((Diego Larrosa continues from it's ok we're just scared))
The announcements had blocked off the village a few minutes after he'd left the lake, made it so that the only shelters available for use were at the very peak of the island. The ocean and lake had heard his pleas to be left alone and obliged accordingly. So here he was.
That was the only relevance the announcements held to him now. One to two dozen names had been mentioned, and the only ones that held any sort of significance to Diego were his own, Henry's, and Justin's. The first two were simply brought up in a reminder of his own deed, what he had done to Henry. And, he had done it, he had considered it. He had meant it. The third was a reminder of what stood between him and the rest of his life, the single biggest threat left, perhaps. Diego wanted to think that, with all the people Justin had killed, other things must have happened to him. There must have been other grudges on his mind that took precedence over a little robbery, right?
There were just thirty of them left now. The end felt so close, yet so far. Roughly four out of five of the kids that had gone on the trip were dead now. Like if each room of four in the hotel back in DC had only one survivor. Diego couldn't remember who his roommates were. That info had been relevant two weeks ago. Hundreds of lifetimes ago.
But yet, thirty kids was enough to fill a classroom, too. As if a teacher, Mr. Terrance, say, math teacher, called on one kid out of a classroom of thirty to answer a question. Same odds as that. Diego wasn't called on often.
The ocean never really left him, even when it did. There were light drops of water falling onto his back now. The sun was obscured by rainclouds. He looked behind him, and he could see the sea in the distance, beyond the endless expanse of trees. It still looked as endless as ever. Thirty and one hundred fifty were not that far apart in scale, if you looked at it from far enough.
He wondered if he knew, was familiar with any of those thirty, himself excluded. There was Justin, but he'd be happy to never talk to him again. There was... Stephanie, maybe. He didn't recall hearing her name. He hoped she'd found Jessica before she'd died. And, that was it. Literally everyone else he'd talked to, interacted with was dead. Cam, Theo, Ty, Billy, Declyn, Jessica, Chris, Oliver, Gervais, Lorenzo. All gone.
He did not know if he'd ever be used to that fact, but he wouldn't have to be for long. Thirty and zero were also not that far apart in scale, if you looked at things a certain way. He was still looking for that perspective.
He had not run into anyone after dealing with Lorenzo's corpse. He had spent the entire day trudging up the hill, heading to the manor house. There were goats munching on grass, monkeys scurrying across tree branches, birds soaring across the sky. The grenade launcher continued to bump into his chest with each step, the gun continued to press into his hip, the shovel continued to weigh down his bag, his neck. The same old company.
Eventually, mercifully, the trees cleared and a mansion appeared. It felt like a mirage, at first. He had never really arrived anywhere he intended to before. He had forgotten there were other places in this island aside from the sea, the lake, and the woods. He approached, and a few things about it became very apparent. The stench, one he remembered from the lake, from the mass grave there. The house did not make any noise, did not speak to him like the lake or the sea. Dead things didn't speak.
He entered, taking care to make his steps as light as possible. The door moaned slightly, a mild protestation. He tensed.
After a short pause, he walked inside, and inspected each room of the mansion, the only sounds present being his footsteps, and the pitter patter of rain of the rooftop. No insect or animal could be heard from within.
There were two dead kids present in the house: Mercy, who he wasn't familiar with, and Garren. The latter's body was still fresh, blood still red, liquid, flesh only slightly paler than normal. He'd been one of those alt-right types that liked making snide remarks in the form of jokes. Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve type of remarks. Diego had found himself less able to speak around him, whenever they shared a class.
The shovel was in reach. He had used it once on a dead body, he could use it again.
Diego's arm stayed still. The corpse stayed undisturbed as Diego walked by, inspected the rest of the living room.
He knew to himself already that he could lean into it. Once was enough.
The fresh blood indicated that someone else had been in this house very recently, but whoever they were, they were long gone. Diego had wandered by himself into every room, peered into every closet, under every bed by himself. Not a single word had been uttered, not a single noise aside from the light thump of the launcher against his chest. Same old company making itself known. The house was dead and remained dead.
After checking the first, second, and the first floor again, in that order, once he had completely assured himself that he was alone in this house, he went back up the stairs, steps groaning: creaking of bones. He chose the bigger of the two bedrooms. More hiding space, only one entrance. And, he deserved- wanted some luxury after days of sleeping on the dirt.
He closed the door, dropped his bag next to the bed, and laid his back on the mattress, muscles almost sighing in relief. Sleep had escaped him last night, and now that his wounds were treated, now that they screamed in pain less, the urge to rest was overwhelming. But, he'd do so once the sun set, once darkness had taken over. For now, he waited.
He felt like the last person alive.
If only he were so lucky.
life's alright in devil town
Closed, afternoon, day 11 to morning, day 12, post-announcements
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
((The manor house could serve as a good place for her to rest and hide, instead of the temple.))
Marceline carefully crept her way across the ground floor of the manor, deadening her footfalls as much as she was able. Her gun was drawn, held aloft by both her hands, following the motions of her eyes as she scouted out each individual room and hallway, her ears tuned to her surroundings above the ever-present, faint ringing. The interior of the manor was almost disturbingly quiet compared to the constant noises of birdsong and crying insects that permeated the soundscape of the rest of the island, but while the silence set her nerves aflame, it still served as a boon for remaining here. If anyone wanted to surprise her while she was here, they would have to be very quiet indeed.
She turned a corner into another hallway, checking her blind spots and hiding places first and foremost, a crude imitation of the breaching tactics used by real life SWAT and military operatives. Her father had never explicitly taught her how exactly these breaches were performed, his teachings had always been focused purely on self-defense after all, but he had relayed enough stories from his drinking buddies and their tours in Afghanistan for her to have at least a rough idea of how it was supposed to be done.
As she turned another corner, the all-too-familiar stench of decay greeted her, throwing her out of her focus. It wasn't nearly as bad as the odor that had permeated the infirmary when she had come to collect her prize, but it was still hardly pleasant. She pushed further in, powering through the smell to the best of her ability, only to stumble upon the discolored, rotting corpse of Mercy Ames. Marceline didn't exactly know the girl well, but images of her in her cheerleader uniform performing for the school during George Hunter High's pep rallies were familiar enough. She was still recognizably herself in spite of the obvious decomposition, with no obvious signs of injury.
When Marceline had confronted Nguyen over the girl's death, she had never imagined that she would wind up seeing the handiwork up close and personal. A few days ago, the sight would have sent Marceline into a righteous rage, but now it only earned some passing acknowledgement. At the very least, if she ever saw Nguyen again she would make sure to finish the job that her past self couldn't. Not because she was still holding onto the notion that it would somehow be just, or necessarily because Nguyen was obviously a threat to her that needed to be eliminated, but rather because Marceline had grown to truly despise the other girl, somehow much more than she had previously hated Nick.
She returned to her silent scouting without another thought spared for one of the island's many victims, going from empty room to empty room, vacant hallway to vacant hallway. She was almost getting the impression that she might well and truly be alone in this place, but believing that without having checked every room and every hallway could get her killed. She would imagine that there would likely be at least one person shacked up in here, despite there still being quite a bit of available space for her fellow classmates to move around in. It was a notable landmark, with lots of interior space and limited lines of sight. With her current loadout, it was probably the best place for her to stay at the moment; should she come to blows, her pistol would be at least comparable to almost anything else her classmates would have, and her assortment of blades could have their opportunity to shine.
Eventually, as she continued to scope out the ground floor, she stumbled upon another corpse at the scene of what looked to be a firefight, one that was much fresher than Ames had been. It appeared to be Mortimer, the boy apparently having joined his partner in crime Futscher in the grave. He didn't appear to have decomposed at all, his wounds looked very fresh, and his name had yet to appear on the announcements. That could only mean that he had died within the previous hours of the day, which meant that his assailant could easily still be within the premises.
