Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Is In)

[Cicada]

Everything seemed to check out. Herself included.

He held her. She held him back, rote. A loose fist, maybe tense, covered the gun was covered by his hand. One of her thumbs wormed up, threading over what little softness existed on his bony wrist. No feeling, no particular discovery of herself followed. It was just a gesture. Warm, but only objectively in how spent body heat settled into equilibrium.

Silence followed, was only broken a scant moment later when water beaded from a strand of her hair, missed all but the floor on its way down. She hadn't noticed how much of a sponge she'd become- the path back to the door must have been a babbling brook, only she didn't talk so much.

"I haven't thought about it much. But it all makes sense to me." Maybe she'd been ready for this all along? She'd just been waiting for an excuse. She'd been fighting and she'd had nothing to fight for.

Air escaped her, her body language continued to settle in shoulders slowly losing torsion. The chair was oddly comfortable, now. She could feel herself sinking, all the more buoyant for it. Floating.

"Tell me something I don't know."

She guessed she was in the mood for bullshit.

[Kermit]

The girl relaxed. Guard down. Emotionally vulnerable. They were alone in the universe. Well, almost - Jeremiah was there too, and so was everyone else on earth - but none of them were in this specific here of the universe.

He glanced over at the bear. Bearyl, he'd call it only in his mind. A memorial.

He had so much to say, but so much of it was weird esoteric shit that only he would get. It was stuff about how he wanted the people back at home to think he was crazy so they'd feel bad. Stuff about trying to build a narrative for them. Stuff about trying to build a narrative for himself. Stuff about oscillation. Stuff about how a setting sun was a rising sun for someone else. Stuff about how much he loved Camila. Stuff about how much he loved everyone. Stuff about how honored he felt that the girl was maybe okay with him being the person who killed her.

But he'd be talking about himself if he said any of that. This had to be for the girl; had to be for Camila. This had to be not for Michael.

Back into the girl's eyes. He smiled with his mouth closed. Told her something she didn't know.

"You aren't pathetic." He said.

[Cicada]

"I am."

She fired back. Instinct. She didn't notice she'd said it until the putrefying slime on her lips lightly popped. Another hollow reaction, the dog and the dinner bell. She was waiting, and only waiting.

She was getting impatient now. The platitudes and the well-wishes, she could feel herself bristling to shrug them off. To move on. That part of her hadn't changed. She could take it to the grave. That was enough for her.

The bag stuck onto her good shoulder rolled off, she stood. She was once more energetic, the chair bounced back, scraping with a pitiful squeal. She regarded him evenly, efficiently. Drunk him in for a moment, with focus. No, he still didn't really matter to her. That possibly made the difference.

"When you shoot me hit," and her hand settled atop the rain-dressed stomach that had been empty for the better part of a day.

"I don't want to be gawked at. And I don't want you to watch."

With purpose in her stride she started for the door.

"Give me a moment. I'll be back."

The door to the outside closed behind her- she'd been quick in her planned final moments. Her eyes blankly absorbed the canvas of gray sky in all directions.

[Kermit]

Her words were like a sucker punch.

He blinked twice in quick succession. His eyes glazed over. No tears. Grip on the girl's hand loosened. Jaw clenched. Still smiled with his mouth closed. His voice was a flat whisper.

"Mmm..."

She stood up. Asked him to shoot her in the gut. He'd been there, done that. He got it. He'd oblige.

She didn't want anyone to watch. Unrealistic expectation anywhere on the island.

"...Okay."

She walked out the door. Told him she'd be back soon. Could have been lying. Didn't matter; her bag was still here.

As soon as the door closed, he lost his smile. Face neutralized. Gun in hand. Stood up. Safety off, hammer down.

Took a breath in. Squeezed his eyes shut.

He waited.

[Cicada]

Heaven looked particularly dreary all of a sudden. Could have been that the gates were already closed to her.

Somewhere under all the puffball clouds and false pretense she observed a camera carelessly observing her general vicinity, what with all its uninteresting features. It blinked. She blinked. It blinked, she stared.

It wasn't easy to find the words still.

"Lo siento que..."

It was a familiar tone of voice, at least. Her own. The one they would have known. Simple, warm, like the overburning bulb above their kitchen table.

"Lo siento que tomé, el camino fácil."

Honesty was all she had left.

"Por favor,"

She exhaled, and her nerve failed her. She cast her gaze down to the earth.

"entienden." And she rushed back inside, the door open, the door shut, barely a creak of noise between her fleeing her final mortal ties on this earth. She could barely stand to think of the ones sitting at home, waiting impatiently for a daughter and a sister who would never return. This one standing in front of her still did not matter. He could do whatever he wanted when she was gone. He had her blessing, and didn't need such a worthless thing.

She nodded at him once, and with sturdy fingers mindfully lifted the collar of her shirt. It stretched, she stuffed it between her teeth. Bit down hard, then shoved her palm against her lips. It might keep the worst of the noise from being too loud. She didn't want others to hear.

She wanted to see the bullet hit at least, so she endeavored her eyes stay open.

[Kermit]

The girl came back.

