Now was a good time to be real fucking angry, right?
STEPNEY EZEQUIEL CRUZ – SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST – BEGIN
Stepney thought it was. He sure as hell wanted to be angry, to let caution to the winds and lash out at everything and everyone in the vicinity, verbally and physically. But he just… wasn’t. It wasn’t there right now. Lights were on, but there was nobody home. It’d come, it’d come, just give it time. But right now? Right now there was a lot to think about. A lot of emotions to process. Too many to do so after having just woken up from a drug-induced sleep.
He was feeling vaguely pissed off for a lot of reasons, though. That was something. Bunch of shiteating scum deciding to grab a bus full of high school kids and pitting them against each other like some insane cockfight, and for what reason again? Oh, right, they’d never even given one, far as Stepney could tell. Everyone needed a hobby, he guessed. He was just unlucky they’d decided against stamp collecting, and had decided to pick his school for attempt number 7.
The thing that annoyed him the most was the fact he wouldn’t even be able to recognise Danya even if he got out of this place alive. Made it kinda hard to break his nose, really.
Stepney huffed, and ruffled his hair. It was something fascinating about humans, really; how you never expected bad things to happen to you, even when the chance of it was exactly the same as it happening to anybody else. He’d never expected Survival of the Fittest to happen again, even after the fourth time, and then again after the fifth time, and he sure as hell had never expected for him to be thrown into the midst of it all. He’d done more perilous, daredevil, stupid as fuck stunts in his lifetime than most people had eaten hot dinners. He’d kinda gotten it into his head that he was pretty much invicible at this point.
Boy, he sure hoped that was the case, else there’d be egg all over his face. And blood, most likely. Whole lotta blood.
He looked out over the jungle he’d been dumped in, trying to glimpse through the gloom of the tightly clustered trees, one hand playing with his hair, the other resting on his knee, as he sat, and breathed, and felt something and everything and nothing. It was… humid, first and foremost. His shirt was sticking to his skin underneath his button-up. But more importantly than that, it was all strangely beautiful. He was surrounded by lush forestry, trees and vegetation he’d only ever seen in books, and then some more that he’d never caught a glimpse of in his life, covering every inch of the surrounding area. He could hear birds in the trees. Everything was green. The air, though heavy, felt clear.
He’d wanted to travel after graduation, right? Cross the country, go to other continents, see the world and shit? Well, guess he got his wish after all. Real funny joke. The terrorists had missed the part where he’d wished he could go travelling with Ming, but in fairness, it had been a late addition.
His heart twisted in his chest, and he clenched his fists. For a brief, awful moment, he’d forgotten Ming hadn’t been on the bus with him, hadn’t been knocked out, hadn’t been tied to her chair in the auditorium, hadn’t been forced to kill or be killed.
That, again, was something.
Stepney breathed again, taking several deep breaths, slowing down until his heartrate was somewhere close to its normal speed. His eyes trailed to his side, looking for a distraction. Fortunately, one was lying right next to him, propped against his bag and his… bag.
He’d always wanted a bike when he was a kid. He was pretty sure that was, like, what every little kid wanted. A proper mountain bike, with, like, flame decals down the side. Either that or a foosball table. He’d never gotten one, so he figured that was the reason why his eyes had kinda lit up when he’d first seen his assigned ‘weapon’, despite the situation. It was exactly the sorta thing you dreamed of for Christmas; bright red, shiny and new, tyres ready to roll across dirt and gravel.
Clearly the terrorists had thought it was way too nice for the thing they were giving to kids about to die, so they’d added tassles to the handle, a little bell, and a squeaky horn to the handlebars as well.
As Stepney stood up and looked down at it again, though, another feeling surged to the front of his mind. Apprehension. He figured he’d gotten pretty lucky, here – gambler’s fortune and all – because if he was stuck in the middle of a Danger Zone, all he needed to do was hop on the bike and he’d be out of there in a flash. There were tons of other possibilities, too. Just… he couldn’t quite think of them right now.
There was a very, very simple reason why, of course.
Stepney had no clue how to ride a bike.
Survival of the Fittest? At this time of day, in this part of the country, localised entirely within your high school?
"Yes!" "... May I stop it?" "... No." --- Open!~
Survival of the Fittest? At this time of day, in this part of the country, localised entirely within your high school?
"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
((B037 Toby Underwood: Start))
Well this was...tropical.
Toby was awake, for what it was worth. He was pretty resistant to anesthetic; when he'd gotten his wisdom teeth out, he'd woken up in the middle of the procedure. That had sucked. A lot like waking up to the murder of your teachers followed shortly by the declaration of your current inevitable doom's imminent approach. That was pretty lame, overall.
He was...taking it well. Toby, that is. He wasn't sobbing or like, nuts now, or anything. He was reasonably confident he was going to have a bad time, but like, what was he going to do about it? Be sad, sure, but that didn't help. He'd figure something out, maybe, but right now, he had no control over his circumstances, so panicking would get nothing done. The good news was that he had a gun. A uh, 'Cal-Tech'? No, wait, something else. It was kind of tiny, but it was a good start. People wouldn't mess with him and that was the important first step to surviving, is not dying.
Also on the bright side, it was really pretty here on this...island. It was an island right? Yeah, whatshisface, Danya, had said so. What did he get out of lying? It was a pretty island, at least. Very green and...planty. He wasn't going anywhere, since like, where was he going to go? So he was just kind of wandering. He'd been doing that for a while when he heard shuffling nearby, through some of the big, bushy...bushes.
What did he have to lose? Toby approached, pushing through the plants and peering over some of the remaining foliage until he got a glimpse of- "Yo, Stepney!" Toby stumbled as he stepped forward, almost dropping the gun which he'd forgotten he was holding. Gotta keep an eye out for that thing. "Cool bike, man." He grinned, mussing his hair. "It's me, Toby." Stepney knew him, obviously, but it couldn't hurt to reassure the guy. He was probably freaking the fuck out anyway. Making him take even an extra second to identify the guy with a gun running in was just a dick move.
Well this was...tropical.
Toby was awake, for what it was worth. He was pretty resistant to anesthetic; when he'd gotten his wisdom teeth out, he'd woken up in the middle of the procedure. That had sucked. A lot like waking up to the murder of your teachers followed shortly by the declaration of your current inevitable doom's imminent approach. That was pretty lame, overall.
He was...taking it well. Toby, that is. He wasn't sobbing or like, nuts now, or anything. He was reasonably confident he was going to have a bad time, but like, what was he going to do about it? Be sad, sure, but that didn't help. He'd figure something out, maybe, but right now, he had no control over his circumstances, so panicking would get nothing done. The good news was that he had a gun. A uh, 'Cal-Tech'? No, wait, something else. It was kind of tiny, but it was a good start. People wouldn't mess with him and that was the important first step to surviving, is not dying.
Also on the bright side, it was really pretty here on this...island. It was an island right? Yeah, whatshisface, Danya, had said so. What did he get out of lying? It was a pretty island, at least. Very green and...planty. He wasn't going anywhere, since like, where was he going to go? So he was just kind of wandering. He'd been doing that for a while when he heard shuffling nearby, through some of the big, bushy...bushes.
What did he have to lose? Toby approached, pushing through the plants and peering over some of the remaining foliage until he got a glimpse of- "Yo, Stepney!" Toby stumbled as he stepped forward, almost dropping the gun which he'd forgotten he was holding. Gotta keep an eye out for that thing. "Cool bike, man." He grinned, mussing his hair. "It's me, Toby." Stepney knew him, obviously, but it couldn't hurt to reassure the guy. He was probably freaking the fuck out anyway. Making him take even an extra second to identify the guy with a gun running in was just a dick move.
B020 -- Tristan O’Hara: Start
Tristan O’Hara wasn’t a crier.