She stiffened up at the realization, her heart rate picking up as she became even more intently focused on her surroundings. She had already been on guard before, but now that she had at least one indication that someone could still be here she needed to be even more cautious. She continued to scout out the manor, much more deliberately than she had before, double checking rooms and corridors that she had already investigated. As she did so, she began to construct a mental map of the place. Overall it was easy to come to the conclusion that the inside of the manor, especially the floor she was on, was a mess. While it hardly compared to the carnage she had seen at the infirmary, the unspoken signs of violence and panicked struggles seemed to permeate this place.
Unwillingly, it brought to mind her own experiences, forcing her to recall images of death and violence she had either committed or bore witness to. Dolly's broken body clutched tightly in her hands, the feeling of her muscles relaxing all at once when she finally ceased to exist, Amelia's desperate, blood-soaked flailing and her stab wound riddled corpse, the red-room massacre of blood and rot at the infirmary, Nick's shattered face and bulging, hate-filled eyes...
She shuddered, remembering it all, replaying the memories over and over in her head. She had always loved the horror genre and the voyeuristic pleasure she got from the gore and brutality found within, but the kind of violence found in the media she consumed hadn't prepared her at all for the real deal. The kind of violence found in books, movies, and video games was a kind of spectacle, both more bloody and gory and yet at the same time much less grotesque than the brutality of reality. Fake violence was in effect a caricature of true violence, an artistic impression that emphasized some aspects and glossed over other details.
And the devil was in those details.
Video games never showed just what happened and how disturbing it was when a person suddenly switched off, like a light going out; how their bodies would either go completely limp all at once and then awkwardly remain in unnatural positions, or how sometimes they would give one final violent spasm as their brains finally shut down. Movies never depicted all the little bits and pieces of viscera and the unique, snowflake-like grotesqueness of each and every individual wound. Books never properly discussed the empty voids behind their eyes, with their pupils completely dilated and the constant, small, stochastic twitches that came with continued life no longer present. And none of them ever came anywhere close to describing the smell.
Gods, the smell... it still clung both to her nostrils and her clothes...
It was the stuff that nightmares were woven from, and she couldn't even begin to imagine how bad her own would be when next she slept. All of it was truly horrific, nothing like the kind of fake horror she had previously consumed in excess. She thought that being the victim in a horror story was bad, but being the monster instead was somehow almost worse.
Almost was still the key word there. Her present circumstances gave her the luxury of experiencing both sides of that proverbial coin, and while being the monster had its own downsides, she would still definitely rather be the monster than the victims.
With that last thought, she finally finished scoping out the ground floor, hearing nothing of note and finding no other signs of current occupation besides the body of Mortimer. She stood at the base of the stairs to the second floor, staring up at the balcony above, taking soft, measured breaths as she did so. If someone was actually here, they would be on the second floor. She would need to keep her guard up, and stay quiet.
She gingerly placed one foot on the bottommost step to begin her ascent, only for her eyes to go wide as it let out possibly the loudest creaking noise she had ever heard in her entire life. On reflex, without thinking, she let out a single word under her breath.
"Fuck."
Marceline carefully crept her way across the ground floor of the manor, deadening her footfalls as much as she was able. Her gun was drawn, held aloft by both her hands, following the motions of her eyes as she scouted out each individual room and hallway, her ears tuned to her surroundings above the ever-present, faint ringing. The interior of the manor was almost disturbingly quiet compared to the constant noises of birdsong and crying insects that permeated the soundscape of the rest of the island, but while the silence set her nerves aflame, it still served as a boon for remaining here. If anyone wanted to surprise her while she was here, they would have to be very quiet indeed.
She turned a corner into another hallway, checking her blind spots and hiding places first and foremost, a crude imitation of the breaching tactics used by real life SWAT and military operatives. Her father had never explicitly taught her how exactly these breaches were performed, his teachings had always been focused purely on self-defense after all, but he had relayed enough stories from his drinking buddies and their tours in Afghanistan for her to have at least a rough idea of how it was supposed to be done.
As she turned another corner, the all-too-familiar stench of decay greeted her, throwing her out of her focus. It wasn't nearly as bad as the odor that had permeated the infirmary when she had come to collect her prize, but it was still hardly pleasant. She pushed further in, powering through the smell to the best of her ability, only to stumble upon the discolored, rotting corpse of Mercy Ames. Marceline didn't exactly know the girl well, but images of her in her cheerleader uniform performing for the school during George Hunter High's pep rallies were familiar enough. She was still recognizably herself in spite of the obvious decomposition, with no obvious signs of injury.
When Marceline had confronted Nguyen over the girl's death, she had never imagined that she would wind up seeing the handiwork up close and personal. A few days ago, the sight would have sent Marceline into a righteous rage, but now it only earned some passing acknowledgement. At the very least, if she ever saw Nguyen again she would make sure to finish the job that her past self couldn't. Not because she was still holding onto the notion that it would somehow be just, or necessarily because Nguyen was obviously a threat to her that needed to be eliminated, but rather because Marceline had grown to truly despise the other girl, somehow much more than she had previously hated Nick.
She returned to her silent scouting without another thought spared for one of the island's many victims, going from empty room to empty room, vacant hallway to vacant hallway. She was almost getting the impression that she might well and truly be alone in this place, but believing that without having checked every room and every hallway could get her killed. She would imagine that there would likely be at least one person shacked up in here, despite there still being quite a bit of available space for her fellow classmates to move around in. It was a notable landmark, with lots of interior space and limited lines of sight. With her current loadout, it was probably the best place for her to stay at the moment; should she come to blows, her pistol would be at least comparable to almost anything else her classmates would have, and her assortment of blades could have their opportunity to shine.
Eventually, as she continued to scope out the ground floor, she stumbled upon another corpse at the scene of what looked to be a firefight, one that was much fresher than Ames had been. It appeared to be Mortimer, the boy apparently having joined his partner in crime Futscher in the grave. He didn't appear to have decomposed at all, his wounds looked very fresh, and his name had yet to appear on the announcements. That could only mean that he had died within the previous hours of the day, which meant that his assailant could easily still be within the premises.
She stiffened up at the realization, her heart rate picking up as she became even more intently focused on her surroundings. She had already been on guard before, but now that she had at least one indication that someone could still be here she needed to be even more cautious. She continued to scout out the manor, much more deliberately than she had before, double checking rooms and corridors that she had already investigated. As she did so, she began to construct a mental map of the place. Overall it was easy to come to the conclusion that the inside of the manor, especially the floor she was on, was a mess. While it hardly compared to the carnage she had seen at the infirmary, the unspoken signs of violence and panicked struggles seemed to permeate this place.
Unwillingly, it brought to mind her own experiences, forcing her to recall images of death and violence she had either committed or bore witness to. Dolly's broken body clutched tightly in her hands, the feeling of her muscles relaxing all at once when she finally ceased to exist, Amelia's desperate, blood-soaked flailing and her stab wound riddled corpse, the red-room massacre of blood and rot at the infirmary, Nick's shattered face and bulging, hate-filled eyes...
She shuddered, remembering it all, replaying the memories over and over in her head. She had always loved the horror genre and the voyeuristic pleasure she got from the gore and brutality found within, but the kind of violence found in the media she consumed hadn't prepared her at all for the real deal. The kind of violence found in books, movies, and video games was a kind of spectacle, both more bloody and gory and yet at the same time much less grotesque than the brutality of reality. Fake violence was in effect a caricature of true violence, an artistic impression that emphasized some aspects and glossed over other details.
And the devil was in those details.
Video games never showed just what happened and how disturbing it was when a person suddenly switched off, like a light going out; how their bodies would either go completely limp all at once and then awkwardly remain in unnatural positions, or how sometimes they would give one final violent spasm as their brains finally shut down. Movies never depicted all the little bits and pieces of viscera and the unique, snowflake-like grotesqueness of each and every individual wound. Books never properly discussed the empty voids behind their eyes, with their pupils completely dilated and the constant, small, stochastic twitches that came with continued life no longer present. And none of them ever came anywhere close to describing the smell.
Gods, the smell... it still clung both to her nostrils and her clothes...
