Henry Sparks was going to be an astronaut. Of everyone that Morgan had ever known in school, he was one of the ones who was the surest of his goals. It made sense, too. Every time the two had spoken about the outer limits of the known universe, Henry had glowed, explaining his thoughts and ideas with a reverence that most people didn't have of their ideas and their goals. In a way, Morgan was a little jealous. At eighteen years old, most kids barely knew what school they were going to go to, let alone what the end goal at the far part of the road was. Henry had understood, probably earlier than most. Even his failed rocket launch had shown his teachers, his peers, and the community at large what kind of potential existed underneath his curly hair and inside of his skull.
The very same skull that was now splattered all over the ground somewhere near the Commissary.
All that potential, all of those hopes and dreams — gone. Just like that.
Listen, there's a moment when everything—
For hours, Morgan had sat in silence, trying to understand what Henry had been about to say; his last words had meant something to him and he had been rudely and fatally cut off just before he could impart his wisdom. If nothing else, that infuriated him. For all of his potential, all of his hopes and dreams and desires, his friend Henry was a kind soul, the sort of person that grandmothers would fawn over.
A moment when everything gets the better of you.
A moment when everything loses meaning.
A moment when everything becomes clear.
A moment when everything lives.
A moment when everything dies.
A moment when everything has to end.
The words haunted him; he couldn't figure them out. Ultimately, the only thing that he could take from them was that they were his last words. How many people on this island were going to die and he was likely going to be in or amongst the last things they ever thought about? Henry, Lizzie— he could barely picture her in his mind's eye, it was too painful. Yet the second he did, he saw her face, he heard her laugh in his mind.
Morgan cried himself to sleep that night.
That was becoming a really common occurrence these days.
((Morgan Dragosavich continued from Silent Key))
It seemed like they had continued to roam the island in circles, though he had known that trying to slow Aurelien down was an exercise in futility. So when the sun had set and the two had come upon the Lake once more, it was as good a spot as any to try and set up some semblance of camp. Outside of grunting a warning or diverting them, his companion hadn't said much since Henry's death. The poor guy had lost so much — they held that in common now, didn't they — that his mind was almost singularly focused on vengeance. Where Morgan found himself softly sobbing as they moved, Aurelien was silent, as though he were laser-focused.
Morgan knew, though. It was the eyes. There was a haunted quality about Aurelien's eyes that he imagined he likely held as well. They would be going on the eleventh day of Survival of the Fittest; most people who still drew breath would be completely out of their mind and almost feral. In a way, he was glad for those who had already died. While some had suffered — likely a lot — they would not be around to see the impact that surviving had on them.
Sleep, such as it was, didn't account for much anymore.
Beside the lake, there was a small body of water that was almost like a wading pool, the distinguishing characteristic being a number of haunted-looking cages partially submerged within the water. They looked like large versions of lobster traps, but Morgan wasn't naive enough to think that they were anything but what they were: crude torture devices. Whoever had once lived on this island were obviously not saints. Judging by everything he'd seen, perhaps it had been a cult? Some sort of backwards prison colony? The decomposing bodies that littered the area didn't do anything to dissuade him of that idea.
He couldn't tell but it looked like one of them might have been Reuben.
Thoughts like the former distracted him from real life, which was a welcome reprieve. He'd only been awake for a short time, knowing that another announcement was liable to sound off at any moment. Aurelien was near, but Morgan didn't make a move to look at him. The boy might be sleeping, he might be fuming with rage at having to delay his quest for vengeance in the name of recharging what little battery he may have had left, but either way, he didn't look like he was in much of a talking mood. Vengeance may not have been an honourable motive, but it was something.
The list wasn't overly long, either. Blaise d'Aramitz had killed Aurelien's boyfriend Dante and hadn't slowed down much after that. Michael Froese was rabid, his mind twisted into knots by Survival of the Fittest. Searching him out had cost him; cost Lizzie even more.
There was no cure for rabies.
Justin Greene was murdering people left and right, but he was only an acquaintance. If they found him and could end his reign of terror, great. If not, hopefully someone else would do it for them. Erika Stieglitz might have been the most dangerous person around, mostly because the announcements had made it quite clear that she was using a scoped rifle for some of her kills.
Michael, Erika — it was crazy to think that two of Morgan's friends had killed almost twenty people between the two of them. His friends. He could barely conceptualize it.
So that was the list. Not overly long, but daunting all the same.
"Whoever killed Henry," he muttered out loud, "needs to die." Of course — he wouldn't forget about Henry.
He couldn't.
After all, there's a moment when everything—
Fuck.
Morgan sighed to himself.
"Listen, there's a moment when everything—"
Day 11 pre-announcement; open
((Aurelien Valter continued from Silent Key))
They had lost almost everything.
He had lost Dante. Morgan had lost Lizzie. He’d lost Ariana, and Jackson, they’d both lost Henry. He could count the number of people left on the basketball and soccer teams on one hand - Ron was gone, Andy was gone, Jeremiah was gone, Johnny was gone. He’d lost blood, lost the use of half of his fingers, lost his sense of smell thanks to his shattered nose. He didn’t even want to think about how many people Morgan must have lost by this point. There was almost certainly more, more people, more things - but Aurelien had been robbed of that, too, fury and exhaustion putting a chokehold on his brain, days blurring together, Lizzie’s death feeling like it had occurred simultaneously yesterday and five years ago.
He still had something though. They both did, now, tempered into something harder than steel. They had a goal. They had targets.
Like hell anyone was going to take this away from him.
He stared through the rusted bars of the half-submerged cages as they made what passed for camp; no tent, no shelter, no food, but plenty of weapons. He absorbed the image in front of him, but barely processed it. The wonder, the questions as to what these cages were for, floated into his mind, hitting the wall of fog surrounding it, and disappearing into nothingness again. He sat. And he stared. And he felt the anger simmer away inside of him.
Tiny little cages. Floating in the ocean. At least he had space in this one to move, to act, to do something. Rather than sit, and wait for the end, cold water crawling up your neck and over your chin and into your mouth.
He could feel himself getting antsy, fingers drumming against the side of the crossbow, leg twitching as he sat by the shore, huddled in on himself. This anxiousness hit him whenever they stopped for even a moment, the need to keep moving, to not pause from their task for even one second, to make up for all the lost time and mistakes in their past.