Not only did he think it unbecoming of himself, but it just wasn’t how he expressed emotion. It never felt real, never cathartic or raw like it did for everyone else. When he was on stage he could turn it on and off like a faucet, right on cue. Just a bodily function, nothing more.
He could count on one hand the number of times he’d cried in the real world in the years past. And each time it had always felt more like he was doing it out of obligation, out of some thought of ‘this is a scenario I should cry in’.
This was one of those scenarios.
So much had happened, so many images and sounds flitting through his brain with such speed they whirled into a blur. Panic. Shouts. A splitting headache. A flash of dark red. Cool metal against his throat. And throughout it all the unmistakeable echo of a gunshot, over and over and over again.
So many people. So many friends. People he cared about. People he didn’t. So many of them that he couldn’t even latch onto a specific name or face. Maybe that was better. Because if he really focussed in, conjured someone up, then maybe everything that he hadn’t even begun to acknowledge would just come rushing out.
Tristan hadn’t even opened his bag yet. He hadn’t had the mental clarity or focus to fulfil a task like that. His body had been on autopilot since he’d awoken, half-buried in rotting leaves and his jacket stained with dirt. He’d grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder and half-run-half-walked, with no sense of direction or purpose, just this overwhelming feeling of go.
It wasn’t long before autopilot turned off, as two figures loomed in the distance. Toby. Stepney. Two non-entities. Two people he had barely exchanged two words with throughout all those years. And Tristan realised that he may have been social, may have been a butterfly, but damn if there weren’t dozens and dozens of people he should’ve gotten to know. And now he’d never have that chance.
But despite that, despite them being two blank slates, two people who’d only take up time when surely there were other tasks and other people he should prioritise, he found himself propelled forward still, his awkward stumbles melting to a slower, more measured pace as he approached them.
“Hey.”
It was then that he burst into tears.
Tristan O’Hara wasn’t a crier.
Not only did he think it unbecoming of himself, but it just wasn’t how he expressed emotion. It never felt real, never cathartic or raw like it did for everyone else. When he was on stage he could turn it on and off like a faucet, right on cue. Just a bodily function, nothing more.
He could count on one hand the number of times he’d cried in the real world in the years past. And each time it had always felt more like he was doing it out of obligation, out of some thought of ‘this is a scenario I should cry in’.
This was one of those scenarios.
So much had happened, so many images and sounds flitting through his brain with such speed they whirled into a blur. Panic. Shouts. A splitting headache. A flash of dark red. Cool metal against his throat. And throughout it all the unmistakeable echo of a gunshot, over and over and over again.
So many people. So many friends. People he cared about. People he didn’t. So many of them that he couldn’t even latch onto a specific name or face. Maybe that was better. Because if he really focussed in, conjured someone up, then maybe everything that he hadn’t even begun to acknowledge would just come rushing out.
Tristan hadn’t even opened his bag yet. He hadn’t had the mental clarity or focus to fulfil a task like that. His body had been on autopilot since he’d awoken, half-buried in rotting leaves and his jacket stained with dirt. He’d grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder and half-run-half-walked, with no sense of direction or purpose, just this overwhelming feeling of go.
It wasn’t long before autopilot turned off, as two figures loomed in the distance. Toby. Stepney. Two non-entities. Two people he had barely exchanged two words with throughout all those years. And Tristan realised that he may have been social, may have been a butterfly, but damn if there weren’t dozens and dozens of people he should’ve gotten to know. And now he’d never have that chance.
But despite that, despite them being two blank slates, two people who’d only take up time when surely there were other tasks and other people he should prioritise, he found himself propelled forward still, his awkward stumbles melting to a slower, more measured pace as he approached them.
“Hey.”
It was then that he burst into tears.
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
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((CW: Dysphoria, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm))
((GO32- Helena "Hel" Fury Start))
Hel wanted to die. Like, a lot. Pretty much all the time. It was weird in a couple ways.
For one it'd been a long time since they wanted to kill themself in any way that felt real. There'd been moments growing up when it felt real. Mom pushing at them. People hurting them. The eyes of everyone around them always seeming to know that there was something incomplete, that they were missing crucial parts of what they were expected to be and everyone else could see them but they couldn't. They didn't understand death well enough then though, not as something that they could take into their own hands. They often wondered what would have happened if their family had stayed together. How long could they have held their feelings inside? How much pressure would it have taken for them to boil over into something more primal? Instead of a shouting match it could have been a scream. A gunshot, maybe; they knew what was in the bag at the top of their parents' closet. It could even have been nothing at all. There were times even after they'd moved away, even after therapy and pills and friends and love and engagement, they thought of slipping a knife from the kitchen while Dad was at work. There wouldn't be any note. No one would get a desperate message for help. Hel knew if they had already gone that far, they had nothing left to say and they didn't want anyone to help them. All that would be left would be to draw a bath and minimize the mess.
It sounded really fucked up when they thought it out like that. Obviously. They didn't hear it that way, though, because whenever their mind drifted that way over the last several years it did so without purpose. They knew they weren't going to hurt themself. No matter how much they wanted to die they were held back by guilt. They couldn't entertain a hypothetical without faces flying past their mind's eye. Somehow they'd fucked up and gotten attached to so many people, and most of them would move on but they knew some of them wouldn't. Dad wouldn't. Lloyd wouldn't. Andy definitely wouldn't. More than anyone else they imagined him carrying that guilt around with him for the rest of his life. Somehow it would always be his fault, and it wouldn't break him but it would bend him in a shape he'd never straighten out. They were so fucking sure of that. So until people stopped caring, they couldn't die.
They still wanted to die though. Like, a lot. Pretty much all the time. That's where the other weird feeling came in.
The guilt didn't make their feelings go away, and it didn't stop them from having impulses, but it did have a sorta...warping effect. The idea that they could die, but it wouldn't be their fault. Take a typical work day: what if an espresso machine just blew up? Shrapnel, steam, hot liquid all flying everywhere. Or what if somebody robbed the store? What if they moved wrong and got themself shot? What if someone was waiting for them on their way to the car after a closing shift? What if a tire blew out, or their brakes failed, or they just weren't paying attention at the wrong moment and their car van into traffic? Off the side of the road? What if someone hit them head on, no time to swerve away? They were all ugly, painful ways to go. It wouldn't be on them, though. No one could blame themselves for it. It was just an accident. Everybody'd mourn and move on with their lives with a little bit more of a grudge towards fate, ad that'd be that.
That's how they pictured it. Nah, that wasn't honest enough. That's what they fantasized about in those dark moments alone. That and dozens, maybe hundreds of other scenarios, but they'd never imagined this. Not once.
Some survivors report that upon the realization that they're going to die, they find a sudden burst of survival instinct. They cling to life in whatever way they can, backing away from the edge, fighting with the weights around their feet, dialing 911, even simply hoping beyond reason that they would survive whatever they had done. Hel had never been close enough to the end to know whether that'd be true for them or not.
They were crying into the dirt beneath them.
Even though they couldn't move, they tried to force themself up. Their breath barely came between sobs. It was a struggle to wrap their head around all of it, it was so much so fast.
Their tears spilled down to find the corners of their mouth stretched in a wide grin.
Hel was going to die. Like, a lot. Pretty much any time now. It wouldn't be their fault, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
They were going to be fucking free.
----
Hel had the presence of mind to stop grinning like an idiot before they found the small group, but they hadn't stopped crying. It looked like they weren't the only one.
"Oh shit. Tristan!"
((GO32- Helena "Hel" Fury Start))
Hel wanted to die. Like, a lot. Pretty much all the time. It was weird in a couple ways.