It was the stuff that nightmares were woven from, and she couldn't even begin to imagine how bad her own would be when next she slept. All of it was truly horrific, nothing like the kind of fake horror she had previously consumed in excess. She thought that being the victim in a horror story was bad, but being the monster instead was somehow almost worse.
Almost was still the key word there. Her present circumstances gave her the luxury of experiencing both sides of that proverbial coin, and while being the monster had its own downsides, she would still definitely rather be the monster than the victims.
With that last thought, she finally finished scoping out the ground floor, hearing nothing of note and finding no other signs of current occupation besides the body of Mortimer. She stood at the base of the stairs to the second floor, staring up at the balcony above, taking soft, measured breaths as she did so. If someone was actually here, they would be on the second floor. She would need to keep her guard up, and stay quiet.
She gingerly placed one foot on the bottommost step to begin her ascent, only for her eyes to go wide as it let out possibly the loudest creaking noise she had ever heard in her entire life. On reflex, without thinking, she let out a single word under her breath.
"Fuck."
The house lived.
Diego lurched up, the bed springs squeaked underneath him. He curled his fists, clenched his teeth, exhaled through them. Squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his fingers against his temples. Deep breaths.
He opened his eyes and slowly reached for the pistol, pulled it from his waistband. It made a swishing sound as it rubbed against fabric.
He pressed the safety switch. There was a click. The safety was off now. He thought. If it had been off the entire time, he probably would've shot himself some time before.
He was seated upright now, facing the door, pistol held in both hands. Waiting.
It felt cold now, suddenly. He inhaled slowly, slowly, exhaled slowly, slowly, enough that he couldn't hear himself breathe. Blood rushed through his head, a low, thrumming sound. His chest felt tight.
Diego lurched up, the bed springs squeaked underneath him. He curled his fists, clenched his teeth, exhaled through them. Squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his fingers against his temples. Deep breaths.
He opened his eyes and slowly reached for the pistol, pulled it from his waistband. It made a swishing sound as it rubbed against fabric.
He pressed the safety switch. There was a click. The safety was off now. He thought. If it had been off the entire time, he probably would've shot himself some time before.
He was seated upright now, facing the door, pistol held in both hands. Waiting.
It felt cold now, suddenly. He inhaled slowly, slowly, exhaled slowly, slowly, enough that he couldn't hear himself breathe. Blood rushed through his head, a low, thrumming sound. His chest felt tight.
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
Noise and movement from above, what sounded like mattress springs uncoiling as someone shifted off a bed.
Marceline's whole body tensed as her heart skipped a beat in response to the sound. She really wasn't alone, after all, and the creaking stairs clearly revealed her own presence. Whoever was here could easily be the person who killed Mortimer, which if true could only mean that they possessed their own gun. The last thing she wanted was to get into a firefight with someone else, because her best bet if she wanted to keep breathing was avoiding any conflicts in which she didn't possess a clear advantage. She had held that advantage during the standoff in the temple, but it was impossible to know if she had it now too.
She stood still as a statue at the bottom of the stairs, focusing her ears and eyes on the balcony above, ready to fire the AF2011 at a moment's notice. It was all quiet in the manor once again, the silence now much more disturbing than it had been before. The brief interruption from the noise coming from above hadn't lasted, and it was clear to her that whoever had stirred in response to the stairs creaking was waiting in anticipation, the same way she was.
If she wanted to avoid a potential armed conflict, her best option was simply cutting her losses and leaving the manor, but that would leave her open to being potentially picked off from the second floor windows. She could also remain down where she was, shack up in one of the manor's rooms, and prepare an ambush if her foe came for her, but that would be a dangerous stalemate for her to create. Alternatively, given that she had already lost any element of surprise she might have previously possessed, she could try to make an attempt at diplomacy. She had decided to take a more cautiously optimistic—emphasis on cautious—approach when it came to her fellow classmates, right?
Perhaps the person above hadn't killed Mortimer and had simply stumbled upon the scene in the same way she did. Perhaps they were justifiably scared in response to the noise, and had no intention of getting violent with her. Regardless of who was here with her and how armed they potentially were, deescalation was likely key to her survival, and should that fail there was nothing stopping her from falling back to the hypothetical stalemate. Hell, if she wanted to be more pragmatic about it, she could even loudly mime the sounds of her own departure to create a false sense of ease, while remaining hidden within the manor until night fell. Then, when the time was right and her potential assailant was asleep, she could strike and secure the building for herself.
That was getting ahead of herself, however. She had already been arguably too aggressive with Nick and had made herself some enemies in the process. So long as the situation didn't immediately necessitate violence, choosing to abstain from it until no other option was practical was the smart play. For now, she needed to say something to break the building tension.
"Hello?" She called out, for lack of anything else to say. "Who's up there?"
Marceline's whole body tensed as her heart skipped a beat in response to the sound. She really wasn't alone, after all, and the creaking stairs clearly revealed her own presence. Whoever was here could easily be the person who killed Mortimer, which if true could only mean that they possessed their own gun. The last thing she wanted was to get into a firefight with someone else, because her best bet if she wanted to keep breathing was avoiding any conflicts in which she didn't possess a clear advantage. She had held that advantage during the standoff in the temple, but it was impossible to know if she had it now too.
She stood still as a statue at the bottom of the stairs, focusing her ears and eyes on the balcony above, ready to fire the AF2011 at a moment's notice. It was all quiet in the manor once again, the silence now much more disturbing than it had been before. The brief interruption from the noise coming from above hadn't lasted, and it was clear to her that whoever had stirred in response to the stairs creaking was waiting in anticipation, the same way she was.
If she wanted to avoid a potential armed conflict, her best option was simply cutting her losses and leaving the manor, but that would leave her open to being potentially picked off from the second floor windows. She could also remain down where she was, shack up in one of the manor's rooms, and prepare an ambush if her foe came for her, but that would be a dangerous stalemate for her to create. Alternatively, given that she had already lost any element of surprise she might have previously possessed, she could try to make an attempt at diplomacy. She had decided to take a more cautiously optimistic—emphasis on cautious—approach when it came to her fellow classmates, right?
Perhaps the person above hadn't killed Mortimer and had simply stumbled upon the scene in the same way she did. Perhaps they were justifiably scared in response to the noise, and had no intention of getting violent with her. Regardless of who was here with her and how armed they potentially were, deescalation was likely key to her survival, and should that fail there was nothing stopping her from falling back to the hypothetical stalemate. Hell, if she wanted to be more pragmatic about it, she could even loudly mime the sounds of her own departure to create a false sense of ease, while remaining hidden within the manor until night fell. Then, when the time was right and her potential assailant was asleep, she could strike and secure the building for herself.
That was getting ahead of herself, however. She had already been arguably too aggressive with Nick and had made herself some enemies in the process. So long as the situation didn't immediately necessitate violence, choosing to abstain from it until no other option was practical was the smart play. For now, she needed to say something to break the building tension.
"Hello?" She called out, for lack of anything else to say. "Who's up there?"
They heard him. They knew he was here.
Diego closed his eyes, squeezed the grip of the pistol, mouthed curses to himself. He opened his eyes.
The voice was feminine. Diego knew a lot of girls in Hunter High. He'd been acquaintances with them before.
It wasn't Blaise. They had a French accent, this voice didn't. He didn't think it was Erika. The voice was too familiar, he and Erika hadn't ever really talked. This voice had talked to him about books before, maybe. It had been a friendly conversation, one that had gone well because it hadn't left Diego up at night rolling with regret.
Marceline, he decided. She liked horror stuff. He'd had a friendly talk with her once or twice. That didn't matter now. He'd had a friendly talk with Cam dozens of times. That hadn't mattered.
He took in several deep breaths now, allowed the air to rush into his lungs. She'd heard him already, there was no need to take caution. It still wasn't enough, his chest still felt tight.
He had a choice. It was either they met of his own accord, or they met of her accord. He'd just heard Marceline's name on the announcements, and she was still alive. He did not know her reasons. Diego knew his.