But he’d started to see white flashes in his vision, and his legs had twice threatened to buckle and collapse underneath him now. So. Rest. They would sleep for as long as necessary, recharge until they thought they could walk without collapsing again. Then they would move.
“Exactly.”
Aurelien didn’t move a muscle when he replied to Morgan. He could only imagine how the other boy would react to Aurelien’s voice; he hadn’t spoken for hours, now. He ran his thumb along the crossbow string. His skin was calloused and hardened, cracked and dirty. He could barely feel the weapon beneath his touch.
“No matter who it is.”
Because there was no way Henry could have been the aggressor in whatever had gone down outside the Commissary. He had his oversized shotgun, but that was really the only advantage he had over anybody. From what he’d said, he had lost heart, lost faith, lost the drive to pursue the goal Aurelien and Morgan were following. He was no longer a threat to the players. He certainly wasn’t a threat to the innocents.
“As soon as we hear who killed Henry, we try and find them. As soon as we find them, we kill them. No mercy, no hesitation.”
Aurelien was silent for a moment longer. Then, slowly, he looked over his shoulder, craning to glance over towards the other boy.
“Morgan. Can I ask you something?”
They had lost almost everything.
He had lost Dante. Morgan had lost Lizzie. He’d lost Ariana, and Jackson, they’d both lost Henry. He could count the number of people left on the basketball and soccer teams on one hand - Ron was gone, Andy was gone, Jeremiah was gone, Johnny was gone. He’d lost blood, lost the use of half of his fingers, lost his sense of smell thanks to his shattered nose. He didn’t even want to think about how many people Morgan must have lost by this point. There was almost certainly more, more people, more things - but Aurelien had been robbed of that, too, fury and exhaustion putting a chokehold on his brain, days blurring together, Lizzie’s death feeling like it had occurred simultaneously yesterday and five years ago.
He still had something though. They both did, now, tempered into something harder than steel. They had a goal. They had targets.
Like hell anyone was going to take this away from him.
He stared through the rusted bars of the half-submerged cages as they made what passed for camp; no tent, no shelter, no food, but plenty of weapons. He absorbed the image in front of him, but barely processed it. The wonder, the questions as to what these cages were for, floated into his mind, hitting the wall of fog surrounding it, and disappearing into nothingness again. He sat. And he stared. And he felt the anger simmer away inside of him.
Tiny little cages. Floating in the ocean. At least he had space in this one to move, to act, to do something. Rather than sit, and wait for the end, cold water crawling up your neck and over your chin and into your mouth.
He could feel himself getting antsy, fingers drumming against the side of the crossbow, leg twitching as he sat by the shore, huddled in on himself. This anxiousness hit him whenever they stopped for even a moment, the need to keep moving, to not pause from their task for even one second, to make up for all the lost time and mistakes in their past.
But he’d started to see white flashes in his vision, and his legs had twice threatened to buckle and collapse underneath him now. So. Rest. They would sleep for as long as necessary, recharge until they thought they could walk without collapsing again. Then they would move.
“Exactly.”
Aurelien didn’t move a muscle when he replied to Morgan. He could only imagine how the other boy would react to Aurelien’s voice; he hadn’t spoken for hours, now. He ran his thumb along the crossbow string. His skin was calloused and hardened, cracked and dirty. He could barely feel the weapon beneath his touch.
“No matter who it is.”
Because there was no way Henry could have been the aggressor in whatever had gone down outside the Commissary. He had his oversized shotgun, but that was really the only advantage he had over anybody. From what he’d said, he had lost heart, lost faith, lost the drive to pursue the goal Aurelien and Morgan were following. He was no longer a threat to the players. He certainly wasn’t a threat to the innocents.
“As soon as we hear who killed Henry, we try and find them. As soon as we find them, we kill them. No mercy, no hesitation.”
Aurelien was silent for a moment longer. Then, slowly, he looked over his shoulder, craning to glance over towards the other boy.
“Morgan. Can I ask you something?”
"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
It wasn't surprising that Aurelien finally said something out loud, but more so that he followed it almost immediately with another thought, and then a question. He sounded tired, his voice having lost much of its usual lustre. It wasn't overly surprising, if you thought about it. Between barely sleeping, going without food and all of the suffering, it was surprising that they still found the strength to keep on going. Morgan hadn't taken stock of his own voice, but he was certain that he had that same dull quality that he identified within Aurelien's.
Post-traumatic stress, perhaps.
The only problem with that assumption was that it said that the stress was in the past. Post, and all. The two of them were still in the thick of things, he was very sure that there was more trauma yet to come. Which, great — something to look forward to!
Yay.
Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Morgan turned to look at his companion — were they friends? They hadn't really hung out much in school, save for the odd class and social gathering. Aurelien wasn't really someone that he would have made a point of saying hi to in the hallway, either. Acquaintances would have been a better way to put it, but no — fuck that. They were friends now; their friendship had been forged through the trials and tribulations of this island. One faced life or death with people and while it may not have formed prototypical friendships, Morgan knew that if push came to shove, there was nobody alive that he trusted more than Aurelien.
So yeah, friends. Morgan turned to his friend and raised an eyebrow.
"A question? Yeah. Of course, shoot." Bad phrasing; he shut his eyes in silent annoyance at his word choice. "Well — don't shoot, but — shit, go for it."
For now, he might have been a survivor, but for all time, Morgan Dragosavich knew that he would always be a dork.
Post-traumatic stress, perhaps.
The only problem with that assumption was that it said that the stress was in the past. Post, and all. The two of them were still in the thick of things, he was very sure that there was more trauma yet to come. Which, great — something to look forward to!
Yay.
Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Morgan turned to look at his companion — were they friends? They hadn't really hung out much in school, save for the odd class and social gathering. Aurelien wasn't really someone that he would have made a point of saying hi to in the hallway, either. Acquaintances would have been a better way to put it, but no — fuck that. They were friends now; their friendship had been forged through the trials and tribulations of this island. One faced life or death with people and while it may not have formed prototypical friendships, Morgan knew that if push came to shove, there was nobody alive that he trusted more than Aurelien.
So yeah, friends. Morgan turned to his friend and raised an eyebrow.
"A question? Yeah. Of course, shoot." Bad phrasing; he shut his eyes in silent annoyance at his word choice. "Well — don't shoot, but — shit, go for it."
For now, he might have been a survivor, but for all time, Morgan Dragosavich knew that he would always be a dork.