For one it'd been a long time since they wanted to kill themself in any way that felt real. There'd been moments growing up when it felt real. Mom pushing at them. People hurting them. The eyes of everyone around them always seeming to know that there was something incomplete, that they were missing crucial parts of what they were expected to be and everyone else could see them but they couldn't. They didn't understand death well enough then though, not as something that they could take into their own hands. They often wondered what would have happened if their family had stayed together. How long could they have held their feelings inside? How much pressure would it have taken for them to boil over into something more primal? Instead of a shouting match it could have been a scream. A gunshot, maybe; they knew what was in the bag at the top of their parents' closet. It could even have been nothing at all. There were times even after they'd moved away, even after therapy and pills and friends and love and engagement, they thought of slipping a knife from the kitchen while Dad was at work. There wouldn't be any note. No one would get a desperate message for help. Hel knew if they had already gone that far, they had nothing left to say and they didn't want anyone to help them. All that would be left would be to draw a bath and minimize the mess.
It sounded really fucked up when they thought it out like that. Obviously. They didn't hear it that way, though, because whenever their mind drifted that way over the last several years it did so without purpose. They knew they weren't going to hurt themself. No matter how much they wanted to die they were held back by guilt. They couldn't entertain a hypothetical without faces flying past their mind's eye. Somehow they'd fucked up and gotten attached to so many people, and most of them would move on but they knew some of them wouldn't. Dad wouldn't. Lloyd wouldn't. Andy definitely wouldn't. More than anyone else they imagined him carrying that guilt around with him for the rest of his life. Somehow it would always be his fault, and it wouldn't break him but it would bend him in a shape he'd never straighten out. They were so fucking sure of that. So until people stopped caring, they couldn't die.
They still wanted to die though. Like, a lot. Pretty much all the time. That's where the other weird feeling came in.
The guilt didn't make their feelings go away, and it didn't stop them from having impulses, but it did have a sorta...warping effect. The idea that they could die, but it wouldn't be their fault. Take a typical work day: what if an espresso machine just blew up? Shrapnel, steam, hot liquid all flying everywhere. Or what if somebody robbed the store? What if they moved wrong and got themself shot? What if someone was waiting for them on their way to the car after a closing shift? What if a tire blew out, or their brakes failed, or they just weren't paying attention at the wrong moment and their car van into traffic? Off the side of the road? What if someone hit them head on, no time to swerve away? They were all ugly, painful ways to go. It wouldn't be on them, though. No one could blame themselves for it. It was just an accident. Everybody'd mourn and move on with their lives with a little bit more of a grudge towards fate, ad that'd be that.
That's how they pictured it. Nah, that wasn't honest enough. That's what they fantasized about in those dark moments alone. That and dozens, maybe hundreds of other scenarios, but they'd never imagined this. Not once.
Some survivors report that upon the realization that they're going to die, they find a sudden burst of survival instinct. They cling to life in whatever way they can, backing away from the edge, fighting with the weights around their feet, dialing 911, even simply hoping beyond reason that they would survive whatever they had done. Hel had never been close enough to the end to know whether that'd be true for them or not.
They were crying into the dirt beneath them.
Even though they couldn't move, they tried to force themself up. Their breath barely came between sobs. It was a struggle to wrap their head around all of it, it was so much so fast.
Their tears spilled down to find the corners of their mouth stretched in a wide grin.
Hel was going to die. Like, a lot. Pretty much any time now. It wouldn't be their fault, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
They were going to be fucking free.
----
Hel had the presence of mind to stop grinning like an idiot before they found the small group, but they hadn't stopped crying. It looked like they weren't the only one.
"Oh shit. Tristan!"
Then, all of a sudden, it was a party. Neat. Maybe he should honk his bike’s horn, ring the bell, get some sick beats going.
Toby appeared first. Stepney didn’t need the introduction to recognise his Magic buddy, his voice familiar enough from all the times they’d hung out together, but he still appreciated it. Left no room for doubt, which was real nice, considering there was a whole lot of doubt and indecisiveness and fear running through his head.
Instinct drew a smile to Stepney’s face, and raised his hand in a quicky, jerky wave, as Toby headed through the trees towards him, crashing through the foliage. But then realisation and reality struck, and his heart twisted again, not as bad as before when he’d thought of Ming, but still, oh God. Toby was here on the island. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe and he had a fucking gun of all things, why the hell did he have a gun? Why did any of them have a gun? With every passing second, his friend got closer to being hurt or injured, or killed, with knives or bullets or explosives or poison or the collar around his neck detonating, or…
Okay, he needed to stop thinking about this, right the fuck now.
Fortunately, before he could open his mouth to reply to anything Toby had said, or maybe to scream or to throw up, another person wandered up. They gave a short, one word greeting before immediately bawling. Stepney gave Toby a brief, nervy look. Despite all evidence to the contrary, and despite all appearances, Stepney was real good at being a shoulder to cry on, or a person to vent your heart out to, a sponge to soak up any bad feelings his friends were dealing with. But what, exactly, was he supposed to do here? Put his arm round this guy’s shoulder and tell him everything was gonna be okay? Give him a tissue, offer to buy him a sandwich from Uncle Danya’s Hot ‘n’ Spicy Murder Subs?
He couldn’t even tell who the guy was, for pity’s sake.
Fortunately, in the loosest sense of the word, a third person (jesus fucking Christ) came along, also weeping their eyes out, but shedding some light on who the other boy was. And Hel Fury just happened to be one of those rare people who Stepney could pick out of any crowd. The hair, the piercings, the tattoos; yeah, you didn’t need to be able to see facial features to recognise them.
Hel was a friend, not a close one, but someone who Stepney had played a couple games of cards with, wrangled some money out of. They weren’t very good, but he’d still had fun. Tristan was much less familiar, but he’d still ran into him once or twice, at parties and during class. Toby, of course, was his friend, his right-hand man in the Magic club, a unified force stopping Demetri from dragging the whole thing into the gutter.
And barring some sort of miracle, all of them were gonna die over the next few days. Hell, the odds that they’d all survive to the next day were… Christ, even he wouldn’t put a bet on it. He knew the score. There wouldn’t be a rescue party coming their way. Hadn’t been for the past two instances. Wouldn’t be one this time. They’d learned their lesson, had put the camera feeds on a delay rather than running them live. And if anybody tried to signal for help?
Stepney traced his fingers against the cool metal ring looped around his neck, leaving a glistening trail of sweat along it.
He wished he could be furious. He wished he could be angry and raging. It would be better than this, better than simultaneously being analytical and panicky, like he was trying to play poker but spilling his cards all across the table.
Stepney shuffled closer to Toby, leaning in and whispering to him.
“Hey, uh, might be a good idea to put the gun away for the time being. Don’t wanna make stuff boil over before it has to, yeah?”
He started to move away, then managed to smile and say something else.
“And, uh, thanks. Rainbow tassles are my favourite part.”
He cleared his throat, running his fingers through his hair, speaking now to the group at large.
“Hey guys. Don’t really remember Washington looking like this, huh?”
Toby appeared first. Stepney didn’t need the introduction to recognise his Magic buddy, his voice familiar enough from all the times they’d hung out together, but he still appreciated it. Left no room for doubt, which was real nice, considering there was a whole lot of doubt and indecisiveness and fear running through his head.
Instinct drew a smile to Stepney’s face, and raised his hand in a quicky, jerky wave, as Toby headed through the trees towards him, crashing through the foliage. But then realisation and reality struck, and his heart twisted again, not as bad as before when he’d thought of Ming, but still, oh God. Toby was here on the island. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe and he had a fucking gun of all things, why the hell did he have a gun? Why did any of them have a gun? With every passing second, his friend got closer to being hurt or injured, or killed, with knives or bullets or explosives or poison or the collar around his neck detonating, or…
Okay, he needed to stop thinking about this, right the fuck now.