If Marceline intended to ambush him, she would have continued going up the stairs without announcing herself. It was easier to kill someone whose face you hadn't seen yet, he reasoned. He wasn't entirely sure, he'd seen all his victims' faces. But those were all under different circumstances. She was probably just seeking shelter, hopefully. She'd only been announced once. There was still enough room for doubt in one kill.
He'd meet her.
He got up from the bed, walked to the exit, feet lightly tapping the floor. He turned the doorknob, pushed the door open. The hinges squealed. He stepped out, both hands tightly gripping the pistol, and looked down on the girl.
"I'm here."
A beat passed.
"You need anything?"
The words came out fairly evenly, medium in pitch, only the slightest hint of a tremor, he thought, hoped.
Diego closed his eyes, squeezed the grip of the pistol, mouthed curses to himself. He opened his eyes.
The voice was feminine. Diego knew a lot of girls in Hunter High. He'd been acquaintances with them before.
It wasn't Blaise. They had a French accent, this voice didn't. He didn't think it was Erika. The voice was too familiar, he and Erika hadn't ever really talked. This voice had talked to him about books before, maybe. It had been a friendly conversation, one that had gone well because it hadn't left Diego up at night rolling with regret.
Marceline, he decided. She liked horror stuff. He'd had a friendly talk with her once or twice. That didn't matter now. He'd had a friendly talk with Cam dozens of times. That hadn't mattered.
He took in several deep breaths now, allowed the air to rush into his lungs. She'd heard him already, there was no need to take caution. It still wasn't enough, his chest still felt tight.
He had a choice. It was either they met of his own accord, or they met of her accord. He'd just heard Marceline's name on the announcements, and she was still alive. He did not know her reasons. Diego knew his.
If Marceline intended to ambush him, she would have continued going up the stairs without announcing herself. It was easier to kill someone whose face you hadn't seen yet, he reasoned. He wasn't entirely sure, he'd seen all his victims' faces. But those were all under different circumstances. She was probably just seeking shelter, hopefully. She'd only been announced once. There was still enough room for doubt in one kill.
He'd meet her.
He got up from the bed, walked to the exit, feet lightly tapping the floor. He turned the doorknob, pushed the door open. The hinges squealed. He stepped out, both hands tightly gripping the pistol, and looked down on the girl.
"I'm here."
A beat passed.
"You need anything?"
The words came out fairly evenly, medium in pitch, only the slightest hint of a tremor, he thought, hoped.
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
Marceline clenched her teeth as the door at the top of the balcony slowly opened, hinges shrieking, a sudden rush of panic briefly overtaking her. Every part of her body was screaming at her to open fire, but she consciously held herself back. If she was going to be attacked, there were better ways than loudly walking right out into the open. All she had to do now was take stock of who exactly she was dealing with and what weapons they had and...
Oh, she thought, as the mystery man was finally revealed to be Diego Larrosa. She knew him, albeit not with any real sense of familiarity, but they had at least talked before a few times in George Hunter's library. Now he was out in the open and talking to her, which was a good sign for her ability to resolve this tense situation diplomatically. Unfortunately though she still couldn't let her guard down, for a few key reasons.
For one, he had three different tallies next to his name on her list, which signaled a fairly obvious desire to play the game. A few days ago, that information would have led her to attack him, but now it merely caused her to acknowledge him as a potential threat. For two, he had what appeared to be an Uzi-Pro in his hands, and although it wasn't yet pointed at her, that was still deeply alarming, should diplomacy fail. For three, he looked to have another weapon dangling from his neck that she didn't immediately recognize. The announcements had mentioned something about an explosion, and it looked vaguely like a weird gun, so was it some kind of explosive launcher?
She didn't know, but assuming the worst was probably in her best interest. Larrosa was much better armed than she was, which didn't bode well for her should they come to blows. For now, she had to do her best to avoid it coming to that. To start, as a sign of amicability, she lowered her own gun. Both hands remained wrapped around it, her index finger still resting on the trigger, ready to fire at a moment's notice, but it was no longer directly pointed at him. Hopefully, that would help put him at ease.
It seemed that he needed that much, anyway, at least according to cursory examination of his appearance. He was shirtless, covered in dirt, and clearly much worse for wear than she was, the blooded gauze over much of his face and arms telling a harrowing story that his lips did not utter. While he was still alive, which couldn't be said for everyone under the present circumstances, he still wasn't in peak condition. Comparing him to herself, while she had basically no injuries of her own, her own appearance was still quite haggard, with her unevenly, hastily cut hair and her clothes and arms covered in dirt and Amelia's dried blood.
As for what he had said, all she could think was about how banal and innocuous it sounded. He talked almost as if they were not both trapped on death island, blood coating both of their respective hands from their combined litany of victims. She honestly didn't know quite how to respond to it. She needed quite a few things: Dolly by her side once again, d'Aramitz's head on a spike, everyone else on the island save for her dead, or maybe another pizza, if nothing else. Unfortunately, Larrosa couldn't provide any of that for her, so perhaps a simpler answer would suffice.
"I was looking for shelter," she responded, mirroring the boy's even tone. "This place seemed to be safe."
Oh, she thought, as the mystery man was finally revealed to be Diego Larrosa. She knew him, albeit not with any real sense of familiarity, but they had at least talked before a few times in George Hunter's library. Now he was out in the open and talking to her, which was a good sign for her ability to resolve this tense situation diplomatically. Unfortunately though she still couldn't let her guard down, for a few key reasons.
For one, he had three different tallies next to his name on her list, which signaled a fairly obvious desire to play the game. A few days ago, that information would have led her to attack him, but now it merely caused her to acknowledge him as a potential threat. For two, he had what appeared to be an Uzi-Pro in his hands, and although it wasn't yet pointed at her, that was still deeply alarming, should diplomacy fail. For three, he looked to have another weapon dangling from his neck that she didn't immediately recognize. The announcements had mentioned something about an explosion, and it looked vaguely like a weird gun, so was it some kind of explosive launcher?
She didn't know, but assuming the worst was probably in her best interest. Larrosa was much better armed than she was, which didn't bode well for her should they come to blows. For now, she had to do her best to avoid it coming to that. To start, as a sign of amicability, she lowered her own gun. Both hands remained wrapped around it, her index finger still resting on the trigger, ready to fire at a moment's notice, but it was no longer directly pointed at him. Hopefully, that would help put him at ease.
It seemed that he needed that much, anyway, at least according to cursory examination of his appearance. He was shirtless, covered in dirt, and clearly much worse for wear than she was, the blooded gauze over much of his face and arms telling a harrowing story that his lips did not utter. While he was still alive, which couldn't be said for everyone under the present circumstances, he still wasn't in peak condition. Comparing him to herself, while she had basically no injuries of her own, her own appearance was still quite haggard, with her unevenly, hastily cut hair and her clothes and arms covered in dirt and Amelia's dried blood.
As for what he had said, all she could think was about how banal and innocuous it sounded. He talked almost as if they were not both trapped on death island, blood coating both of their respective hands from their combined litany of victims. She honestly didn't know quite how to respond to it. She needed quite a few things: Dolly by her side once again, d'Aramitz's head on a spike, everyone else on the island save for her dead, or maybe another pizza, if nothing else. Unfortunately, Larrosa couldn't provide any of that for her, so perhaps a simpler answer would suffice.
"I was looking for shelter," she responded, mirroring the boy's even tone. "This place seemed to be safe."
"Ah."
Safety was a relative term on the island, in general. Even in normal circumstances, places other than here, you weren't safe from a sudden brain aneurysm or a heart attack or a meteor or a gamma ray blast. But, the chances of any of those things happening were extraordinarily low. There was a baseline level of risk that everyone accepted, for the most part, such that people went on with their lives without paying any mind to it. People still studied, worked, talked, laughed, danced, prayed, lived their lives, heart attack or not.
The baseline was much higher here, at a level that was undeniable. The life expectancy on this island was seven days, not seven decades. They'd been here for eleven days. Borrowed time.