A ghost of a smile crossed Aurelien’s face at Morgan’s choice of words. He didn’t wanna be presumptuous about the guy; this was the most amount of time they’d ever spent together, after all. Morgan was other peoples’ friend, rather than Aurelien’s. But that freudian slip, that poorly thought out sentence, that just felt so… Morgan. It was a welcoming thing to see, a good thing to hear, that even after ten days of hell, after watching his girlfriend get shot and having to leave her to die, after swearing bloody vengeance on the person who’d killed Henry… there was still that essence of the boy from George Hunter High School inside the one who now sat beside him.
Aurelien hoped, dear God did he hope, that there was still some essence of him left inside.
He drummed his fingers on the side of the crossbow again, and looked back down into his lap. The question, so visible in his mind even through the fog, suddenly felt like an impossibility. He knew the words. He knew what he wanted to ask. It was the getting them out there, the putting them into the world, that was the problem.
“You… you don’t have to answer. If it’s too hard to do so.”
He closed his eyes, body suddenly still, before shifting in the dirt, turning to look properly at Morgan. There was another pause, another moment of silence between the two of them, as Aurelien forced the sentence out of his mouth.
“Can you tell me some things about Lizzie?”
Aurelien hoped, dear God did he hope, that there was still some essence of him left inside.
He drummed his fingers on the side of the crossbow again, and looked back down into his lap. The question, so visible in his mind even through the fog, suddenly felt like an impossibility. He knew the words. He knew what he wanted to ask. It was the getting them out there, the putting them into the world, that was the problem.
“You… you don’t have to answer. If it’s too hard to do so.”
He closed his eyes, body suddenly still, before shifting in the dirt, turning to look properly at Morgan. There was another pause, another moment of silence between the two of them, as Aurelien forced the sentence out of his mouth.
“Can you tell me some things about Lizzie?”
"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
Oh, fuck sakes — Aurelien's inquiry was so innocent and given any other time or place, he'd have welcomed such a diversion. Tell me about your girlfriend, Morgan. What is she like, how does she make you feel? Why do you love her so?
Except it was wrong, all of it. It wasn't like that anymore. It wasn't 'what is she like', but now 'what was she like'.
How did she make you feel?
Why did you love her so?
Past tense. Past fucking tense, thanks to Michael Froese, thanks to himself, thanks to Henry and Aurelien and if he wanted to really go macro and get mad at absolutely everyone responsible, thanks to the teachers and the administration at George Hunter for sending them on this doomed trip, thanks to their parents for fucking allowing it, and a great big special thanks would have to go to Danya and the terrorists whom had kidnapped them and made all of this possible in the first place.
Out loud, Morgan sighed as his body tensed up. Would the tears come back? If he was being honest with himself, he'd cried so much over the past eleven days that he wasn't sure his tear ducts had much left to give. The skin at the sides of his eyes was raw and sore and if that gave him any indication, sorrow had ruled the day. But Lizzie wasn't much of a crier, not on a good day. She was all about laughter.
So he would try his best. To honour her. To remember her, the only way that he could.
"She— man, she was funny. That was her thing, jokes and humour. You know the Piano Man song, where it says 'quick with a joke or to light up your smoke'? That's— she was kind of like that, y'know?"
Inhaling a deep breath through his nose, he looked up at the sky, up at the great hereafter. If it existed, if it didn't, perhaps she was out there. Somewhere.
"We were pretty close as kids; lived around the corner from each other. She had — you might have heard about it a few years ago — she changed a lot, fell in with some assholes and kind of melted down. We didn't talk for a long time."
Mean Lizzie had honestly kind of sucked. When she'd changed; all girls changed in high school at some point, but Lizzie's change had turned her once goofy personality into a classic mean girl. It wasn't a good look, and deep down she'd known it.
"It wasn't until this year where we really reconnected. I knew she'd reinvited herself and whatnot but I didn't — I should have tried to make an effort sooner, but it's just easier to keep your distance, you know? It's stupid, it was — fuck." There they were, once more. The classic Morgan Dragosavich waterworks.
The creepy bastards who deemed it suitable to watch the show they were all putting on should definitely have taken the over on how many times he would cry before he died. If anyone had, he'd be making those fuckers filthy rich. Sniffling, he wiped the sides of his eyes again, the raw skin reminding him that unlike basically everyone, Morgan wasn't dead yet.
"Sorry," he looked at Aurelien, trying to keep his composure. "We ran into one another at the mall. We were," he stopped, the memory both pleasant and painful.
Morgan's voice went soft and a sad smile crept upon his face. "We were talking about Michael, actually." Of course they were. "Michael and prom. That's— it's how that all happened."
Prom; simpler times, better days. Back before talking about Michael meant talking about a multiple-murdering psychopath.
Another life.
Morgan looked at the ground and took a moment to compose himself.
Except it was wrong, all of it. It wasn't like that anymore. It wasn't 'what is she like', but now 'what was she like'.
How did she make you feel?
Why did you love her so?
Past tense. Past fucking tense, thanks to Michael Froese, thanks to himself, thanks to Henry and Aurelien and if he wanted to really go macro and get mad at absolutely everyone responsible, thanks to the teachers and the administration at George Hunter for sending them on this doomed trip, thanks to their parents for fucking allowing it, and a great big special thanks would have to go to Danya and the terrorists whom had kidnapped them and made all of this possible in the first place.
Out loud, Morgan sighed as his body tensed up. Would the tears come back? If he was being honest with himself, he'd cried so much over the past eleven days that he wasn't sure his tear ducts had much left to give. The skin at the sides of his eyes was raw and sore and if that gave him any indication, sorrow had ruled the day. But Lizzie wasn't much of a crier, not on a good day. She was all about laughter.
So he would try his best. To honour her. To remember her, the only way that he could.
"She— man, she was funny. That was her thing, jokes and humour. You know the Piano Man song, where it says 'quick with a joke or to light up your smoke'? That's— she was kind of like that, y'know?"
Inhaling a deep breath through his nose, he looked up at the sky, up at the great hereafter. If it existed, if it didn't, perhaps she was out there. Somewhere.
"We were pretty close as kids; lived around the corner from each other. She had — you might have heard about it a few years ago — she changed a lot, fell in with some assholes and kind of melted down. We didn't talk for a long time."
Mean Lizzie had honestly kind of sucked. When she'd changed; all girls changed in high school at some point, but Lizzie's change had turned her once goofy personality into a classic mean girl. It wasn't a good look, and deep down she'd known it.