Fortunately, before he could open his mouth to reply to anything Toby had said, or maybe to scream or to throw up, another person wandered up. They gave a short, one word greeting before immediately bawling. Stepney gave Toby a brief, nervy look. Despite all evidence to the contrary, and despite all appearances, Stepney was real good at being a shoulder to cry on, or a person to vent your heart out to, a sponge to soak up any bad feelings his friends were dealing with. But what, exactly, was he supposed to do here? Put his arm round this guy’s shoulder and tell him everything was gonna be okay? Give him a tissue, offer to buy him a sandwich from Uncle Danya’s Hot ‘n’ Spicy Murder Subs?
He couldn’t even tell who the guy was, for pity’s sake.
Fortunately, in the loosest sense of the word, a third person (jesus fucking Christ) came along, also weeping their eyes out, but shedding some light on who the other boy was. And Hel Fury just happened to be one of those rare people who Stepney could pick out of any crowd. The hair, the piercings, the tattoos; yeah, you didn’t need to be able to see facial features to recognise them.
Hel was a friend, not a close one, but someone who Stepney had played a couple games of cards with, wrangled some money out of. They weren’t very good, but he’d still had fun. Tristan was much less familiar, but he’d still ran into him once or twice, at parties and during class. Toby, of course, was his friend, his right-hand man in the Magic club, a unified force stopping Demetri from dragging the whole thing into the gutter.
And barring some sort of miracle, all of them were gonna die over the next few days. Hell, the odds that they’d all survive to the next day were… Christ, even he wouldn’t put a bet on it. He knew the score. There wouldn’t be a rescue party coming their way. Hadn’t been for the past two instances. Wouldn’t be one this time. They’d learned their lesson, had put the camera feeds on a delay rather than running them live. And if anybody tried to signal for help?
Stepney traced his fingers against the cool metal ring looped around his neck, leaving a glistening trail of sweat along it.
He wished he could be furious. He wished he could be angry and raging. It would be better than this, better than simultaneously being analytical and panicky, like he was trying to play poker but spilling his cards all across the table.
Stepney shuffled closer to Toby, leaning in and whispering to him.
“Hey, uh, might be a good idea to put the gun away for the time being. Don’t wanna make stuff boil over before it has to, yeah?”
He started to move away, then managed to smile and say something else.
“And, uh, thanks. Rainbow tassles are my favourite part.”
He cleared his throat, running his fingers through his hair, speaking now to the group at large.
“Hey guys. Don’t really remember Washington looking like this, huh?”
"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
Suddenly a whole bunch of people arrived! That was cool. Toby liked people, usually, and these particular people seemed...not friendly, per say? Not murdery, either. That was nice. He was three for three on not-murdery people, so hopefully he kept that record going.
Tristan was crying, which was a little uncomfortable but he couldn't really blame the poor dude. Hel was also here, she was one of those Gothy chicks but not the morbid miserable kind which might have been more appropriate for this situation. Her makeup was a bit of a mess, though, since she also appeared to have been crying. Toby wasn't going to try to deal with that. What was he going to do? They'd cry, then they'd feel better or not. At least Stepney was more or less holding it together.
Oh right, he had a gun. Toby shoved it into his pocket. Then he took it out, fiddled around for a switch or safety or something, but there wasn't one, so he just put it back. Was that legal, not to have a safety? Toby had no idea. The gun was tiny and convenient, which was nice. He was meh on concealed carry in real life, but out here it had its uses. "Yeah, I didn't peg you for a-" He was going to say 'queer' because, y'know, rainbow, but he remembered Hel and Tristan and caught himself. "-biker dude. You ride a lot?"
Toby shifted uncomfortably, moving closer to Stepney and away from Hel and Tristan. They apparently knew each other, so they'd help each other out more than he could. Probably. "I dunno, Stepney, Congress is a total jungle right now, eh?" He cracked a grin. "Gotta watch out for lobbyists here, those dudes are-" don't say murderous "-nuts." Better.
Tristan was crying, which was a little uncomfortable but he couldn't really blame the poor dude. Hel was also here, she was one of those Gothy chicks but not the morbid miserable kind which might have been more appropriate for this situation. Her makeup was a bit of a mess, though, since she also appeared to have been crying. Toby wasn't going to try to deal with that. What was he going to do? They'd cry, then they'd feel better or not. At least Stepney was more or less holding it together.
Oh right, he had a gun. Toby shoved it into his pocket. Then he took it out, fiddled around for a switch or safety or something, but there wasn't one, so he just put it back. Was that legal, not to have a safety? Toby had no idea. The gun was tiny and convenient, which was nice. He was meh on concealed carry in real life, but out here it had its uses. "Yeah, I didn't peg you for a-" He was going to say 'queer' because, y'know, rainbow, but he remembered Hel and Tristan and caught himself. "-biker dude. You ride a lot?"
Toby shifted uncomfortably, moving closer to Stepney and away from Hel and Tristan. They apparently knew each other, so they'd help each other out more than he could. Probably. "I dunno, Stepney, Congress is a total jungle right now, eh?" He cracked a grin. "Gotta watch out for lobbyists here, those dudes are-" don't say murderous "-nuts." Better.
Neither Stepney nor Toby really addressed Tristan’s crying. His initial feeling was disappointment, but with a few seconds to ponder it over he realised their lack of external reaction might be a good thing. What could their alternative responses be? Did he really want them to drop everything and coddle him? He liked being the centre of attention, would never deny it, but not in that type of way. And what did requiring comfort ultimately mean? It meant admitting that something was wrong.
Before Tristan had time to mull over it for too long, a fourth figure emerged from the wilderness, and a surge of panic rose within him that abated just as quickly when they addressed him by name.
Hel. Tristan cared about them, insomuch as they mattered a lot to people who mattered a lot to him.
“Hel! Hey babe.” Was babe too affectionate? Maybe, but it added a touch of nuance, told them “you’re still important to me and these new circumstances hasn’t changed that.” He wasn’t about to ask how they were, because the tracks of mascara running down their face told him all he needed to know.
Tristan rubbed his arm over his face and wiped away the combination of tears and snot staining it before closing the gap between the two of them. Almost instinctively, he raised his hand and offered them a gentle touch on the shoulder. He wasn’t too sure how they’d react, but a small gesture of comfort couldn’t hurt.
Stepney and Toby went on to banter about a bit, regarding Stepney’s newfound, rainbow-tasseled bike — which stood out so incongruously against the wilderness surrounding them. It was calming to see that normal conversations could still happen here, that it didn’t need to be screams and chaos right from the offset. He wondered whether he should add something to their banter; it might disrupt the easy back-and-forth Stepney and Toby had going, but Hel’s arrival had split their quartet into two neatly defined pairings. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but borderline-strangers though they may have been, Tristan was hesitant to rule out the other boys just yet.
“I mean, have you seen all the news reports about the teenage protestors lately? TBH I think congress is more scared of us then we are of them.”
Before Tristan had time to mull over it for too long, a fourth figure emerged from the wilderness, and a surge of panic rose within him that abated just as quickly when they addressed him by name.
Hel. Tristan cared about them, insomuch as they mattered a lot to people who mattered a lot to him.
“Hel! Hey babe.” Was babe too affectionate? Maybe, but it added a touch of nuance, told them “you’re still important to me and these new circumstances hasn’t changed that.” He wasn’t about to ask how they were, because the tracks of mascara running down their face told him all he needed to know.
Tristan rubbed his arm over his face and wiped away the combination of tears and snot staining it before closing the gap between the two of them. Almost instinctively, he raised his hand and offered them a gentle touch on the shoulder. He wasn’t too sure how they’d react, but a small gesture of comfort couldn’t hurt.
Stepney and Toby went on to banter about a bit, regarding Stepney’s newfound, rainbow-tasseled bike — which stood out so incongruously against the wilderness surrounding them. It was calming to see that normal conversations could still happen here, that it didn’t need to be screams and chaos right from the offset. He wondered whether he should add something to their banter; it might disrupt the easy back-and-forth Stepney and Toby had going, but Hel’s arrival had split their quartet into two neatly defined pairings. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but borderline-strangers though they may have been, Tristan was hesitant to rule out the other boys just yet.