There was another creaking. Diego swiveled his head both ways, spared a second-long glance to the hallway behind him. Nothing changed, as far as he could tell. Maybe the wind.
He looked back at the girl. They mirrored each other somewhat: both of them holding their weapons with both hands, pointed down, fingers ready on the trigger. Her gun was silver, luminescent. It seemed to almost amplify the dulled, cloud-filtered light that penetrated the curtains and shadows of this house. His gun absorbed it. They both had smears, splatters of dried blood on their skin, clothes, though given the lack of bandages, it appeared the blood on Marceline's clothes was not her own. And, there was a mutual tension on both their ends, voices barely maintaining control.
She was seeking shelter, she said. That seemed like an excuse he'd make up if he entered a house maliciously. Diego wouldn't trust himself with those words.
The first sign that Marceline had entered the house had been the stairs creaking. So, at the very least, she'd been able to traverse the couple of meters from the door to the lowest step in silence. Had there been other noises he hadn't noticed?
"You- uh, you with anyone, or?"
His voice was shakier that time. He hated himself.
Safety was a relative term on the island, in general. Even in normal circumstances, places other than here, you weren't safe from a sudden brain aneurysm or a heart attack or a meteor or a gamma ray blast. But, the chances of any of those things happening were extraordinarily low. There was a baseline level of risk that everyone accepted, for the most part, such that people went on with their lives without paying any mind to it. People still studied, worked, talked, laughed, danced, prayed, lived their lives, heart attack or not.
The baseline was much higher here, at a level that was undeniable. The life expectancy on this island was seven days, not seven decades. They'd been here for eleven days. Borrowed time.
There was another creaking. Diego swiveled his head both ways, spared a second-long glance to the hallway behind him. Nothing changed, as far as he could tell. Maybe the wind.
He looked back at the girl. They mirrored each other somewhat: both of them holding their weapons with both hands, pointed down, fingers ready on the trigger. Her gun was silver, luminescent. It seemed to almost amplify the dulled, cloud-filtered light that penetrated the curtains and shadows of this house. His gun absorbed it. They both had smears, splatters of dried blood on their skin, clothes, though given the lack of bandages, it appeared the blood on Marceline's clothes was not her own. And, there was a mutual tension on both their ends, voices barely maintaining control.
She was seeking shelter, she said. That seemed like an excuse he'd make up if he entered a house maliciously. Diego wouldn't trust himself with those words.
The first sign that Marceline had entered the house had been the stairs creaking. So, at the very least, she'd been able to traverse the couple of meters from the door to the lowest step in silence. Had there been other noises he hadn't noticed?
"You- uh, you with anyone, or?"
His voice was shakier that time. He hated himself.
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VoltTurtle
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"No..."
Marceline saw no point in lying to the boy. Saying that she did have allies would at best make him wonder where they were, and at worst it might make him decide to open fire to ensure that nobody could arrive to assist her. Besides, lying had never been her forte. She had done it often enough as a part of her harmless pranks on her friends, but she had never gotten good at it. If she was going to lie to anyone in this place, it would be through omission. For instance, right now the fact that she had killed Nick was still hidden from Larrosa, and she had no intention to tell him about it.
She kept her eyes focused on him, reading his slight expressions in conjunction with the wavering of his voice. When she blinked, she did so consciously. She wasn't going to allow herself to be caught off guard and die here. He clearly wasn't thinking as far ahead as she was, as he had looked away from her, if only briefly. He had left himself open in that moment, and she could have potentially shot him and neutralized him as a threat.
However, it was likely for the best that she had held herself back. For one, she wasn't sure how much she wanted yet more blood on her hands in such a short time; she was still processing the fact that she had murdered two different people in less than 24 hours after deciding to play the game. For two, while her aim was quite good, she was pretty sure she couldn't consistently land a lethal shot at a moment's notice with barely any time to line it up. Should he survive her first shot, there would be nothing stopping him from reflexively firing back before he went down, and the same was true of him taking the first shot at her.
In a way, that mutually assured destruction was likely responsible for the fact that neither of them were as of yet bullet-riddled corpses. With that in mind, it could be said that this situation was almost akin to the Cold War, with neither of them wanting to escalate tensions further for fear of the counterattack, but at the same time not being sure how to dissipate the hostility, either. Unfortunately, if two world superpowers couldn't figure out how to do it, then she wasn't very likely to figure it out herself.
Perhaps it would be best for her to ask Larrosa's own question back to him in kind, and continue mirroring him until she thought of something.
"...are you?"
Marceline saw no point in lying to the boy. Saying that she did have allies would at best make him wonder where they were, and at worst it might make him decide to open fire to ensure that nobody could arrive to assist her. Besides, lying had never been her forte. She had done it often enough as a part of her harmless pranks on her friends, but she had never gotten good at it. If she was going to lie to anyone in this place, it would be through omission. For instance, right now the fact that she had killed Nick was still hidden from Larrosa, and she had no intention to tell him about it.
She kept her eyes focused on him, reading his slight expressions in conjunction with the wavering of his voice. When she blinked, she did so consciously. She wasn't going to allow herself to be caught off guard and die here. He clearly wasn't thinking as far ahead as she was, as he had looked away from her, if only briefly. He had left himself open in that moment, and she could have potentially shot him and neutralized him as a threat.
However, it was likely for the best that she had held herself back. For one, she wasn't sure how much she wanted yet more blood on her hands in such a short time; she was still processing the fact that she had murdered two different people in less than 24 hours after deciding to play the game. For two, while her aim was quite good, she was pretty sure she couldn't consistently land a lethal shot at a moment's notice with barely any time to line it up. Should he survive her first shot, there would be nothing stopping him from reflexively firing back before he went down, and the same was true of him taking the first shot at her.
In a way, that mutually assured destruction was likely responsible for the fact that neither of them were as of yet bullet-riddled corpses. With that in mind, it could be said that this situation was almost akin to the Cold War, with neither of them wanting to escalate tensions further for fear of the counterattack, but at the same time not being sure how to dissipate the hostility, either. Unfortunately, if two world superpowers couldn't figure out how to do it, then she wasn't very likely to figure it out herself.
Perhaps it would be best for her to ask Larrosa's own question back to him in kind, and continue mirroring him until she thought of something.
"...are you?"
Diego had been listening more for her tone than the actual answer. It told him nothing. Her voice was neutral, words sparse. Either a calculated lie, or a measured answer. It could be either one. He was good at watching, listening to people, but he'd never been any good at picking anything up from it. All he'd had to do was take in the information and provide stock responses. He'd never been expected to act on this information before.
The mirroring felt more intentional, now, rather than being some telling coincidence. Both waiting to make the first move. He remembered, as a child, waving his hands in front of a mirror, marveling at how his reflection moved in conjunction with him, a perfect copy. He wondered if he'd ever see himself lag, if he'd ever see his reflection falter. And, he did, when he started looking at himself through cell phone cameras instead, lag holding back his image a second or two. He wondered what it'd take for Marceline to lag, to falter.
She was waiting for him to do the same. More mirroring. She was staring right at him, waiting for the first mistake. He didn't like people looking at him, making eye contact with him. He didn't like being seen like this. There were bumps on his arms, back, now. He didn't like being seen through. Transparent. Onion skin was translucent. Onion-skinned was the Filipino translation for thin-skinned. It fit too well.
The next question came after what felt like a minute of silence, and that minute had passed by unnoticed. He'd gotten so used to it. And, in the aftermath of her question, it came back into full focus. Nothingness, accentuated by the light tapping of water droplets on the roof, by the occasional breeze. The question scared him, really, but he was still left looking for the voice that had delivered it. It was silent now.
It had been so silent.
"No," he answered.
"I haven't been with anyone in a while, to be honest," he muttered, words coming out almost unnoticed. He wanted to look down at the ground when he said the words, but there was still a threat in front of him. He stayed looking at her, allowing her gaze to look into him further.
