perhaps they both already knew that too.
He came to a stop just in front of Henry and Morgan, already breathing heavily again, mace serving as a makeshift crutch. It was starting to feel like an extension of him, now. It felt wrong, not keeping it in his hands, nestled in the crook of his arm. He’d adjusted to walking with its heft, modifying his stride and his stance to balance out the weight.
Such a far cry from when it swung in its wild arc, taking control of him, making him part of it.
“Michael wasn’t the one who did it, though.”
Aurelien paused, looking down at the ground between the three of them, uncertain of how to let Morgan know of the events that had transpired back inside, not knowing how to possibly tell him of Lizzie’s choice, of an act that would destroy anybody normally, without a clue of what to say but knowing that he had to say it, had to speak, couldn’t let this damned silence drag out any further.
“And… and it wasn’t me, either.”
Aurelien nodded, moving closer to the other two, now that they were both aware of his presence. He wasn’t entirely sure how Morgan knew, but he’d never been able to keep his emotions fully in check, he’d always worn his heart on his sleeve and his feelings front and center. Even when he didn’t realise exactly what he was feeling, everybody else around him seemed to. Once or twice, Dante had said ‘I love you too’, even before Aurelien had gotten a chance to say anything. It had always just been that obvious.
He didn’t respond to Morgan’s thanks. Didn’t mention that if he didn’t stay with somebody more grounded, he figured he’d be lost within a day. Perhaps his silence was redundant. Perhaps they both already knew that too.
He came to a stop just in front of Henry and Morgan, already breathing heavily again, mace serving as a makeshift crutch. It was starting to feel like an extension of him, now. It felt wrong, not keeping it in his hands, nestled in the crook of his arm. He’d adjusted to walking with its heft, modifying his stride and his stance to balance out the weight.
Such a far cry from when it swung in its wild arc, taking control of him, making him part of it.
“Michael wasn’t the one who did it, though.”
Aurelien paused, looking down at the ground between the three of them, uncertain of how to let Morgan know of the events that had transpired back inside, not knowing how to possibly tell him of Lizzie’s choice, of an act that would destroy anybody normally, without a clue of what to say but knowing that he had to say it, had to speak, couldn’t let this damned silence drag out any further.
“And… and it wasn’t me, either.”
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
Michael got away, got to keep doing whatever it was he was doing in this place. He didn’t kill Lizzie, and it wasn't Aurelien either. That left a few options, neither of them especially palatable but one far better than the other.
Henry cocked his head at Aurelien, noting the other boy’s silence. It didn’t say much, at least not nearly enough. If she died from the bullet, it was Morgan. He’d take responsibility, never let it go. The act would drag him down with his girlfriend, bring his end on faster than it ever should have come. If it was her, maybe they could work with that. It stayed her choice. They could manage that.
Looking back to Morgan, he could see the gears turning. Parsing the same two possibilities. The less Aurelien said, the worse it would be when the truth came out. The worse it would hurt.
“It was - it was her, wasn’t it?”
Aurelien nodded, and Henry returned the gesture. Wordlessly, he stepped away.
Her choice. She made the decision. She ended it. Absolved them of responsibility for her end, for how it happened. There was still a path forward, still somewhere to go from here.
“That’s…” Henry started to speak, the thought dying on his tongue.
Absolved. They weren’t responsible. It was an accident, she dealt with the consequences. The consequences of their actions, Michael’s actions by not disarming himself, not proving he was exactly what they all thought he was. All he had to do was drop it, all they had to do was take it from him. Declaw the rabid creature that kept striking out, kept hurting people.
It was all he’d asked of him. There was nothing malicious about the request, no hidden agenda.
I asked him to do that.
“Well, we can…” Again, he couldn’t finish the thought.
It was a reasonable request. Anyone could see that. Michael couldn’t have been trusted, he wasn’t in the right state of mind. After all that had happened, there was no predicting what he could do. Just eliminating possibilities. It made sense to ask that of him. It made sense to step in, to stop him from hurting Morgan and Lizzie.
Nothing was stopped. No harm was limited, abated. No problem had been solved.
She did it herself. She ended what I started.
Morgan couldn’t blame himself for the gun going off. Aurelien couldn’t blame himself for not taking more decisive action, for not managing to wrestle the gun away. Michael was going to blame himself no matter what, for things he wasn’t even responsible for.
“I suppose we should…”
None of them would’ve been in that situation if Henry hadn’t stepped in. If he hadn’t been trying to manage people like variables, like rational actors. If he hadn’t tried so hard to take responsibility, to make promises he couldn’t keep. It was true he did everything he could, and that was the problem. The only things he had to show for his choices were bodies strewn across the island.