“I mean, have you seen all the news reports about the teenage protestors lately? TBH I think congress is more scared of us then we are of them.”
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Emprexx Plush
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Everybody's got jokes. They could hang with that. It made their good mood look way less fucking weird. When Tristan touched them they put their hands over his and gave it a squeeze. "Give it to me straight man, how fucked is my look?" Hel was glad he was okay. Axe would wanna see him probably, before it was all over. They both deserved that. Kinda set up their first priority. They had to do this as selflessly as possible. Catch up with the people it would mean something to, help anybody come to grips that they could. If the cards were kind, maybe give off a little something extra. That was a pipe dream though, right now they just wanted to be with their friend.
Toby and Stepney weren't half bad either. Political humor wasn't really their forte but they could take a crack? They were gonna tee up until they noticed Toby fiddling around with his...gun? It was small enough to be a toy. That'd scan with the fabulous bike Stepney was rocking. Their curiosity was all kinds of morbid. It probably wasn't heir brightest idea, but nobody was popping off here right. "So uh...between the bike and the Noisy Cricket I'm vibing on a theme. Did everybody else get toys from Santa? Cuz..."
There wasn't much to do but lift their shirt and show the gun in their waistband."I dunno, feel like we coulda had a shipping mix up? No offense Stepney but unless you've been holdin' out I don't think you're near queer enough for that bike, and this thing was super not on my wish list."
Toby and Stepney weren't half bad either. Political humor wasn't really their forte but they could take a crack? They were gonna tee up until they noticed Toby fiddling around with his...gun? It was small enough to be a toy. That'd scan with the fabulous bike Stepney was rocking. Their curiosity was all kinds of morbid. It probably wasn't heir brightest idea, but nobody was popping off here right. "So uh...between the bike and the Noisy Cricket I'm vibing on a theme. Did everybody else get toys from Santa? Cuz..."
There wasn't much to do but lift their shirt and show the gun in their waistband."I dunno, feel like we coulda had a shipping mix up? No offense Stepney but unless you've been holdin' out I don't think you're near queer enough for that bike, and this thing was super not on my wish list."
“Jesus…”
The word slipped out of Stepney’s mouth before he could stop it, eyes flicking back and forth between Toby’s gun and Hel’s newly revealed firearm. This was, to put no finer point on it, fucking insane. The collars around their necks had, obviously, been the jumping-off point that suggested things were all the way down shit creek, but it still didn’t feel totally real. They were like something out of a movie, something so bizarre and out there that, in a vacuum, Stepney simply couldn’t look at them and feel like he was in danger.
But a gun? A gun was, well, a gun. Everyone knew what a gun was, and more importantly, what a gun did. That was something way more tangible, as far as Stepney was concerned. Something he knew could, and would, kill him if he stepped too far out of line. And hey, whadda ya know, there were two of him in very, very close proximity.
“Ah, sorry. Sorry. I know that’s kinda screwed the mood up a little, huh?”
His smile, which had fallen at the sight of Hel’s gun, was back on his face, and he ran his hand through his hair again. This gun situation wasn’t great, obviously, but this reaction? That was good, yeah, that was better. Much better indeed than the panicky overthinking he’d been partaking in a few moments ago. This was more real, less of him trying to juggle two things at once and tripping up onto his face. Made it easier for him to remain true to himself.
“But, like, c’mon. You’ve both got guns on you! You’ve both got fucking pistols like you’ve stepped out of Call of Duty or something! And - actually, hold up. Tristan, you’ve checked what your weapon is, right?”
Stepney glanced curiously at Tristan, silently wishing that he’d learned more about him at school, or that he’d actually been able to do so. It’d be nice to know exactly what sorta guy he was dealing with, here. The dude could very well have a shotgun stowed away in his bag; if he was the sorta person who wouldn’t hurt a fly, then everything was just fine and dandy. If not… eesh. Cross that one when he came to it.
“Anyways, my point is, we’ve all been given guns and knives and bombs and shit for Christmas, when I wouldn’t trust, like, 40% of our class with safety scissors, and that’s… wild.”
Yeah, wild. Let’s go with that, the nice way of putting it. Stepney chuckled, and gave the bell on his bike an experimental ring.
“You sound like you’re angling for a trade, Hel. Secret Santa never turns out right, does it?”
The word slipped out of Stepney’s mouth before he could stop it, eyes flicking back and forth between Toby’s gun and Hel’s newly revealed firearm. This was, to put no finer point on it, fucking insane. The collars around their necks had, obviously, been the jumping-off point that suggested things were all the way down shit creek, but it still didn’t feel totally real. They were like something out of a movie, something so bizarre and out there that, in a vacuum, Stepney simply couldn’t look at them and feel like he was in danger.
But a gun? A gun was, well, a gun. Everyone knew what a gun was, and more importantly, what a gun did. That was something way more tangible, as far as Stepney was concerned. Something he knew could, and would, kill him if he stepped too far out of line. And hey, whadda ya know, there were two of him in very, very close proximity.
“Ah, sorry. Sorry. I know that’s kinda screwed the mood up a little, huh?”
His smile, which had fallen at the sight of Hel’s gun, was back on his face, and he ran his hand through his hair again. This gun situation wasn’t great, obviously, but this reaction? That was good, yeah, that was better. Much better indeed than the panicky overthinking he’d been partaking in a few moments ago. This was more real, less of him trying to juggle two things at once and tripping up onto his face. Made it easier for him to remain true to himself.
“But, like, c’mon. You’ve both got guns on you! You’ve both got fucking pistols like you’ve stepped out of Call of Duty or something! And - actually, hold up. Tristan, you’ve checked what your weapon is, right?”
Stepney glanced curiously at Tristan, silently wishing that he’d learned more about him at school, or that he’d actually been able to do so. It’d be nice to know exactly what sorta guy he was dealing with, here. The dude could very well have a shotgun stowed away in his bag; if he was the sorta person who wouldn’t hurt a fly, then everything was just fine and dandy. If not… eesh. Cross that one when he came to it.
“Anyways, my point is, we’ve all been given guns and knives and bombs and shit for Christmas, when I wouldn’t trust, like, 40% of our class with safety scissors, and that’s… wild.”
Yeah, wild. Let’s go with that, the nice way of putting it. Stepney chuckled, and gave the bell on his bike an experimental ring.
“You sound like you’re angling for a trade, Hel. Secret Santa never turns out right, does it?”
"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
Stepney seemed a little hysterical, just a bit. Toby was a little worried about that, but there wasn't much reason to worry about it, if that made sense. Well no, it didn't, there were tons of reasons to worry about people getting hysterical, and also reasons to worry in general. But Toby had a gun, which was the ultimate trump card, even if it was a tiny little thing. He didn't have to worry.
Now, Hel also had a gun, and that was a little sketch. But Hel also made the same kind of queer joke about Stepney-that seemed unfair, why was she allowed to say it?-so she seemed...not chill but coping. While he was at it, Tristan was in the same boat. He was pretty upset, and Toby couldn't blame him, but he was able to join in on the banter. He'd manage. That was fine.
So 3 other people who weren't like, imminently going to stab and then possibly eat his face. Didn't people eat each other here? He could make a joke about stress eating but...yeah. Toby felt confident just crossing his arms and standing off to the side. Just watchin'. He didn't have to do anything, which was good because there wasn't much he could do. Screaming, crying, cursing, insulting the people watching the feed like they cared about your opinions? So much effort.