"It wasn't until this year where we really reconnected. I knew she'd reinvited herself and whatnot but I didn't — I should have tried to make an effort sooner, but it's just easier to keep your distance, you know? It's stupid, it was — fuck." There they were, once more. The classic Morgan Dragosavich waterworks.
The creepy bastards who deemed it suitable to watch the show they were all putting on should definitely have taken the over on how many times he would cry before he died. If anyone had, he'd be making those fuckers filthy rich. Sniffling, he wiped the sides of his eyes again, the raw skin reminding him that unlike basically everyone, Morgan wasn't dead yet.
"Sorry," he looked at Aurelien, trying to keep his composure. "We ran into one another at the mall. We were," he stopped, the memory both pleasant and painful.
Morgan's voice went soft and a sad smile crept upon his face. "We were talking about Michael, actually." Of course they were. "Michael and prom. That's— it's how that all happened."
Prom; simpler times, better days. Back before talking about Michael meant talking about a multiple-murdering psychopath.
Another life.
Morgan looked at the ground and took a moment to compose himself.
It felt selfish, in a way, to admit it, but the details about why Morgan had loved Lizzie weren’t what was most important, here.
It wasn’t like he didn’t care, or anything like that; if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have asked in the first place. He watched Morgan as he spoke, nodding along softly with what he was saying, only looking back down into his own curled up form when he realised the other boy was openly weeping. Again, it wasn’t from a lack of care or concern, or a feeling of embarrassment at the other boy’s reaction. He just, y’know. He didn’t think that Morgan would appreciate being stared at while he mourned his greatest loss.
He’d had a hunch that Morgan would speak up, though. It had been what he’d been relying on. That no matter how painful, no matter how much the memories burned with bittersweet fire, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from talking about Lizzie, and what she was like, and who she was, and just why she meant so damn much to him. The grief he felt at her loss was paramount in every syllable. As he spoke, he triggered memories in Aurelien’s own mind, ones that he wasn’t even aware he had. He hadn’t known who Lizzie was, back during the darker phase of her life, back when she was running with the wrong crowd, but he’d been aware of her, aware of that group of girls and what they were infamous for. The more you looked, the more you realised just how much each person you spent day after day in the same building as touched your life. The more you realised, now, what you were missing. And what you had missed out on.
He had felt certain that Morgan would say something, because he would have done the exact same if asked about Dante.
The two boys were silent for a while. Aurelien remained still, barely breathing, the movement of his chest only visible to those paying the closest of attention. He wondered briefly whether the people watching through the cameras could see. He wondered how far in they could zoom, whether they were just watching for basic movements and words, the positions and the lives and deaths of those on the island, or whether they could watch individual beads of sweat, the pores on each person’s face, the miniscule scratches on the collars surrounding their necks. He wondered, if they could do that, whether they’d even care to do so.
“I…”
He’d started speaking without truly meaning to, words falling from his lips before he was truly ready for them to exist. He screwed his eyes shut, then looked over at Morgan again.
“I know that… I messed up. With what happened with Michael and Lizzie. There were so many things I could have done, and shouldn’t have done, and I did the exact opposite of all of them, and… I need to shoulder some of the blame for what happened to her. And I’m so, so fucking sorry for… for it.”
Talking was Herculean, like pushing water up a mountain. Vengeance he could do so easily; just point him in the right direction and let his anger take control. But this? Acknowledging that the people you cared for and trusted and loved were dead, that your own mistakes and missteps had led to some of those deaths, to Ariana and Jackson and Lizzie’s… it was almost impossible. It was like a baseball back to his heart and stomach with each word. It hurt to say. He had to say it.
“But… there’s other people here, who’ve hurt those around us. Who’ve killed. And… and they don’t take on any of the burden. Either they try to completely separate themselves from what they’ve done, and refuse to acknowledge the weight of the deaths they’ve caused… or they know they’re to blame, and they just don’t give a shit.”
He was staring now, staring directly at Morgan, wild eyes, burning eyes, scorching a hole right through the other boy.
“Michael, Blaise, Erika, Justin, whoever fucking killed Henry… all the people they killed, they were somebody else’s Lizzie. And all these killers, they knew that, when they had their finger on the trigger or the knife in their hand. They knew that for each person they killed, there’d be someone, someones, whose hearts would be breaking because of it.”
He was breathing heavily through his nose now, gaze white hot.
“The knew that, and then they did it anyway.”
Fresh blood on his arm, where his fingernails had dug in.
“They have to die. There’s no other options.”
It wasn’t like he didn’t care, or anything like that; if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have asked in the first place. He watched Morgan as he spoke, nodding along softly with what he was saying, only looking back down into his own curled up form when he realised the other boy was openly weeping. Again, it wasn’t from a lack of care or concern, or a feeling of embarrassment at the other boy’s reaction. He just, y’know. He didn’t think that Morgan would appreciate being stared at while he mourned his greatest loss.
He’d had a hunch that Morgan would speak up, though. It had been what he’d been relying on. That no matter how painful, no matter how much the memories burned with bittersweet fire, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from talking about Lizzie, and what she was like, and who she was, and just why she meant so damn much to him. The grief he felt at her loss was paramount in every syllable. As he spoke, he triggered memories in Aurelien’s own mind, ones that he wasn’t even aware he had. He hadn’t known who Lizzie was, back during the darker phase of her life, back when she was running with the wrong crowd, but he’d been aware of her, aware of that group of girls and what they were infamous for. The more you looked, the more you realised just how much each person you spent day after day in the same building as touched your life. The more you realised, now, what you were missing. And what you had missed out on.
He had felt certain that Morgan would say something, because he would have done the exact same if asked about Dante.
The two boys were silent for a while. Aurelien remained still, barely breathing, the movement of his chest only visible to those paying the closest of attention. He wondered briefly whether the people watching through the cameras could see. He wondered how far in they could zoom, whether they were just watching for basic movements and words, the positions and the lives and deaths of those on the island, or whether they could watch individual beads of sweat, the pores on each person’s face, the miniscule scratches on the collars surrounding their necks. He wondered, if they could do that, whether they’d even care to do so.
“I…”
He’d started speaking without truly meaning to, words falling from his lips before he was truly ready for them to exist. He screwed his eyes shut, then looked over at Morgan again.