The mirroring felt more intentional, now, rather than being some telling coincidence. Both waiting to make the first move. He remembered, as a child, waving his hands in front of a mirror, marveling at how his reflection moved in conjunction with him, a perfect copy. He wondered if he'd ever see himself lag, if he'd ever see his reflection falter. And, he did, when he started looking at himself through cell phone cameras instead, lag holding back his image a second or two. He wondered what it'd take for Marceline to lag, to falter.
She was waiting for him to do the same. More mirroring. She was staring right at him, waiting for the first mistake. He didn't like people looking at him, making eye contact with him. He didn't like being seen like this. There were bumps on his arms, back, now. He didn't like being seen through. Transparent. Onion skin was translucent. Onion-skinned was the Filipino translation for thin-skinned. It fit too well.
The next question came after what felt like a minute of silence, and that minute had passed by unnoticed. He'd gotten so used to it. And, in the aftermath of her question, it came back into full focus. Nothingness, accentuated by the light tapping of water droplets on the roof, by the occasional breeze. The question scared him, really, but he was still left looking for the voice that had delivered it. It was silent now.
It had been so silent.
"No," he answered.
"I haven't been with anyone in a while, to be honest," he muttered, words coming out almost unnoticed. He wanted to look down at the ground when he said the words, but there was still a threat in front of him. He stayed looking at her, allowing her gaze to look into him further.
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VoltTurtle
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So Larrosa had been by himself for some time, and judging by the sudden change in his otherwise even tone, he didn't seem to like that. In that moment, meeting the boy's gaze, Marceline felt the slightest twinge of a connection with him. She could empathize with that sense loneliness. She didn't know how long he had been alone, but she doubted that she had been that way for anywhere near as long, given that it was only the day before that Roxanne had left her behind. Despite that, she had still hated every minute of it.
Being alone gave her plenty of time to be with herself, and she despised that. If she had to pick any one person that she would never want to be trapped in a room with, it had to be Marceline Carlson. Even being in the presence of d'Aramitz would be preferable, because at least then she could ravage them to pieces. Stuck with just herself, though, trapped inside her own head? She couldn't stand it. It's why she had been so desperate not to be left alone before this point, why she had only felt right in the presence of her loved ones, and why she had felt so distant from the world immediately in the absence of both Roxanne and Dolly.
Even before arriving in this place, she never wanted to be entirely by her lonesome. The island only served to exacerbate her hatred of herself. Before she had merely been struggling with self esteem issues, but now she genuinely deserved her own scorn. She had embraced the role of the monster with no intention to stop, while still wallowing in her self-inflicted guilt that she couldn't quite seem to shake, no matter how she rationalized her actions to herself. Wondering if the perverted justice that she had wanted to inflict on others would be inflicted upon her in turn, constantly paranoid that anyone she happened to run into would take her life.
It was worse than that, though. Even when she wasn't trapped inside the confines of her own head, and instead focusing on the world around her, it was just boring being by herself. Having nothing to do, and nobody to talk to. She was like a prisoner condemned to the hole, something that she arguably deserved. Solitary confinement was considered to be torture, and she understood now more than ever why that was the case. Humans needed social interaction just as much as a bird needed the sky, or a fish needed the sea. Immersing themselves in each other, bonding and fulfilling the hard-wired interpersonal obligation that all of them had. She didn't realize just how necessary it was, until she was well and truly alone.
Perhaps she didn't really need anyone to rely on like she had on Dolly and later on Roxanne. If push came to shove she could survive without, at least until she was finally the last man standing. That didn't mean that she didn't still desire someone to be by her side. She had been addicted to that kind of vulnerability, and she still found herself craving it. So she understood Larrosa's loneliness. Maybe he didn't quite feel the same way about it that she did, but she could relate nonetheless.
"I..."
She began to speak, without thinking, unsure of what she was saying, or even if she had a point that she was trying to make. Maybe she was just desperate to honestly talk with someone who she didn't have at gunpoint or knife's edge.
"I haven't been alone all that long," she began to to mutter. "But it still hasn't been fun, especially since it was only because I screwed it all up."
She faltered as she said the last few words, her voice breaking just a little bit. Reminiscing on the stress of everything that she had done and accepting her role in what happened and the mistakes she had made was deeply unpleasant. It made her want to look away. After all, she didn't want Larrosa peering into her soul the same way that she had been peering into his, but she maintained her focus on him, in spite of it. If there was ever a time not to slip up, it was in a moment of vulnerability.
Being alone gave her plenty of time to be with herself, and she despised that. If she had to pick any one person that she would never want to be trapped in a room with, it had to be Marceline Carlson. Even being in the presence of d'Aramitz would be preferable, because at least then she could ravage them to pieces. Stuck with just herself, though, trapped inside her own head? She couldn't stand it. It's why she had been so desperate not to be left alone before this point, why she had only felt right in the presence of her loved ones, and why she had felt so distant from the world immediately in the absence of both Roxanne and Dolly.
Even before arriving in this place, she never wanted to be entirely by her lonesome. The island only served to exacerbate her hatred of herself. Before she had merely been struggling with self esteem issues, but now she genuinely deserved her own scorn. She had embraced the role of the monster with no intention to stop, while still wallowing in her self-inflicted guilt that she couldn't quite seem to shake, no matter how she rationalized her actions to herself. Wondering if the perverted justice that she had wanted to inflict on others would be inflicted upon her in turn, constantly paranoid that anyone she happened to run into would take her life.
It was worse than that, though. Even when she wasn't trapped inside the confines of her own head, and instead focusing on the world around her, it was just boring being by herself. Having nothing to do, and nobody to talk to. She was like a prisoner condemned to the hole, something that she arguably deserved. Solitary confinement was considered to be torture, and she understood now more than ever why that was the case. Humans needed social interaction just as much as a bird needed the sky, or a fish needed the sea. Immersing themselves in each other, bonding and fulfilling the hard-wired interpersonal obligation that all of them had. She didn't realize just how necessary it was, until she was well and truly alone.
Perhaps she didn't really need anyone to rely on like she had on Dolly and later on Roxanne. If push came to shove she could survive without, at least until she was finally the last man standing. That didn't mean that she didn't still desire someone to be by her side. She had been addicted to that kind of vulnerability, and she still found herself craving it. So she understood Larrosa's loneliness. Maybe he didn't quite feel the same way about it that she did, but she could relate nonetheless.
"I..."
She began to speak, without thinking, unsure of what she was saying, or even if she had a point that she was trying to make. Maybe she was just desperate to honestly talk with someone who she didn't have at gunpoint or knife's edge.
"I haven't been alone all that long," she began to to mutter. "But it still hasn't been fun, especially since it was only because I screwed it all up."
She faltered as she said the last few words, her voice breaking just a little bit. Reminiscing on the stress of everything that she had done and accepting her role in what happened and the mistakes she had made was deeply unpleasant. It made her want to look away. After all, she didn't want Larrosa peering into her soul the same way that she had been peering into his, but she maintained her focus on him, in spite of it. If there was ever a time not to slip up, it was in a moment of vulnerability.
There would be no more allies.
Diego had promised this to himself in the long minutes after Ty's passing. Ty had been his last major connection to Hunter High, the last person he really cared for in any sense of the word. All the other people he regarded positively, all his friends, all his crushes, they were all gone. All the people he could hate, all the people he could possibly take revenge on, those that had killed his friends, they too were dead. Everyone else that remained after Ty, the few dozen that remained, they were to be regarded as threats, enemies to be avoided, dealt with if necessary. It was most efficient that way. It was easiest that way.
They all died anyways.
Even the rain, wind faded into the background. Time seemed to slow into a crawl, everything focusing in on just these two people, staring into each other, waiting for the first crack. Waiting for the shoe to drop, somehow. Because it always did. Nothing ever went right on this island for long. The last time Diego had been happy, he'd been foraging food with Cam and Theo three, four days ago, he thought. The moment had lasted for a few minutes, at most, and then the announcements had played, and then he'd walked off and gotten lost, and that had been the last time he saw Theo. That was the last time the gardening club had been a club, really. Day seven, if he remembered correctly.
God, it had been so lonely since.