"I hope there aren't too many Jewish kids, then, they get like, eight things, right?" Toby chuckled. "Maybe the terrorists should come pick us up, give us a refund." Admittedly, Toby's heart wasn't really into the joke. He was more interested in watching Stepney now. He knew the guy well enough to see him trailing blood in the water. He didn't know what Stepney was going to want with the gun. Toby had one, and fuck if he was giving it away, but also fuck if he wanted to actually shoot someone. Hel didn't seem like a bike sort of girl-have you seen her?-but people did weird things in situations. Would she do it?
Toby frowned and watched.
Now, Hel also had a gun, and that was a little sketch. But Hel also made the same kind of queer joke about Stepney-that seemed unfair, why was she allowed to say it?-so she seemed...not chill but coping. While he was at it, Tristan was in the same boat. He was pretty upset, and Toby couldn't blame him, but he was able to join in on the banter. He'd manage. That was fine.
So 3 other people who weren't like, imminently going to stab and then possibly eat his face. Didn't people eat each other here? He could make a joke about stress eating but...yeah. Toby felt confident just crossing his arms and standing off to the side. Just watchin'. He didn't have to do anything, which was good because there wasn't much he could do. Screaming, crying, cursing, insulting the people watching the feed like they cared about your opinions? So much effort.
"I hope there aren't too many Jewish kids, then, they get like, eight things, right?" Toby chuckled. "Maybe the terrorists should come pick us up, give us a refund." Admittedly, Toby's heart wasn't really into the joke. He was more interested in watching Stepney now. He knew the guy well enough to see him trailing blood in the water. He didn't know what Stepney was going to want with the gun. Toby had one, and fuck if he was giving it away, but also fuck if he wanted to actually shoot someone. Hel didn't seem like a bike sort of girl-have you seen her?-but people did weird things in situations. Would she do it?
Toby frowned and watched.
“I think runny mascara is back in nowadays? I mean, I couldn’t pull it off, but you rock it, boo.”
Tristan was glad Hel embraced his touch, and he leant in closer to them. He was glad they hadn’t quite succumbed to the stress just yet and was almost impressed at how well they were keeping it together, despite their initial swell of emotion. It was good they were still themself; it would’ve stung to see Hel no longer be the same person Tristan had known for years.
Hel referenced Stepney and Toby’s weapons and felt compelled to reveal their own. At the sight of their pistol, Tristan instinctively placed a few inches of distance between the two of them. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the clearing by the sudden sharp turn their small talk and taken, but everybody still had that light, almost jovial way of chatting and it was a little perturbing that this was a ‘normal’ conversation in their newfound world.
Stepney addressed the fact that Tristan’s weapon was the only one not out in the open, and he noted how observant the other boy was. It was a natural curiosity to have, so Tristan couldn’t blame him for asking, though the thought of having to finally take the plunge and dive on into his bag wasn’t a pleasant one. There wasn’t much reason to consider concealing that he was just an uninformed as the rest of them or pretending he had some innocuous item for a weapon. Honesty seemed the best policy for now.
“Funnily enough I hadn’t checked on it yet,” Tristan said, not skipping a beat as he dropped his dufflebag to the ground and bent to unzip it. “My birthday’s like two days before Christmas — think they might’ve doubled up for me?”
He sifted through its contents, hands gingerly searching for the one thing that differentiated it — and by extension, him — from the rest of them. It didn’t take long to find, and as he withdrew it to get a closer look, he didn’t know how to feel. The blade was massive, attached to an intricately decorated handle. Embellished, big, and almost unnecessarily extra. It suited him, then. Almost didn’t look too out of place. He’d never seen a knife like it before, except maybe once upon a time in History class? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that with this by his side, maybe he stood a chance.
Tristan stood back up again, disconcertion etched onto his features. He held his knife pointing down, fingers wrapped firmly around the ornate hilt.
“Huh.”
Tristan was glad Hel embraced his touch, and he leant in closer to them. He was glad they hadn’t quite succumbed to the stress just yet and was almost impressed at how well they were keeping it together, despite their initial swell of emotion. It was good they were still themself; it would’ve stung to see Hel no longer be the same person Tristan had known for years.
Hel referenced Stepney and Toby’s weapons and felt compelled to reveal their own. At the sight of their pistol, Tristan instinctively placed a few inches of distance between the two of them. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the clearing by the sudden sharp turn their small talk and taken, but everybody still had that light, almost jovial way of chatting and it was a little perturbing that this was a ‘normal’ conversation in their newfound world.
Stepney addressed the fact that Tristan’s weapon was the only one not out in the open, and he noted how observant the other boy was. It was a natural curiosity to have, so Tristan couldn’t blame him for asking, though the thought of having to finally take the plunge and dive on into his bag wasn’t a pleasant one. There wasn’t much reason to consider concealing that he was just an uninformed as the rest of them or pretending he had some innocuous item for a weapon. Honesty seemed the best policy for now.
“Funnily enough I hadn’t checked on it yet,” Tristan said, not skipping a beat as he dropped his dufflebag to the ground and bent to unzip it. “My birthday’s like two days before Christmas — think they might’ve doubled up for me?”
He sifted through its contents, hands gingerly searching for the one thing that differentiated it — and by extension, him — from the rest of them. It didn’t take long to find, and as he withdrew it to get a closer look, he didn’t know how to feel. The blade was massive, attached to an intricately decorated handle. Embellished, big, and almost unnecessarily extra. It suited him, then. Almost didn’t look too out of place. He’d never seen a knife like it before, except maybe once upon a time in History class? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that with this by his side, maybe he stood a chance.
Tristan stood back up again, disconcertion etched onto his features. He held his knife pointing down, fingers wrapped firmly around the ornate hilt.
“Huh.”
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Emprexx Plush
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'I hope there aren't too many Jewish kids' was something Hel expected less out of Toby and more out of uh, that one kid who was a Nazi and also probably like at least 40 kids these days. Every member of the Canon Youth had that same gawky 'did you know I stopped breastfeeding after I stopped wetting the bed' look on their face, they were fucking impossible to tell apart. Whatever. They were like, 99% sure Toby wasn't a Nazi, he was probably just a dumbass. They were a dumbass too sometimes, just like, a less racially charged one? Wow this was a whole rabbit hole they really didn't have time for huh, they were all gonna be dead in like two weeks tops so it was kinda late to sign him up for some sensitivity training or whatevs. Man, how many of their classmates were gonna kick it before they grew out of their whole edgy cringey 'change my mind' sorta phase? Way, way more than they expected probably, lots of people were okay at saying the right thing when the wrong people were watching them but who knew what went on in their heads? That'd be super depressing but like it was kinda officially not their problem anymore? In the grand scheme every knuckle dragging bully and bigot that ever passed through George Hunter High could whiz by in a double decker bus right now screaming hurr hurr tr*nny bullshit at them and it'd be hard to care, they were getting up out of this flesh prison soon anyway and hey they were 99% certain flesh prisons didn't have inherent gender but they were 1000000% sure stardust and chaos energy didn't so joke's on you fuckos.
Uh, what were they doing again? Oh yeah, weapons, trading, murder, cuddles, the sweet release of death punchlining the proverbial joke on the proverbial fuckos, let's get into it. Hel shrugged at Stepney. "Sorry dude, never learned to ride. I never learned to shoot either but y'know I've got way more hours logged on Destiny than uh..." Fuck. What was a good bike game. Did they make good bike games? Or like, bike games period? "I dunno, BMXXX? I'm totally blanking, drag me." They grinned, but the atmosphere had gone flat. Not the first time that was their fault but usually it wasn't because they flashed a pistol. Okay there was that one time at band practice but in their defense [Mx. Helena Fury's defense has been redacted by their legal counsel, please forward all complaints, concerns, and questions to the address of Morkel, Rumple, and Steele, partners at law] love to see you come up with a better plan for a squirrel on [see previous redaction]. This obviously wasn't anything like that. For them at least the mood shifted back as soon as they saw Tristan's big, beautiful weird knife. Major, major starry eyes.