“I know that… I messed up. With what happened with Michael and Lizzie. There were so many things I could have done, and shouldn’t have done, and I did the exact opposite of all of them, and… I need to shoulder some of the blame for what happened to her. And I’m so, so fucking sorry for… for it.”
Talking was Herculean, like pushing water up a mountain. Vengeance he could do so easily; just point him in the right direction and let his anger take control. But this? Acknowledging that the people you cared for and trusted and loved were dead, that your own mistakes and missteps had led to some of those deaths, to Ariana and Jackson and Lizzie’s… it was almost impossible. It was like a baseball back to his heart and stomach with each word. It hurt to say. He had to say it.
“But… there’s other people here, who’ve hurt those around us. Who’ve killed. And… and they don’t take on any of the burden. Either they try to completely separate themselves from what they’ve done, and refuse to acknowledge the weight of the deaths they’ve caused… or they know they’re to blame, and they just don’t give a shit.”
He was staring now, staring directly at Morgan, wild eyes, burning eyes, scorching a hole right through the other boy.
“Michael, Blaise, Erika, Justin, whoever fucking killed Henry… all the people they killed, they were somebody else’s Lizzie. And all these killers, they knew that, when they had their finger on the trigger or the knife in their hand. They knew that for each person they killed, there’d be someone, someones, whose hearts would be breaking because of it.”
He was breathing heavily through his nose now, gaze white hot.
“The knew that, and then they did it anyway.”
Fresh blood on his arm, where his fingernails had dug in.
“They have to die. There’s no other options.”
"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
The apology was so unnecessary but Morgan appreciated it anyway. It had only taken him a few moments to compose himself; he was becoming quite adept at it, and whenever Aurelien opened his mouth as of late, it seemed as though something surprising came out of it. With the apology though, came something else. Something raw, from a different place right down at the bottom of his soul. It was a hatred for those who were responsible for all of the death and destruction. It was a fury that he'd seen second-hand but that he was now being let in on. Aurelien knew that he had that fury and he wanted to make Morgan understand.
He needed to try and lend Morgan some of that fury.
He listened as Aurelien explained the method towards his madness, and Morgan couldn't even say that it was madness. In fact, he identified with a lot of what Aurelien said. The boy; his friend — now his only friend — was hurting, he was in agony. When Lizzie had died because of a comedy of errors that they'd all had some part in, there was more than enough blame to go around, and at least they'd managed to have a goodbye. From what Henry had explained, Aurelien hadn't even had that. All he'd managed to do was meet up with a corpse. The person that he'd cared about more than any on the whole island was dead before the first day was up.
It wasn't madness at all. It was logic. Aurelien had an open wound and the only way to close it was to erase those who were responsible for causing the wounds. Not just for him or for Morgan.
He understood.
The boy stopped talking and Morgan looked up, seeing the blood upon his arm. This meant more to Aurelien than anything else. This was everything. Henry was gone, Lizzie too. He knew Dante in passing, but he was a nice enough guy. They were all gone, and all they had left to honour them were the two of them.
"Aurelien," Morgan slowly reached out and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot from the tears and his voice was hoarse, but there was something else. Resolve. "You're right. There isn't any other option."
He squeezed, gently but lending whatever he could left to strengthen his ally, his friend.
"They have to die," he repeated, "and we have to be the ones who make it so."
Morgan knew that this decision, more than any other he had made over the course of the last eleven days, would be the one that got him killed. Death was an inevitability for all of them and there had been more than a few times that he'd assumed he was done for, but against all odds, he had managed to stumble his way to the here and now.
But the time for stumbling had passed.
"I'm with you, man. To the end."
To the end. They were all each other had left.
The speakers crackled to life around them, and Morgan listened for the answer to the latest question that had broken his heart and had ripped the soul from their group.
He needed to try and lend Morgan some of that fury.
He listened as Aurelien explained the method towards his madness, and Morgan couldn't even say that it was madness. In fact, he identified with a lot of what Aurelien said. The boy; his friend — now his only friend — was hurting, he was in agony. When Lizzie had died because of a comedy of errors that they'd all had some part in, there was more than enough blame to go around, and at least they'd managed to have a goodbye. From what Henry had explained, Aurelien hadn't even had that. All he'd managed to do was meet up with a corpse. The person that he'd cared about more than any on the whole island was dead before the first day was up.
It wasn't madness at all. It was logic. Aurelien had an open wound and the only way to close it was to erase those who were responsible for causing the wounds. Not just for him or for Morgan.
He understood.
The boy stopped talking and Morgan looked up, seeing the blood upon his arm. This meant more to Aurelien than anything else. This was everything. Henry was gone, Lizzie too. He knew Dante in passing, but he was a nice enough guy. They were all gone, and all they had left to honour them were the two of them.
"Aurelien," Morgan slowly reached out and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot from the tears and his voice was hoarse, but there was something else. Resolve. "You're right. There isn't any other option."
He squeezed, gently but lending whatever he could left to strengthen his ally, his friend.
"They have to die," he repeated, "and we have to be the ones who make it so."
Morgan knew that this decision, more than any other he had made over the course of the last eleven days, would be the one that got him killed. Death was an inevitability for all of them and there had been more than a few times that he'd assumed he was done for, but against all odds, he had managed to stumble his way to the here and now.
But the time for stumbling had passed.
"I'm with you, man. To the end."
To the end. They were all each other had left.
The speakers crackled to life around them, and Morgan listened for the answer to the latest question that had broken his heart and had ripped the soul from their group.
He tensed up as Morgan reached out, sensing his hand moving to his shoulder before he saw it. He almost flinched away, so hardwired was he into thinking that any movement was a potential threat, and that hesitation was death - and not necessarily just for himself. But he remained seated, and he felt Morgan squeeze his shoulder, and heard him talk, the tone of his voice saying as much as his words. He shifted, looking right at his friend.
Because Morgan truly understood. He knew, exactly, what their endeavour would entail.
No longer could they take out the players in order to buy time for a rescue attempt, in the near microscopic chance that one even existed. No longer would they be able to stem the bleeding, slowing the amount of deaths per day down to a crawl. The time to achieve those goals had come and gone, and they’d failed without even getting close. This was not a universe in which they could all get out alive anymore. This would only have one winner, as it had the last time, and the time before last as well.
Odds were, it wouldn’t be him or Morgan. Sooner or later, they’d find someone they couldn’t take down without dying themselves.
And so long as he was the one to make their blood spill onto the ground, Aurelien was fine with it.