There were reprieves on this island, perhaps, minutes-long in the hours and days spent here, but it was easier to go without. He wanted a break from the loneliness, but he did not want it, because even if he got what he wanted, the loneliness would always, always return. The goal was to be the last one standing. Even if he got some company for a little while, it would only be for a little while, and then once more, he would sleep by himself, he would eat by himself, he would be by himself. As he had promised. They would all die anyways. The announcement was just noise if you didn't actually know any of the names on it.
So, even after Marceline spoke of her loneliness as well, of her own prior mistakes, even after her voice cracked, the first crack in the dam, Diego let the silence stretch on for a while. Maybe it was a ploy for sympathy. Cam had betrayed him, and she had been everything to him. Marceline was nothing to him, he was nothing to her, it would be much easier on both their ends. Maybe, maybe, it was a ploy for sympathy, and one of Marceline's co-conspirators was waiting in the wings for him to break. So, they stared at each other, two people in close physical distance, but walled off from one another. Together, but apart.
He was so, so lonely.
He took a step forward.
"What- uh, what happened? You kill a friend too?"
Diego had promised this to himself in the long minutes after Ty's passing. Ty had been his last major connection to Hunter High, the last person he really cared for in any sense of the word. All the other people he regarded positively, all his friends, all his crushes, they were all gone. All the people he could hate, all the people he could possibly take revenge on, those that had killed his friends, they too were dead. Everyone else that remained after Ty, the few dozen that remained, they were to be regarded as threats, enemies to be avoided, dealt with if necessary. It was most efficient that way. It was easiest that way.
They all died anyways.
Even the rain, wind faded into the background. Time seemed to slow into a crawl, everything focusing in on just these two people, staring into each other, waiting for the first crack. Waiting for the shoe to drop, somehow. Because it always did. Nothing ever went right on this island for long. The last time Diego had been happy, he'd been foraging food with Cam and Theo three, four days ago, he thought. The moment had lasted for a few minutes, at most, and then the announcements had played, and then he'd walked off and gotten lost, and that had been the last time he saw Theo. That was the last time the gardening club had been a club, really. Day seven, if he remembered correctly.
God, it had been so lonely since.
There were reprieves on this island, perhaps, minutes-long in the hours and days spent here, but it was easier to go without. He wanted a break from the loneliness, but he did not want it, because even if he got what he wanted, the loneliness would always, always return. The goal was to be the last one standing. Even if he got some company for a little while, it would only be for a little while, and then once more, he would sleep by himself, he would eat by himself, he would be by himself. As he had promised. They would all die anyways. The announcement was just noise if you didn't actually know any of the names on it.
So, even after Marceline spoke of her loneliness as well, of her own prior mistakes, even after her voice cracked, the first crack in the dam, Diego let the silence stretch on for a while. Maybe it was a ploy for sympathy. Cam had betrayed him, and she had been everything to him. Marceline was nothing to him, he was nothing to her, it would be much easier on both their ends. Maybe, maybe, it was a ploy for sympathy, and one of Marceline's co-conspirators was waiting in the wings for him to break. So, they stared at each other, two people in close physical distance, but walled off from one another. Together, but apart.
He was so, so lonely.
He took a step forward.
"What- uh, what happened? You kill a friend too?"
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VoltTurtle
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Marceline was visibly taken aback by Larrosa's question, her shoulder tensing as the corners of her mouth briefly curled into a slight frown. That was an awfully big assumption for Larrosa to have made about someone he barely knew, even if it wasn't wrong in her case, and what did he mean by too? Did he just accidentally reveal to her that one of his own victims had been one of his friends?
Or, maybe it hadn't been an accident. Maybe he had deliberately revealed that information because he already thought he knew who he was dealing with. Maybe he could see right through her, and tell simply by looking at her what blackened stains marked her very soul. Or maybe she was reading too much into it. Whatever the reason for Larrosa's revelation, the reality was that they were both killers, standing face to face, talking with each other instead of being at each others throats.
Perhaps this could serve as an opportunity for her, perhaps Larrosa would understand her in a way that Roxanne and Nick never could. Realistically, it wasn't likely that she would find anyone else that shared her position that was also so willing to chat as Larrosa seemingly was. He had decided to kill long before she had as well, so maybe he had learned how to cope with his actions better than she had, and he could potentially impart that information to her.
"I... yes," she stammered out, after a great deal of hesitation. "Amelia was... one of my friends."
Perhaps that didn't need to be said, perhaps the look in her eyes had already answered his question long before the words that came out of her mouth.
"What about you?"
Or, maybe it hadn't been an accident. Maybe he had deliberately revealed that information because he already thought he knew who he was dealing with. Maybe he could see right through her, and tell simply by looking at her what blackened stains marked her very soul. Or maybe she was reading too much into it. Whatever the reason for Larrosa's revelation, the reality was that they were both killers, standing face to face, talking with each other instead of being at each others throats.
Perhaps this could serve as an opportunity for her, perhaps Larrosa would understand her in a way that Roxanne and Nick never could. Realistically, it wasn't likely that she would find anyone else that shared her position that was also so willing to chat as Larrosa seemingly was. He had decided to kill long before she had as well, so maybe he had learned how to cope with his actions better than she had, and he could potentially impart that information to her.
"I... yes," she stammered out, after a great deal of hesitation. "Amelia was... one of my friends."
Perhaps that didn't need to be said, perhaps the look in her eyes had already answered his question long before the words that came out of her mouth.
"What about you?"
Diego had stepped past a line. What he'd done is he had taken a phrase, 'I screwed it all up,' two bits of information, the fact that she had one kill, and that he vaguely associated the names Marceline and Amelia with one another even before they'd been announced together, perhaps they'd been friends, and made a huge assumption based off of just those things.
She seemed to lean back, withdraw further into her shell. He stepped forward again. He was so lonely. He didn't want her to go yet.
She finally spoke, confirmed what he'd thought. She was volunteering information.
His shoulders sagged, he took in a deep breath. Tension he hadn't even been aware of released from his back.
The question stung, but it was justified. Reciprocity. What friends did in a conversation.
Not friends. No. He was getting too far ahead of himself. He couldn't allow that. She'd die anyways, in the next few days. But, having someone around for the moment was a nice prospect.
He took two steps back.
"Uh... we've been standing around for too long. You wanna head up, join me in this room?" He gestured behind him to his right, towards the bedroom he'd emerged from. "Like I told you, no one else around. I promise."
She seemed to lean back, withdraw further into her shell. He stepped forward again. He was so lonely. He didn't want her to go yet.
She finally spoke, confirmed what he'd thought. She was volunteering information.
His shoulders sagged, he took in a deep breath. Tension he hadn't even been aware of released from his back.
The question stung, but it was justified. Reciprocity. What friends did in a conversation.
Not friends. No. He was getting too far ahead of himself. He couldn't allow that. She'd die anyways, in the next few days. But, having someone around for the moment was a nice prospect.
He took two steps back.
"Uh... we've been standing around for too long. You wanna head up, join me in this room?" He gestured behind him to his right, towards the bedroom he'd emerged from. "Like I told you, no one else around. I promise."
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
Marceline couldn't help but be perplexed by Larrosa's sudden turn. Just moments before, the tension in the air had been palpable to the point that it had threatened to crush her, but now he was inviting her up to stay with him. Was this maneuver on his part some kind of trap? All this time, had he been formulating a plan to take her out? Was he simply trying to lull her into a false sense of security with his offer of companionship?
Maybe he wanted her stuff. She was somewhat well armed and had a decent amount of supplies, after all. Though, that explanation for his actions didn't entirely make sense, as he seemed to have plenty of his own armaments. Inviting a fight with someone who was aware of him, even one that he would likely win, was a gamble and probably not worth it. In his position, she certainly wouldn't be trying to do that.
