...Make It Clean

[Shiola]

((Tyrell Lahti continued from If You Must Fight...))

The jungle finally gave way to some open space, as Ty tried his best to avoid encountering anyone on his way around the village's perimeter. The route down to the water's edge was treacherous at first, but after some careful steps across wet stones and steep terrain, he found himself standing on a small, isolated beach. Opposite from the Bay itself, it was easy enough to look out towards the ocean with his back to a wall of mud and stone, confident no one was lurking nearby. The smell of the ocean was almost overpowering, but it helped suppress the ever-present stench of blood, sweat, and mud he had been carrying with him.

A wave crested over a tide pool nearby, hitting the rock face and sprinkling droplets of cold water onto Ty's face. The last time he'd been able to take a shower was at the hotel. That last time he'd had a chance to reset, and recharge. Those moments in the room with Danya were nauseating not just because of the knockout gas or the fact that he'd littered the room with an innocent woman's brain matter, but also as a result of sitting stationary in a bus for hours on end. No doubt they'd spent even more time in a plane after that.

I wonder how many guys it took to move Wyatt. It would've been funny if they had to just shoot him because the gas didn't take.

Ty set his duffel bag on a higher section of the rock face, where it wouldn't be vulnerable to waves. Then came his boots, and the rest of his clothes. It would've been embarrassing to get caught out here naked and unarmed, but this area was more of a risk as a sudden danger zone than anything else.

Swimming out to the ocean, waiting for the collar to go off. Maybe a backstroke, while the sun is shining. Probably not a bad way to go. I'll remember that one.

He could only laugh as he realized, too late, that a camera had a fix on the area. Ty stood naked in front of it and called out to any potential viewer.

"I was gonna say that I'm eighteen, so don't worry about it, buuut then I realized that was kinda fucked up. Y'know, considering." He tapped the black metal collar around his neck.

On that note, he cast himself back into the cold saltwater. He remained underneath the surface for a few moments to try and shake the dirt and grime from his hair, before coming back up. The saltwater stung the cuts across his chest and face, but it felt good to see the blood and dust dissipate in the clear water. The waves gently pushed him back in the direction of the shore, though he didn't dare stray far from it in any case. As of yet he hadn't had a chance to really hear the collars beeping, and he'd no intention of hearing what his own sounded like. Not yet, at least.

"This is kinda nice, actually." He craned his head back at the camera.

The fucking ideologically vapid atrocity notwithstanding.

Ty remained half-submerged for a few more moments before it began to seem uncomfortably cold, at which point he quickly extricated himself from the water and returned to his duffel bag. Aside from the sand he tracked back on the soles of his feet, he felt cleansed of the morning's events. For a moment he'd wondered how silly he looked to the camera, before coming to the rapid conclusion that he'd never actually know or be able to ask.

Well, at least the world got a good look before I went in to the cold.

Ty tossed aside his Malthusian Catastrophe t-shirt, now peppered with holes and specks of blood. Grabbing a different band tee, he couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia as he put it on instead.

I wonder if a shirt that says "murder by death" is in bad taste right now?

It was a cool design too, but it didn't hold the same sentimental value the Malthusian Catastrophe shirt did. The band always had cool independent art made for them, but it wasn't even about that. Ty remembered well the show he'd picked the shirt up at. It was the last time they'd headlined in town, and he'd gone to see them with Axel, Andy, and Lorenzo. After the show they hung out for hours. It was the kind of night that seemed to have gone on forever. It went until morning, if he remembered correctly. Nothing really happened, nothing he could really describe with any level of detail, but it all seemed so enormously consequential.

It was the measuring post for the way nights out with friends should go, as far as he was concerned. It felt perfect. Fun, and thoughtless. He was too high to make too much of himself. It was like a test run of how normal people were supposed to act with their friends. Everything about it seemed right. When he told Erika about the things he was going to miss from their high school years, that was always the first thing that came to mind. It was the thing she'd reminded him about after telling him not to take planning for the future so seriously. They needed time for that shit. Time to be a stupid teenager, with stupid teenage friends.

He stared down at the t-shirt, now waterlogged on the nearby rocks. The shape of the stone warped the design, twisting it around the holes and bloodstains. Wearing it used to occasionally bring up that fond memory. In could have been a mental refuge in this horrible, warped situation.

Not anymore. Not after what he knew.

You ruined so much more than Artem.

Ty returned to higher ground, setting his duffel bag in front of him and carefully taking stock of what he had left. In the bottom of the bag, he found an errant hair elastic and tied his hair back into a tight ponytail. The map once again sat folded in front of him, but Ty didn't open it. He knew very well where he was, but for the time being he couldn't fabricate a reason to go anywhere else. There was what remained of a lighthouse nearby - it was possible some might've been staying there. Both the Pier and the Yacht seemed like dangerous places to take shelter; there was no easy exit as far as he could tell. It wasn't that he wanted to avoid people. Others might've seen Erika or Lorenzo.

They also might decide to ventilate Tyrell much as Gervais had. There had to be a clear exit, a path away from danger. Dying on the first day wouldn't make a difference, and that would be enough to let the panic set in again. Whatever last moments they were going to be, they couldn't be like they were before. Something had to be done.

Slowly he looked up from his duffel bag, letting his eyes take in the vista surrounding him. In the far distance, a curiosity held his gaze. Movement. A colour that he hadn't seen in the last hour of walking through dense jungle. It looked familiar nonetheless. Kind of a bright, exciting colour.

Maybe even a bit nostalgic.

((Tyrell Lahti continued in Starting Point For G007))