“To the very end,” he muttered back, nodding.
Morgan looked exhausted. He looked like he’d been to hell, and returned, and was just about to take the first steps back down again. Aurelien couldn’t imagine that he looked much better. He could feel the dried blood splattered across his face, the shattered bones in his nose whenever he moved even slightly, the rough, coarse hair that had blossomed from his usual mass of stubble. They had both lived a lifetime in the span of a week.
One way or another, it would be over very soon.
His ears pricked up at the sound of the speakers revving into action, and he returned to his previous stillness, listening through the entire speech, waiting for one name in particular. He had to sift through more of the same to get there, more kills from Erika, from Justin, from Ace. From Blaise. More things to justify what he and Morgan were going to do.
Finally, right at the end of the list, there it was. The murderer who had killed Henry. It was not the first time Diego Larrosa had made his presence on the island known. Aurelien wracked his brains, certain he’d talked to Diego before, passed by him in the corridors, knew his name and knew his face but needed his memory to be jogged before he could combine the two.
“Morgan,” Aurelien murmured, soft, quiet. “What do you know about Diego?”
Because Morgan truly understood. He knew, exactly, what their endeavour would entail.
No longer could they take out the players in order to buy time for a rescue attempt, in the near microscopic chance that one even existed. No longer would they be able to stem the bleeding, slowing the amount of deaths per day down to a crawl. The time to achieve those goals had come and gone, and they’d failed without even getting close. This was not a universe in which they could all get out alive anymore. This would only have one winner, as it had the last time, and the time before last as well.
Odds were, it wouldn’t be him or Morgan. Sooner or later, they’d find someone they couldn’t take down without dying themselves.
And so long as he was the one to make their blood spill onto the ground, Aurelien was fine with it.
“To the very end,” he muttered back, nodding.
Morgan looked exhausted. He looked like he’d been to hell, and returned, and was just about to take the first steps back down again. Aurelien couldn’t imagine that he looked much better. He could feel the dried blood splattered across his face, the shattered bones in his nose whenever he moved even slightly, the rough, coarse hair that had blossomed from his usual mass of stubble. They had both lived a lifetime in the span of a week.
One way or another, it would be over very soon.
His ears pricked up at the sound of the speakers revving into action, and he returned to his previous stillness, listening through the entire speech, waiting for one name in particular. He had to sift through more of the same to get there, more kills from Erika, from Justin, from Ace. From Blaise. More things to justify what he and Morgan were going to do.
Finally, right at the end of the list, there it was. The murderer who had killed Henry. It was not the first time Diego Larrosa had made his presence on the island known. Aurelien wracked his brains, certain he’d talked to Diego before, passed by him in the corridors, knew his name and knew his face but needed his memory to be jogged before he could combine the two.
“Morgan,” Aurelien murmured, soft, quiet. “What do you know about Diego?”
"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
"Diego Larrosa," Morgan tried to roll the r's in his last name and failed. His voice was measured, with no levity whatsoever in his tone. What did he know about the man who had so viciously murdered his friend? A few things came to mind, actually.
"He's killed before," Morgan started with the obvious. "Hung around with Declyn and the gardening club a lot. We had history back in junior year. The uh, class, not actual history."
It was a shame that such a statement had to be qualified, but the way that life had spun out for all three of them, having history with someone could be as dangerous as any factoid he could conjure up about anyone. Morgan couldn't recall having as much as a single one-on-one conversation with Diego, any time that he'd interacted with the guy it had been in the context of a group setting, be it in the hallways around a number of people or in a class discussion. He didn't think that Diego had any particular history — not the class — with Henry, though again... it didn't matter.
Henry could have just been a victim of opportunity, happenstance bringing the two of them together and leaving Henry a smouldering crater in the ground. There was no reason that anyone would have a grudge against his friend that he could think of, though his movements before they'd met up here were a little foggy. He'd heard how Aurelien had sustained his injuries, the story of what had happened with Marco had shocked him at the time, but he understood. Losing both Ariana and Jackson nearly in front of them had had an impact on both Henry and Aurelien, and when Henry had gone down, well... Morgan had a front-row seat for that. It still felt so strange thinking of his classmates in the past tense. He'd talked to Ariana right before the buses had left. She'd organized some feel-good thing for Ross, who was beating himself up for being stupid enough to get himself hurt in a hockey game, of all things, the day before the trip. Ross was a good dude and Morgan had been happy to help out, bombarding his Snapchat and Instagram accounts as much as he could.
Ross, of course, ended up being the luckiest of them all. Morgan hoped he hadn't watched any of it. He was living it, his pain was liable to be over in a few days time. The people back home would forever have to go online and see images of their friends and family members committing horrific acts in the name of survival, or dying. Even those that had mostly tried to maintain their dignity, like Henry? Just yesterday, he'd been moralizing about how they shouldn't go after killers because it made them just as weak. He'd just seen Henry yesterday.
Then Diego had made his presence felt, and Henry was no more.
"I'd know him to see him, as long as he hasn't done some stupid shit like give himself a mohawk," Morgan continued, sounding pained at even rationalizing the fact that Henry died. Everything pained him right now; thinking, moving, breathing. Yet the pain was another reminder that he had what most of his classmates didn't: his life.
"It doesn't matter. After what he did to Henry, he could be laying in a ditch singing fucking hallelujah and repenting for all I care." Morgan looked over at Aurelien, his jaw set. "Fuck that guy. Diego needs to die. So we add him to the list."
Who was speaking the words that were coming from his mouth? They seemed so foreign, so un-Morgan. After so much heartache and trauma, he barely remembered what things had been like when he wasn't fighting for his life.
"You got anything?"
His tone made it sound like the two of them were old drinking buddies, going over a list of old classmates to invite out for drinks. This wasn't quite the same, though Diego, Blaise, Michael and Justin would be the guests of honour were they to grace the duo with their appearance.
"He's killed before," Morgan started with the obvious. "Hung around with Declyn and the gardening club a lot. We had history back in junior year. The uh, class, not actual history."
It was a shame that such a statement had to be qualified, but the way that life had spun out for all three of them, having history with someone could be as dangerous as any factoid he could conjure up about anyone. Morgan couldn't recall having as much as a single one-on-one conversation with Diego, any time that he'd interacted with the guy it had been in the context of a group setting, be it in the hallways around a number of people or in a class discussion. He didn't think that Diego had any particular history — not the class — with Henry, though again... it didn't matter.