"Yo uh Tristan? Honey? You in a cult? You've gotta tell me if you're in a cult, it's definitely probably witch law." This thing looked old as hell and it wasn't Hollywood Satanic Panic levels of whacky but it had some Big Sacrifice Energy. That For The Greater Good kinda energy, that I'm Starting With You Energy, that I'm Gonna Go Stab A Public Figure energy, y'know? Way more respectable than what they were pretty sure was, to bring this whole thing full circle, a Nazi gun. Now there was a trade they might consider.
Uh, what were they doing again? Oh yeah, weapons, trading, murder, cuddles, the sweet release of death punchlining the proverbial joke on the proverbial fuckos, let's get into it. Hel shrugged at Stepney. "Sorry dude, never learned to ride. I never learned to shoot either but y'know I've got way more hours logged on Destiny than uh..." Fuck. What was a good bike game. Did they make good bike games? Or like, bike games period? "I dunno, BMXXX? I'm totally blanking, drag me." They grinned, but the atmosphere had gone flat. Not the first time that was their fault but usually it wasn't because they flashed a pistol. Okay there was that one time at band practice but in their defense [Mx. Helena Fury's defense has been redacted by their legal counsel, please forward all complaints, concerns, and questions to the address of Morkel, Rumple, and Steele, partners at law] love to see you come up with a better plan for a squirrel on [see previous redaction]. This obviously wasn't anything like that. For them at least the mood shifted back as soon as they saw Tristan's big, beautiful weird knife. Major, major starry eyes.
"Yo uh Tristan? Honey? You in a cult? You've gotta tell me if you're in a cult, it's definitely probably witch law." This thing looked old as hell and it wasn't Hollywood Satanic Panic levels of whacky but it had some Big Sacrifice Energy. That For The Greater Good kinda energy, that I'm Starting With You Energy, that I'm Gonna Go Stab A Public Figure energy, y'know? Way more respectable than what they were pretty sure was, to bring this whole thing full circle, a Nazi gun. Now there was a trade they might consider.
He shrugged.
“Eh, no worries. It’s cool, I’ve grown pretty fond of Bichael, here, anyway. Besides, I’m pretty sure giving a blind dude a gun is just asking for trouble.”
Face blind, regular blind, same difference. Specifics didn’t really matter right now. Stepney have Hel a grin with no warmth or feeling behind it, wagging his finger at them.
“Gonna have to call you out for not bringing up Trials Evo, though, Hel, know for a fact that you can ride bikes in that.”
How did he know that, anyway? He was pretty damn certain he’d never played it in his life. Must just have been one of those things he’d picked up over time, a little bit of trivia filtered down to him via the osmosis of listening to people at school. And if he was wrong, so what? Now that everybody had their weapons out, now that Tristan had revealed his brutal looking dagger, the atmosphere had gone totally still, with everyone, he assumed, still trying to take in the assortment of murder utensils collected here. They were all keeping up the banter, the witty remarks like they were just in the cafeteria back home, but Stepney knew his words were hollow, and he was pretty sure everybody else’s were, too.
Jeez. Great to see he was still keeping up his usual good cheer. Man, he could not wait for this funk of realisation to disappear.
Even asking for Hel’s weapon, that had just been part of the act, right? Good ol’ Stepney Cruz, wheeling and dealing and making deals and trades that benefited him and him alone. He didn’t need a weapon, after all. If he played smart, kept quiet, and, hopefully without falling off, rode his bike like the wind when things got dicey, he could stay safe and sound without resorting to the ‘shoot the problem until it stops’ route. Wasn’t like he was planning on using that gun for much anyway, right?
…
Ooh, failure to answer his own question right away. That wasn’t a good sign!
Chalk it up to nerves, to frazzled emotions, to waking up to a situation as bullshit as this, and move on. He could come back to it, when he was feeling more like his old self.
“Still, can’t say I’m not feeling a little underequipped, here. What with you and all your weapons, and me and my… not weapon.”
He rang the bell again. Hopefully they wouldn’t figure out that this thing could be useful than all of their draws combined. Especially to somebody who wasn’t likely to get their feet tangled up in the pedals instantly.
“You wanna hang together for a bit? Safety in numbers, you scratch my back, etcetera etcetera? At the very least, I wanna move somewhere I can think properly. This humidity’s making my brain bake.”
Stepney felt weird offering to party up with the other three, but even he couldn’t tell you why right now.
“Eh, no worries. It’s cool, I’ve grown pretty fond of Bichael, here, anyway. Besides, I’m pretty sure giving a blind dude a gun is just asking for trouble.”
Face blind, regular blind, same difference. Specifics didn’t really matter right now. Stepney have Hel a grin with no warmth or feeling behind it, wagging his finger at them.
“Gonna have to call you out for not bringing up Trials Evo, though, Hel, know for a fact that you can ride bikes in that.”
How did he know that, anyway? He was pretty damn certain he’d never played it in his life. Must just have been one of those things he’d picked up over time, a little bit of trivia filtered down to him via the osmosis of listening to people at school. And if he was wrong, so what? Now that everybody had their weapons out, now that Tristan had revealed his brutal looking dagger, the atmosphere had gone totally still, with everyone, he assumed, still trying to take in the assortment of murder utensils collected here. They were all keeping up the banter, the witty remarks like they were just in the cafeteria back home, but Stepney knew his words were hollow, and he was pretty sure everybody else’s were, too.
Jeez. Great to see he was still keeping up his usual good cheer. Man, he could not wait for this funk of realisation to disappear.
Even asking for Hel’s weapon, that had just been part of the act, right? Good ol’ Stepney Cruz, wheeling and dealing and making deals and trades that benefited him and him alone. He didn’t need a weapon, after all. If he played smart, kept quiet, and, hopefully without falling off, rode his bike like the wind when things got dicey, he could stay safe and sound without resorting to the ‘shoot the problem until it stops’ route. Wasn’t like he was planning on using that gun for much anyway, right?
…
Ooh, failure to answer his own question right away. That wasn’t a good sign!
Chalk it up to nerves, to frazzled emotions, to waking up to a situation as bullshit as this, and move on. He could come back to it, when he was feeling more like his old self.
“Still, can’t say I’m not feeling a little underequipped, here. What with you and all your weapons, and me and my… not weapon.”
He rang the bell again. Hopefully they wouldn’t figure out that this thing could be useful than all of their draws combined. Especially to somebody who wasn’t likely to get their feet tangled up in the pedals instantly.
“You wanna hang together for a bit? Safety in numbers, you scratch my back, etcetera etcetera? At the very least, I wanna move somewhere I can think properly. This humidity’s making my brain bake.”
Stepney felt weird offering to party up with the other three, but even he couldn’t tell you why right now.
"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
Nothing came of it. Toby let out a quiet sigh. Well, that's that.
Tristan had a big ass knife. Toby and Hel had guns. Stepney had a bike. That was a decent arrangement, and if nothing else they could like, throw the bike at someone? Whatever, they'd figure it out. Stepney wanted to hang out, then sure. Toby was down. Not like he didn't like the dude to begin with.
"I'll take that bike off your hands, man, but I'm keeping the Noisy Cricket." Toby liked the name. He wasn't much for sci-fi but one of his charges watched all that stuff, and he'd enjoyed Men In Black at least. Damn, the kids back home weren't gonna know where he went. He'd made a good impression on some of them, at least. And...
Toby chewed his lip and crossed his arms. "Yeah, it's way too hot and wet up here. It's going to ruin our collective hair if we hang around. We wanna find somewhere, I dunno, less bug-infested?" Was that an option? Toby would gladly take that option. As his gaze lowered he now noticed a very large beetle was making a beeline-well, a beetle line-towards his foot. He stomped on it.