Henry turned away from Aurelien and Morgan, finding it difficult to address either of them. Finding the need to do so elusive, if not slightly nauseating.
Henry cocked his head at Aurelien, noting the other boy’s silence. It didn’t say much, at least not nearly enough. If she died from the bullet, it was Morgan. He’d take responsibility, never let it go. The act would drag him down with his girlfriend, bring his end on faster than it ever should have come. If it was her, maybe they could work with that. It stayed her choice. They could manage that.
Looking back to Morgan, he could see the gears turning. Parsing the same two possibilities. The less Aurelien said, the worse it would be when the truth came out. The worse it would hurt.
“It was - it was her, wasn’t it?”
Aurelien nodded, and Henry returned the gesture. Wordlessly, he stepped away.
Her choice. She made the decision. She ended it. Absolved them of responsibility for her end, for how it happened. There was still a path forward, still somewhere to go from here.
“That’s…” Henry started to speak, the thought dying on his tongue.
Absolved. They weren’t responsible. It was an accident, she dealt with the consequences. The consequences of their actions, Michael’s actions by not disarming himself, not proving he was exactly what they all thought he was. All he had to do was drop it, all they had to do was take it from him. Declaw the rabid creature that kept striking out, kept hurting people.
It was all he’d asked of him. There was nothing malicious about the request, no hidden agenda.
I asked him to do that.
“Well, we can…” Again, he couldn’t finish the thought.
It was a reasonable request. Anyone could see that. Michael couldn’t have been trusted, he wasn’t in the right state of mind. After all that had happened, there was no predicting what he could do. Just eliminating possibilities. It made sense to ask that of him. It made sense to step in, to stop him from hurting Morgan and Lizzie.
Nothing was stopped. No harm was limited, abated. No problem had been solved.
She did it herself. She ended what I started.
Morgan couldn’t blame himself for the gun going off. Aurelien couldn’t blame himself for not taking more decisive action, for not managing to wrestle the gun away. Michael was going to blame himself no matter what, for things he wasn’t even responsible for.
“I suppose we should…”
None of them would’ve been in that situation if Henry hadn’t stepped in. If he hadn’t been trying to manage people like variables, like rational actors. If he hadn’t tried so hard to take responsibility, to make promises he couldn’t keep. It was true he did everything he could, and that was the problem. The only things he had to show for his choices were bodies strewn across the island.
Henry turned away from Aurelien and Morgan, finding it difficult to address either of them. Finding the need to do so elusive, if not slightly nauseating.
"Kill him. We should kill him."
Morgan blurted the words out almost on autopilot. Aurelien hadn't even needed to confirm it, he hadn't needed to say anything else. Thanks to him, thanks to Morgan Dragosavich, his own girlfriend had been forced to take her own life. Why she'd done it would be a point of debate for people whose lives would last far longer than his own, but the principle of cause and effect was clear.
One cause: Morgan tried to find his friend.
One effect: Lizzie committed suicide.
His voice was dry, devoid of any energy and his eyes looked back to where Aurelien had come from, staring a hole through the houses back in the direction of the death that he had brought upon them. Yet even still, even as his eyes looked a thousand miles away, he somehow managed to sound barely prescient.
"If we run across Michael again," he said the words slowly, as though they were foreign to him, "we should kill him. No hesitation. No waiting. Just... do it."
Michael Froese was Morgan's best friend, had been for years. The two were thick as thieves and in lieu of siblings, there were few people that he considered worthy enough to fill that void. Michael had been one of them. For days, Morgan had feared what this game would do to his friend; what it had done to everyone. He saw that now with complete clarity. For days, he had thought that maybe, there was a hope that he could talk his friend off of the ledge.
The time for talking was over. The next time Morgan saw his friend perched upon the ledge, he would push him off.
Henry seemed to be having a hard time with the new information, Aurelien was uncomfortable with what he had borne witness to. Morgan just felt empty. In a game that stripped all of them down to their core, he was seeing just how little substance remained inside of himself. If there was a rock bottom, they were here.
At least, he hoped so.
"We should go."
Morgan had no weapon, he had no method of defense, and the shock of everything was to the point where his walk looked more like a shamble. In another life, he probably could have been a great extra on the Walking Dead. He shouldn't have been leading the group in any direction, but right now, he had to keep on going. If he stopped, he knew full well that he might not start again. Henry had warned against going inside of the Infirmary — this was a distraction for his benefit to come here after all, so they would have to go elsewhere.