Henry could have just been a victim of opportunity, happenstance bringing the two of them together and leaving Henry a smouldering crater in the ground. There was no reason that anyone would have a grudge against his friend that he could think of, though his movements before they'd met up here were a little foggy. He'd heard how Aurelien had sustained his injuries, the story of what had happened with Marco had shocked him at the time, but he understood. Losing both Ariana and Jackson nearly in front of them had had an impact on both Henry and Aurelien, and when Henry had gone down, well... Morgan had a front-row seat for that. It still felt so strange thinking of his classmates in the past tense. He'd talked to Ariana right before the buses had left. She'd organized some feel-good thing for Ross, who was beating himself up for being stupid enough to get himself hurt in a hockey game, of all things, the day before the trip. Ross was a good dude and Morgan had been happy to help out, bombarding his Snapchat and Instagram accounts as much as he could.
Ross, of course, ended up being the luckiest of them all. Morgan hoped he hadn't watched any of it. He was living it, his pain was liable to be over in a few days time. The people back home would forever have to go online and see images of their friends and family members committing horrific acts in the name of survival, or dying. Even those that had mostly tried to maintain their dignity, like Henry? Just yesterday, he'd been moralizing about how they shouldn't go after killers because it made them just as weak. He'd just seen Henry yesterday.
Then Diego had made his presence felt, and Henry was no more.
"I'd know him to see him, as long as he hasn't done some stupid shit like give himself a mohawk," Morgan continued, sounding pained at even rationalizing the fact that Henry died. Everything pained him right now; thinking, moving, breathing. Yet the pain was another reminder that he had what most of his classmates didn't: his life.
"It doesn't matter. After what he did to Henry, he could be laying in a ditch singing fucking hallelujah and repenting for all I care." Morgan looked over at Aurelien, his jaw set. "Fuck that guy. Diego needs to die. So we add him to the list."
Who was speaking the words that were coming from his mouth? They seemed so foreign, so un-Morgan. After so much heartache and trauma, he barely remembered what things had been like when he wasn't fighting for his life.
"You got anything?"
His tone made it sound like the two of them were old drinking buddies, going over a list of old classmates to invite out for drinks. This wasn't quite the same, though Diego, Blaise, Michael and Justin would be the guests of honour were they to grace the duo with their appearance.
“Nothing really,” Aurelien muttered, shaking his head. “I barely knew the guy before this. I was busy with my sports teams and wandering out in the foothills, he was busy with the gardening team and… well, actual academics.”
You always saw college students talking on Facebook or Twitter or their blog or whatever about how much they missed their high school friends, and how much they wished they’d connected with more people who they’d never see again. He was sure a ton of his classmates had been thinking similar thoughts as they’d clambered onto the bus to leave the hotel - he knew that he definitely had been. Well, here he was; in a position where he was being forced to think about people outside of his social circles a whole damn lot.
He stood up, slowly, stretching out each of his limbs as he did so, rolling his shoulders, letting any lingering aches and soreness in his body melt away. The pistol in his bomber jacket pocket jostled as he moved. He wedged the crossbow between his back and his bag, bending at the knee to wrap his hands around the mace’s handle, feeling his muscles roar as he wrenched it up from the ground.
“If you think you’ll recognise him when you see him, though, that’s good,” Aurelien said, standing back up straight, briefly pausing for breath. “And I know who isn’t Diego, so we can narrow it down from there. We just need to be absolutely certain we do have Diego in our sights before taking the shot. I know what Erika looks like, I know what Blaise looks like, we don’t need to hesitate with them. But we can’t just shoot first and ask questions later on the killers we’re uncertain about. We can’t just plough our way through everyone else remaining just to get to them. We cannot become like them.”
He paused for a moment, a wry flicker of a smile ghosting across his face.
“Course, if we do find him in a ditch, and he’s already dead rather than repenting, then it’s no skin off my nose. The murderers need to die. If it’s not by our hand, we move onto the next.”
Dead was dead. That was the most important thing. But Aurelien couldn’t lie to himself; pulling the trigger or shooting the bolt himself would feel infinitely more satisfying.
“If you’re ready, let’s head out.”
Aurelien waited for Morgan to give the okay. Then he nodded, and started walking.
((Aurelien Valter continued in You Gotta Roll With It, You Gotta Take Your Time))
You always saw college students talking on Facebook or Twitter or their blog or whatever about how much they missed their high school friends, and how much they wished they’d connected with more people who they’d never see again. He was sure a ton of his classmates had been thinking similar thoughts as they’d clambered onto the bus to leave the hotel - he knew that he definitely had been. Well, here he was; in a position where he was being forced to think about people outside of his social circles a whole damn lot.
He stood up, slowly, stretching out each of his limbs as he did so, rolling his shoulders, letting any lingering aches and soreness in his body melt away. The pistol in his bomber jacket pocket jostled as he moved. He wedged the crossbow between his back and his bag, bending at the knee to wrap his hands around the mace’s handle, feeling his muscles roar as he wrenched it up from the ground.
“If you think you’ll recognise him when you see him, though, that’s good,” Aurelien said, standing back up straight, briefly pausing for breath. “And I know who isn’t Diego, so we can narrow it down from there. We just need to be absolutely certain we do have Diego in our sights before taking the shot. I know what Erika looks like, I know what Blaise looks like, we don’t need to hesitate with them. But we can’t just shoot first and ask questions later on the killers we’re uncertain about. We can’t just plough our way through everyone else remaining just to get to them. We cannot become like them.”
He paused for a moment, a wry flicker of a smile ghosting across his face.
“Course, if we do find him in a ditch, and he’s already dead rather than repenting, then it’s no skin off my nose. The murderers need to die. If it’s not by our hand, we move onto the next.”
Dead was dead. That was the most important thing. But Aurelien couldn’t lie to himself; pulling the trigger or shooting the bolt himself would feel infinitely more satisfying.
“If you’re ready, let’s head out.”
Aurelien waited for Morgan to give the okay. Then he nodded, and started walking.
((Aurelien Valter continued in You Gotta Roll With It, You Gotta Take Your Time))
"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
Morgan found himself nodding, a vacancy apparent in the back of his soul. There was something ironic about making plans to go after another living person with the intention of ending their life. So what if they had done unspeakable things to people they cared about? Was a life truly worth a life?