Perhaps he was just truly desperate for the company, then. That made much more sense as an explanation, as it lined up both with how he had entered this conversation and with the clear loneliness that he had just demonstrated with his words and demeanor. Under the circumstances, she could see herself trying to do that too, assuming she couldn't see a better way to resolve the situation she found herself in. With all that in mind, perhaps it would be for the best if she didn't look this gift horse in the mouth. She wanted a resolution to the tensions without any unnecessary and potentially dangerous bloodshed, and she might now have it.
Optimistic but cautious was the current strategy, right?
"Alright," she responded, her voice carrying an edge of wariness. "But we put the guns away first, safety on."
Without waiting for him to respond, she slowly, hesitantly took her right hand off of her gun, before moving the weapon to hover over her left pocket, the same one that carried the extra magazine. Her thumb was pressed onto the gun's safety, but she was not turning it on just yet. Tentatively, she watched the boy mirror her own motions, his own gun hovering over his own pocket, his own thumb pressed onto the safety in the same way.
She stared at him for some time, her nerves alight. If she turned the safety on, and he didn't, that would be game over for her right then and there, because all it would take was a second for him to open fire before she could do the same. They were trapped in the classic prisoner's dilemma. Should they both choose to trust the other, there would likely be a reward for the both of them, that being the resolution of the tensions and some temporary company. However, the cost of trusting should the other choose to betray far outweighed any possible benefit born from the mutual trust.
It would inherently be a leap of faith for Marceline to believe that Larrosa wouldn't just open fire on her the moment he heard the distinctive click of her gun's safety. However, there was no real way out of this situation without bloodshed unless she went through with it. If it could devolve into gunfire either way, she might as well bet on the option that might not result in that happening, instead of certainly resulting in it.
With a sharp, worried inhale, she took the plunge, a click echoing through the halls of the manor.
It was followed by another click, from atop the stairs, a moment later.
She had landed, safely.
Both of them inserted the muzzles of their guns into their respective pockets, Marceline carefully taking her hand off of her weapon as she watched Larrosa do the same. She placed one hand on the nearby railing, looking at the door that the boy had gestured to moments ago.
"Okay. Let's go."
Maybe he wanted her stuff. She was somewhat well armed and had a decent amount of supplies, after all. Though, that explanation for his actions didn't entirely make sense, as he seemed to have plenty of his own armaments. Inviting a fight with someone who was aware of him, even one that he would likely win, was a gamble and probably not worth it. In his position, she certainly wouldn't be trying to do that.
Perhaps he was just truly desperate for the company, then. That made much more sense as an explanation, as it lined up both with how he had entered this conversation and with the clear loneliness that he had just demonstrated with his words and demeanor. Under the circumstances, she could see herself trying to do that too, assuming she couldn't see a better way to resolve the situation she found herself in. With all that in mind, perhaps it would be for the best if she didn't look this gift horse in the mouth. She wanted a resolution to the tensions without any unnecessary and potentially dangerous bloodshed, and she might now have it.
Optimistic but cautious was the current strategy, right?
"Alright," she responded, her voice carrying an edge of wariness. "But we put the guns away first, safety on."
Without waiting for him to respond, she slowly, hesitantly took her right hand off of her gun, before moving the weapon to hover over her left pocket, the same one that carried the extra magazine. Her thumb was pressed onto the gun's safety, but she was not turning it on just yet. Tentatively, she watched the boy mirror her own motions, his own gun hovering over his own pocket, his own thumb pressed onto the safety in the same way.
She stared at him for some time, her nerves alight. If she turned the safety on, and he didn't, that would be game over for her right then and there, because all it would take was a second for him to open fire before she could do the same. They were trapped in the classic prisoner's dilemma. Should they both choose to trust the other, there would likely be a reward for the both of them, that being the resolution of the tensions and some temporary company. However, the cost of trusting should the other choose to betray far outweighed any possible benefit born from the mutual trust.
It would inherently be a leap of faith for Marceline to believe that Larrosa wouldn't just open fire on her the moment he heard the distinctive click of her gun's safety. However, there was no real way out of this situation without bloodshed unless she went through with it. If it could devolve into gunfire either way, she might as well bet on the option that might not result in that happening, instead of certainly resulting in it.
With a sharp, worried inhale, she took the plunge, a click echoing through the halls of the manor.
It was followed by another click, from atop the stairs, a moment later.
She had landed, safely.
Both of them inserted the muzzles of their guns into their respective pockets, Marceline carefully taking her hand off of her weapon as she watched Larrosa do the same. She placed one hand on the nearby railing, looking at the door that the boy had gestured to moments ago.
"Okay. Let's go."
She passed.
Not that Diego had solely been planning this as a test, that would be him giving himself too much credit. He really did want company. But, if Marceline had had allies waiting in the wings to ambush, then it would have been a near-suicidal move for her to enter a room alone essentially unarmed, with her target, without backup. He still couldn't tell if she felt the same, if she wanted his company or if she wanted to betray him at some point in the near future, but at the very least, she was alone, like she had said. That was the truth, at least.
The best lies were mixed with the truth.
They both entered the room, with Diego holding the door open for Marceline. Politeness. Some vestige of a pre-island social code. She took a seat on the floor beneath the window, and Diego followed, sitting across her, leaning against the bed. The soft mattress against his back was a pleasant contrast from the rough, hard tree bark he'd sat against in the previous days.
A few seconds of silence followed after they settled down. Marceline was the first to speak.
"So... you didn't answer my question. Which of them was a friend of yours?" she asked.
There was a pause. She sifted through her bag, the only sound in the meantime being the rustling of paper. She pulled out a sheet and scanned it with her eyes. He was close enough to read some of the words. Their classmates' names, under headings like Day 9, Day 11, Day 2. Diego wished he'd thought of that. All the names on the announcements blurred together after a while. It felt wrong to forget his classmates so quickly, but then again, so did everything else.
She continued. "Was it Henry, Camilla, or Mike? Or was it some combination of the three?"
Diego took in a long, deep breath. His back muscles felt tense again. The breathing didn't help.
"Uh. Cam, mostly. Mike and I hadn't been on speaking terms for a while before," he replied, winced slightly. The next couple words came out steady, level, in a monotone, almost. He spoke them to the floor beneath. "Mike was impulse. Cam was self-defense. Henry was intentional."
Another shaky breath. He did it. He said it out loud. He looked back up at her.
"More questions?" he asked. "Or can I ask some more of my own now?"
Not that Diego had solely been planning this as a test, that would be him giving himself too much credit. He really did want company. But, if Marceline had had allies waiting in the wings to ambush, then it would have been a near-suicidal move for her to enter a room alone essentially unarmed, with her target, without backup. He still couldn't tell if she felt the same, if she wanted his company or if she wanted to betray him at some point in the near future, but at the very least, she was alone, like she had said. That was the truth, at least.
The best lies were mixed with the truth.
They both entered the room, with Diego holding the door open for Marceline. Politeness. Some vestige of a pre-island social code. She took a seat on the floor beneath the window, and Diego followed, sitting across her, leaning against the bed. The soft mattress against his back was a pleasant contrast from the rough, hard tree bark he'd sat against in the previous days.
A few seconds of silence followed after they settled down. Marceline was the first to speak.
"So... you didn't answer my question. Which of them was a friend of yours?" she asked.
There was a pause. She sifted through her bag, the only sound in the meantime being the rustling of paper. She pulled out a sheet and scanned it with her eyes. He was close enough to read some of the words. Their classmates' names, under headings like Day 9, Day 11, Day 2. Diego wished he'd thought of that. All the names on the announcements blurred together after a while. It felt wrong to forget his classmates so quickly, but then again, so did everything else.
She continued. "Was it Henry, Camilla, or Mike? Or was it some combination of the three?"
Diego took in a long, deep breath. His back muscles felt tense again. The breathing didn't help.
"Uh. Cam, mostly. Mike and I hadn't been on speaking terms for a while before," he replied, winced slightly. The next couple words came out steady, level, in a monotone, almost. He spoke them to the floor beneath. "Mike was impulse. Cam was self-defense. Henry was intentional."
Another shaky breath. He did it. He said it out loud. He looked back up at her.
"More questions?" he asked. "Or can I ask some more of my own now?"