Hopefully, they wouldn't come across Michael again.
For his sake and for theirs.
((Morgan Dragosavich continued elsewhere))
Morgan blurted the words out almost on autopilot. Aurelien hadn't even needed to confirm it, he hadn't needed to say anything else. Thanks to him, thanks to Morgan Dragosavich, his own girlfriend had been forced to take her own life. Why she'd done it would be a point of debate for people whose lives would last far longer than his own, but the principle of cause and effect was clear.
One cause: Morgan tried to find his friend.
One effect: Lizzie committed suicide.
His voice was dry, devoid of any energy and his eyes looked back to where Aurelien had come from, staring a hole through the houses back in the direction of the death that he had brought upon them. Yet even still, even as his eyes looked a thousand miles away, he somehow managed to sound barely prescient.
"If we run across Michael again," he said the words slowly, as though they were foreign to him, "we should kill him. No hesitation. No waiting. Just... do it."
Michael Froese was Morgan's best friend, had been for years. The two were thick as thieves and in lieu of siblings, there were few people that he considered worthy enough to fill that void. Michael had been one of them. For days, Morgan had feared what this game would do to his friend; what it had done to everyone. He saw that now with complete clarity. For days, he had thought that maybe, there was a hope that he could talk his friend off of the ledge.
The time for talking was over. The next time Morgan saw his friend perched upon the ledge, he would push him off.
Henry seemed to be having a hard time with the new information, Aurelien was uncomfortable with what he had borne witness to. Morgan just felt empty. In a game that stripped all of them down to their core, he was seeing just how little substance remained inside of himself. If there was a rock bottom, they were here.
At least, he hoped so.
"We should go."
Morgan had no weapon, he had no method of defense, and the shock of everything was to the point where his walk looked more like a shamble. In another life, he probably could have been a great extra on the Walking Dead. He shouldn't have been leading the group in any direction, but right now, he had to keep on going. If he stopped, he knew full well that he might not start again. Henry had warned against going inside of the Infirmary — this was a distraction for his benefit to come here after all, so they would have to go elsewhere.
Hopefully, they wouldn't come across Michael again.
For his sake and for theirs.
((Morgan Dragosavich continued elsewhere))
Henry understood. Thank God. It felt like some small weight lifted off of Aurelien’s chest as soon as he nodded, words he couldn’t bring himself to say plucked from his throat and echoed into the world. He wasn’t completely certain why he couldn’t force the words out. Fear, perhaps, of Morgan’s reaction; subconsciously putting himself in his shoes, hearing that the person you loved had done the deed themself, knowing how bad his own reaction would be.
That was why he could, to some extent, understand Morgan’s decision. It wasn’t wholly rational, but he could see clear enough the line from point A to point B he’d made in his mind. Michael had had the gun. Michael’s gun had gone off. Michael’s gunshot wound had given Lizzie the choice of bleed out or tap out. It was the same line of thought Aurelien had pushed, the little white lie he’d kept repeating to keep guilt from eating him alive.
But once again, it wasn’t fully rational. It was a grief-stricken man lashing out at the closest available point of blame. It was a man ignoring the group’s collective failings that had led to Lizzie’s demise, a man who wouldn’t want to listen to the promises Michael had made, a man who Aurelien knew from his own experience couldn’t be swayed easily.
And unfortunately, a man that neither Aurelien nor Henry were in a state to stop from turning and leaving.
Aurelien looked from Morgan’s retreating back, wide-eyed, to Henry, hoping that the other boy would have some answer, some sort of plan like he always did, but it seemed like the events that they’d all been through had seriously thrown him for a loop.
“Hey… Hey, Morgan!”
Aurelien grit his teeth. He scooped the mace up, bending at the knees as he lifted it into his arms, and trudged after Morgan, jerking his head at Henry, gesturing to the other boy to follow. It wasn’t as though they had much other choice. Letting Morgan go off alone at this stage was letting the boy go off to die.
“Dude, wait up! Hold on!”
Aurelien trudged away from the infirmary, hoping it would be the last he ever saw of the building, steadfast in his goal to stop Morgan from carrying out his own. There were a number of reasons why he couldn’t be allowed to pull it off.
Not least was the fact that any time diverted from searching for his number one target was time wasted.