"Yeah, let's do this," he monotoned. The excitement wasn't there, the casual nature with which they were discussing actual, honest-to-goodness murder continued to make him feel like someone else had entered his body when he wasn't looking and was making the decisions for him. Michael would have said something ridiculous, like he'd been infected with brain-worms or something silly like that.
He paused as he started to rise to his feet. Michael would have said something silly like that, back when he was still Michael, and not some hardened killer. Was he really going to kill his best friend? Was he really going to stare down the guy that he'd make jokes with, chum around the garage with, the same guy that he'd dragged to prom and forced to listen to his ridiculous jokes for years on end? It sounded insane. The whole concept of Survival of the Fittest was insane. Morgan didn't know; exhaustion had more than set in. He was saying and thinking all of the 'right' things. Aurelien seemed to have more of an insular focus, he understood what he needed to do. When he wasn't flying off into a rage, he seemed like he had a plan and he didn't question the morality, the right or wrong of any of it.
If or when the time came to take aim and pull the trigger, Morgan knew his new friend wouldn't hesitate.
Would he?
That was the itch, the one small voice in the back of his mind that had been sitting there nearly the entire time. Since the terrorists had kidnapped them and they'd awoken to their grotesque 'demonstration' that had cost the life of poor Ms. Garcia, that had been the question they'd posed to all of them, the question that at the time, Morgan had been unable to fathom.
Could you kill your best friend?
After everything that had happened, Morgan had believed that he wouldn't make it far enough to contemplate that, even entertain the idea. The second that Wyatt had come charging towards him, Morgan had believed his life to be over, that his name would be but a footnote in the history of the United States and this horrible terrorist group that seemed to have a chokehold over the entire world. But then, something had happened. He hadn't died. He'd walked away from that battle, and the next one.
And the next one after that.
He'd walked away so many times when others — good, honest people like Andy or Bryan or Henry or Lizzie — hadn't. Eleven days after he'd thought himself dead at the hands of the school's most bombastic pseudo-bully, Morgan somehow still had the capacity to think: could I kill my best friend? Actually? It was one thing to say it out loud, it was another thing to actually take the action altogether. At this point, could he afford not to? Aurelien was on his side, they were friends, but at what point did he turn to Morgan, apologize and do what he had to in order to survive? It was a terrible thought, only mitigated by the dawning realization that in going after killers, the two of them likely both wouldn't survive long enough for that to be a problem. Which was great for trust, but also an incredibly morbid thing to think. So it went back to the same question, again.
Could he do it?
If Michael Froese stood in front of him once more, looking at him with his sad, half-crazed eyes, could he look into the eyes of the guy whom he'd once trusted with his life, his partner-in-crime, and apologize? Perhaps that was it, that was what Henry had been trying to tell him. That eventually, there came a moment when he was going to have to choose. On one side would be his humanity and on the other, his survival. It was as though Henry was still with them; his spectre certainly cast a dark shadow. He could still hear the words in his mind's eye as he followed along behind Aurelien, clear as day.
"Listen, there's a moment when everything—"
That was all there would be, in the end.
One moment; he would have to choose.
"Damn," Morgan breathed as they left the morbid, half-submerged cages behind.
((Morgan Dragosavich continued in You Gotta Roll With It, You Gotta Take Your Time))
"Yeah, let's do this," he monotoned. The excitement wasn't there, the casual nature with which they were discussing actual, honest-to-goodness murder continued to make him feel like someone else had entered his body when he wasn't looking and was making the decisions for him. Michael would have said something ridiculous, like he'd been infected with brain-worms or something silly like that.
He paused as he started to rise to his feet. Michael would have said something silly like that, back when he was still Michael, and not some hardened killer. Was he really going to kill his best friend? Was he really going to stare down the guy that he'd make jokes with, chum around the garage with, the same guy that he'd dragged to prom and forced to listen to his ridiculous jokes for years on end? It sounded insane. The whole concept of Survival of the Fittest was insane. Morgan didn't know; exhaustion had more than set in. He was saying and thinking all of the 'right' things. Aurelien seemed to have more of an insular focus, he understood what he needed to do. When he wasn't flying off into a rage, he seemed like he had a plan and he didn't question the morality, the right or wrong of any of it.
If or when the time came to take aim and pull the trigger, Morgan knew his new friend wouldn't hesitate.
Would he?
That was the itch, the one small voice in the back of his mind that had been sitting there nearly the entire time. Since the terrorists had kidnapped them and they'd awoken to their grotesque 'demonstration' that had cost the life of poor Ms. Garcia, that had been the question they'd posed to all of them, the question that at the time, Morgan had been unable to fathom.
Could you kill your best friend?
After everything that had happened, Morgan had believed that he wouldn't make it far enough to contemplate that, even entertain the idea. The second that Wyatt had come charging towards him, Morgan had believed his life to be over, that his name would be but a footnote in the history of the United States and this horrible terrorist group that seemed to have a chokehold over the entire world. But then, something had happened. He hadn't died. He'd walked away from that battle, and the next one.
And the next one after that.
He'd walked away so many times when others — good, honest people like Andy or Bryan or Henry or Lizzie — hadn't. Eleven days after he'd thought himself dead at the hands of the school's most bombastic pseudo-bully, Morgan somehow still had the capacity to think: could I kill my best friend? Actually? It was one thing to say it out loud, it was another thing to actually take the action altogether. At this point, could he afford not to? Aurelien was on his side, they were friends, but at what point did he turn to Morgan, apologize and do what he had to in order to survive? It was a terrible thought, only mitigated by the dawning realization that in going after killers, the two of them likely both wouldn't survive long enough for that to be a problem. Which was great for trust, but also an incredibly morbid thing to think. So it went back to the same question, again.
Could he do it?
If Michael Froese stood in front of him once more, looking at him with his sad, half-crazed eyes, could he look into the eyes of the guy whom he'd once trusted with his life, his partner-in-crime, and apologize? Perhaps that was it, that was what Henry had been trying to tell him. That eventually, there came a moment when he was going to have to choose. On one side would be his humanity and on the other, his survival. It was as though Henry was still with them; his spectre certainly cast a dark shadow. He could still hear the words in his mind's eye as he followed along behind Aurelien, clear as day.
"Listen, there's a moment when everything—"
That was all there would be, in the end.
One moment; he would have to choose.
"Damn," Morgan breathed as they left the morbid, half-submerged cages behind.
((Morgan Dragosavich continued in You Gotta Roll With It, You Gotta Take Your Time))