"Ugh." Wiping the sole of his shoe on some less dead-bug-covered dirt, Toby returned to the matter at hand. "So uh, anyone know where we are? On an island, I guess, but like." He shrugged. "Where on the island. I guess."
Tristan had a big ass knife. Toby and Hel had guns. Stepney had a bike. That was a decent arrangement, and if nothing else they could like, throw the bike at someone? Whatever, they'd figure it out. Stepney wanted to hang out, then sure. Toby was down. Not like he didn't like the dude to begin with.
"I'll take that bike off your hands, man, but I'm keeping the Noisy Cricket." Toby liked the name. He wasn't much for sci-fi but one of his charges watched all that stuff, and he'd enjoyed Men In Black at least. Damn, the kids back home weren't gonna know where he went. He'd made a good impression on some of them, at least. And...
Toby chewed his lip and crossed his arms. "Yeah, it's way too hot and wet up here. It's going to ruin our collective hair if we hang around. We wanna find somewhere, I dunno, less bug-infested?" Was that an option? Toby would gladly take that option. As his gaze lowered he now noticed a very large beetle was making a beeline-well, a beetle line-towards his foot. He stomped on it.
"Ugh." Wiping the sole of his shoe on some less dead-bug-covered dirt, Toby returned to the matter at hand. "So uh, anyone know where we are? On an island, I guess, but like." He shrugged. "Where on the island. I guess."
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General Goose
- Posts: 731
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:02 pm
((Ashlynn Martinek begins))
When Ashlynn woke up, she just decided to lay there for a while. It wasn't like she could pretend she was lying in bed. It was downright tropical. Hot and humid and Ashlynn was always way better with dealing with unpleasant coldness than unpleasant heat, so this was all manner of uncomfortable. She could feel the ground beneath her rustle and writhe, clearly inhabited with an admirably biodiverse population of insects and critters. She could hear the noises from creatures that she had previously only heard on TV or in cute YouTube videos. It was a rather serene setting, despite the microcosms and ecosystems that were playing out in their own chaotic perfection, and from Ashlynn's perspective, that was a mockery. How such an abhorrent and perverse act as Survival of the Fittest could take place against such a...tranquil backstop, awash in both the perfection and the indispensable flaws of nature, was, in Ashlynn's mind, an act of jarring situational irony.
She could taste the gas, that indescribably potent and odiously intoxicating anesthetic, still on her tongue, still blocking up her nostrils, still irritating her throat. Ashlynn must have reacted to it badly. She could taste some of the dirt, too. She swirled her tongue around the inside of her teeth, trying to scrape loose any granules of mud or soil that had fallen into her mouth, but as far as Ashlynn could tell, the actual offending particles must have passed. Ashlynn grimaced. It was not a pleasant combination of flavours, and that she couldn't place it on any distinguishable source made it all the more tormenting. She could smell the gas, too, and the pungent stench of blood and fear that had greeted her when she last woke up, and the smog and pollution of the more dense parts of the DC metro area from before that, mixed with the unusual (dare she say exotic?) scents of the world around her. They were all unfamiliar.
And she could still see Ms Garcia's death.
Whether she closed her eyes or opened them, she saw it.
That was all she could see. Even if she stared at an ant crawling along the ground or a twig swaying in the wind or up at the canopy above her or down at the thick floor of foliage beneath her.
That same second, playing out again and again and again.
So she stayed there. Quiet. Barely moving. Ignoring the bag by her side. That felt like its own quiet kind of rebellion. She knew it to be useless in the long run unless everyone had the same idea - barely worth trying, after all - but sit-ins and the like were characteristic elements of non-violent protest for good reason.
She waited.
Waited until she could...distance herself from this.
The injustice of it all. Ashlynn knew there was something appalling here. Their lives, their plans, their opportunities to chart out their own conceptions of the good and utilise their innate rights and liberties how they saw fit, being destroyed by the arbitrary whims and unaccountable cruelties of a group of opaque and sinister terrorists. The government had - despite, or perhaps because of - a belligerent foreign policy and their own unaccountable contraventions of rights and decency proven powerless to protect the youth. Again and again. This was another shameful failure. Another atrocious act of wanton cruelty.
There. That helped.
For a second, she felt like she wasn't there. Like she wasn't completely powerless.
For the next...it felt like an hour, she allowed tears to fall down her face.
When Ashlynn first heard talking, she didn't move. They weren't, after all, moving in on here. They were...chatting.
They were cracking ill-researched political jokes. Making egregiously politically incorrect comments. Being...human. Normal. Ashlynn thought of so many things she should have said, interventions or corrections she could have made, but she was happy. Bar some of the details, the tone of this conversation was normal.
She pushed herself up, finally.
"Hello?"
When Ashlynn woke up, she just decided to lay there for a while. It wasn't like she could pretend she was lying in bed. It was downright tropical. Hot and humid and Ashlynn was always way better with dealing with unpleasant coldness than unpleasant heat, so this was all manner of uncomfortable. She could feel the ground beneath her rustle and writhe, clearly inhabited with an admirably biodiverse population of insects and critters. She could hear the noises from creatures that she had previously only heard on TV or in cute YouTube videos. It was a rather serene setting, despite the microcosms and ecosystems that were playing out in their own chaotic perfection, and from Ashlynn's perspective, that was a mockery. How such an abhorrent and perverse act as Survival of the Fittest could take place against such a...tranquil backstop, awash in both the perfection and the indispensable flaws of nature, was, in Ashlynn's mind, an act of jarring situational irony.
She could taste the gas, that indescribably potent and odiously intoxicating anesthetic, still on her tongue, still blocking up her nostrils, still irritating her throat. Ashlynn must have reacted to it badly. She could taste some of the dirt, too. She swirled her tongue around the inside of her teeth, trying to scrape loose any granules of mud or soil that had fallen into her mouth, but as far as Ashlynn could tell, the actual offending particles must have passed. Ashlynn grimaced. It was not a pleasant combination of flavours, and that she couldn't place it on any distinguishable source made it all the more tormenting. She could smell the gas, too, and the pungent stench of blood and fear that had greeted her when she last woke up, and the smog and pollution of the more dense parts of the DC metro area from before that, mixed with the unusual (dare she say exotic?) scents of the world around her. They were all unfamiliar.
And she could still see Ms Garcia's death.
Whether she closed her eyes or opened them, she saw it.
That was all she could see. Even if she stared at an ant crawling along the ground or a twig swaying in the wind or up at the canopy above her or down at the thick floor of foliage beneath her.
That same second, playing out again and again and again.
So she stayed there. Quiet. Barely moving. Ignoring the bag by her side. That felt like its own quiet kind of rebellion. She knew it to be useless in the long run unless everyone had the same idea - barely worth trying, after all - but sit-ins and the like were characteristic elements of non-violent protest for good reason.
She waited.
Waited until she could...distance herself from this.
The injustice of it all. Ashlynn knew there was something appalling here. Their lives, their plans, their opportunities to chart out their own conceptions of the good and utilise their innate rights and liberties how they saw fit, being destroyed by the arbitrary whims and unaccountable cruelties of a group of opaque and sinister terrorists. The government had - despite, or perhaps because of - a belligerent foreign policy and their own unaccountable contraventions of rights and decency proven powerless to protect the youth. Again and again. This was another shameful failure. Another atrocious act of wanton cruelty.
There. That helped.
For a second, she felt like she wasn't there. Like she wasn't completely powerless.
For the next...it felt like an hour, she allowed tears to fall down her face.
When Ashlynn first heard talking, she didn't move. They weren't, after all, moving in on here. They were...chatting.
They were cracking ill-researched political jokes. Making egregiously politically incorrect comments. Being...human. Normal. Ashlynn thought of so many things she should have said, interventions or corrections she could have made, but she was happy. Bar some of the details, the tone of this conversation was normal.
She pushed herself up, finally.
"Hello?"