((Aurelien Valter continued in Here We Are Now Going to the South Side, I Pick Up My Friends and We Hope We Don't Die))
That was why he could, to some extent, understand Morgan’s decision. It wasn’t wholly rational, but he could see clear enough the line from point A to point B he’d made in his mind. Michael had had the gun. Michael’s gun had gone off. Michael’s gunshot wound had given Lizzie the choice of bleed out or tap out. It was the same line of thought Aurelien had pushed, the little white lie he’d kept repeating to keep guilt from eating him alive.
But once again, it wasn’t fully rational. It was a grief-stricken man lashing out at the closest available point of blame. It was a man ignoring the group’s collective failings that had led to Lizzie’s demise, a man who wouldn’t want to listen to the promises Michael had made, a man who Aurelien knew from his own experience couldn’t be swayed easily.
And unfortunately, a man that neither Aurelien nor Henry were in a state to stop from turning and leaving.
Aurelien looked from Morgan’s retreating back, wide-eyed, to Henry, hoping that the other boy would have some answer, some sort of plan like he always did, but it seemed like the events that they’d all been through had seriously thrown him for a loop.
“Hey… Hey, Morgan!”
Aurelien grit his teeth. He scooped the mace up, bending at the knees as he lifted it into his arms, and trudged after Morgan, jerking his head at Henry, gesturing to the other boy to follow. It wasn’t as though they had much other choice. Letting Morgan go off alone at this stage was letting the boy go off to die.
“Dude, wait up! Hold on!”
Aurelien trudged away from the infirmary, hoping it would be the last he ever saw of the building, steadfast in his goal to stop Morgan from carrying out his own. There were a number of reasons why he couldn’t be allowed to pull it off.
Not least was the fact that any time diverted from searching for his number one target was time wasted.
((Aurelien Valter continued in Here We Are Now Going to the South Side, I Pick Up My Friends and We Hope We Don't Die))
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
There it was. That look. Henry was sure it was some predator instinct, some holdover from a hundred thousand years of hunting and gathering. The stillness, that stare as if he could see Michael right in front of him. Aurelien showed flashes of it from time to time. Henry was sure he’d looked similar moments before he pulled the trigger on Marco. Evidence of the point, or at least one of the points, that the AT was trying to make.
That look was lying within each of them. Every person. No matter how innocent, how young, how half-formed any of these people were. It wasn't exactly some novel or original point, the idea was mostly one the cynical and juvenile clung to as an excuse for not trying hard enough to be decent human beings. Didn't mean the premise was necessarily wrong.
Well, good job. Point proven. Does it seem like the seventh or eighth time this is going to somehow affect the rest of the world in a way that isn't shock and horror?
Henry lagged behind Aurelien and Morgan. Each step he took seemed less motivated, less purposeful than the last. Their plan, the excuse he'd given to himself and Aurelien to target the killers, seemed more and more foolhardy by the minute. It was an excuse, and they all knew it.
At no point had he really taken into account people like Morgan, who'd be motivated to vengeance and who now only looked to kill Michael as punishment rather than a means to prevent more death.
It didn't take into account people like Henry, whose presence seemed to attract misfortune despite best intentions.
How many more people are going to die as a result of me trying to keep them alive, I wonder?
There wasn't anything else to try, though; nothing else he could live with, at least. He only had as much control over the situation as the rest of them did, and he tried to choose the best possible options left to him. No one could blame him if he tried his best.
Could they?
((Henry Sparks continued elsewhere))
That look was lying within each of them. Every person. No matter how innocent, how young, how half-formed any of these people were. It wasn't exactly some novel or original point, the idea was mostly one the cynical and juvenile clung to as an excuse for not trying hard enough to be decent human beings. Didn't mean the premise was necessarily wrong.
Well, good job. Point proven. Does it seem like the seventh or eighth time this is going to somehow affect the rest of the world in a way that isn't shock and horror?
Henry lagged behind Aurelien and Morgan. Each step he took seemed less motivated, less purposeful than the last. Their plan, the excuse he'd given to himself and Aurelien to target the killers, seemed more and more foolhardy by the minute. It was an excuse, and they all knew it.
At no point had he really taken into account people like Morgan, who'd be motivated to vengeance and who now only looked to kill Michael as punishment rather than a means to prevent more death.
It didn't take into account people like Henry, whose presence seemed to attract misfortune despite best intentions.
How many more people are going to die as a result of me trying to keep them alive, I wonder?
There wasn't anything else to try, though; nothing else he could live with, at least. He only had as much control over the situation as the rest of them did, and he tried to choose the best possible options left to him. No one could blame him if he tried his best.
Could they?
((Henry Sparks continued elsewhere))