The finality sunk in. Michael wanted to run. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

He couldn't run. Not anymore. He'd dug his grave and he'd lie in it.

Eyes opened. Minimal tears but still tears.

The girl nodded. Put her shirt in her mouth like she was a patient at an improvised surgery. He raised the gun in both hands. Looked into the girl's eyes. Nodded back. He was shaking. He wanted to say something poignant. He had nothing.

"I'll wait in the storeroom."

Closed his eyes. Breathed. Stopped shaking. Opened his eyes. Lined the gun's sights up with the girl's bellybutton. Eye contact. Had a duty to look into someone's eyes as he killed them. Didn't move anything but his mouth.

This was happening.

"Okay."


He fired.


Eyes drifted down to the gunshot wound, readily visible against the girl's shirt and skin. Back up, eye contact again. His throat made a dry gasping sound.

The girl didn't want to be watched. He couldn't take that agency away from her. His mind tunnel-visioned in on the storage room door and he felt himself stumble towards it. Hand hooked backpack. Inside. Hand grazed doorknob. Door closed. Alone in the dark.

His fingernails dug into his left palm, reopening the wounds from the first night. He collapsed onto his hands and knees and dry heaved, silently.

There were no tears.

[Cicada]

Her eyes stayed vibrant when the bullet hit. A tension had infected her brow, threading it with a projection of authority she did not and had never possessed.

The homey checker pattern of her shirt unraveled where the bullet had struck, a modest bloom of red stain creeping in all directions. Camila swore she'd felt it- it had said hello, quick introductions, good-bye. Her guts stirred like a particularly creamy soup. More than a pinch of herself was splattered over the door behind her.

Her eyes remained fixed on his. She watched him go with a steady gaze.

She didn't react as strongly as he had, until he was gone. She didn't tremble like he had, but then he fled, and then her teeth ground the fabric between to paste, repetitive, roiling like the heat rising through her spine bubbling out her esophagus and over her tongue. Nothing came out but more blood.

She careened, nearly toppled. She almost broke her last promise to herself, almost stayed.







The door opened and shut, once more. Barely audible, a ghostly sound.

((Camila Cañizares concluded in live with yourself))

[Kermit]

Michael blindly crawled through the clutter strewn across the ground until he found something to sit against. He deflated.

He just wanted someone to love him back. He just wanted a positive emotional outlet again. He just wanted Beryl.

He just... wanted.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to feel something other than regret and want and bitterness and fear and nothing.

He couldn't. He was almost there, but he just couldn't. It was like he'd forgotten how.

He'd kind of sort of just talked a girl into letting him shoot her, and now that it was done he still felt like -

- he still felt like a zombie. There had been a moment when he and Camila had been talking where he'd felt different, but she'd snapped him out of it. He'd felt the same different when he shot her. It was gone now. He was back to the old, cold, logical him. Meat computer him.

He'd been something different yesterday, too. A different different. He'd been nothing but emotions; nothing but hatred and fear and despair and love and euphoria. No logic, just bullshit. Not a computer. Something animal. The lizard part of his brain. It had been too far; he hadn't been able to savour the fact that he was feeling emotions.


Emotions. His vice.

An addict. He was an addict.

He pushed it down.


He was almost over Beryl's death.

He wasn't over Beryl.

He didn't think he'd ever feel what he felt for Beryl for anyone else again.

First loves never die.

The first hit was always the best; something like that.

He cognitive dissonance'd that last thought back down.

...

...

The storeroom was like a sensory deprivation chamber, sort of.

He'd murdered Camila. He'd been the one who brought up suicide. It was on him. He shot her for real. Her blood was on his hands and he knew it.

He stopped thinking for a few minutes. He listened; heard nothing but rain. Camila was dead, probably. He focused on that pain. Savoured it.

He felt alive. He felt human.

[Cactus]

Miracles did happen, so it seemed. Two days after getting his face kicked in and pissing his pants in fear of a giant half-man, half-gorilla, Morgan Dragosavich had done the impossible — he'd found his knapsack. More importantly; most importantly for his dignity, he'd found his spare pair of jeans. He may have been soaking wet and covered in rain-water, but by God, he wasn't wearing piss-pants anymore!

Like he figured: miracles.

After he'd left the rice paddies, the majority of the day had been spent in search of food and water. Anything and everything he'd had was gone courtesy of the Carters, and since his big mouth had once again fucked him over — okay no, that was still on Brady, the fucking prick — and his group had deserted him, Morgan had figured it really smart to stick to the shadows. His wit was only going to serve to piss people off, and he'd already sworn up and down while wandering that he wasn't going to be a victim anymore.

If he had to fight back, well then. Morgan Dragosavich would fight back.

How well that would go for him — well, that remained to be seen.

The bag had been where he'd left it at the garden area of the big manor house, and while he hadn't intended to go back there, his poor sense of direction had brought him back a few times. The second time he'd mustered the courage to go see if any of his stuff was still there, and he'd been rewarded with his knapsack and a full water bottle. All of his snacks were gone, but his clothes were splayed out, no one having seen fit to steal them. He'd collected them, changed his pants and underwear, and discarded the old ones. He didn't need a reminder of that lovely exchange.

He'd spent the night somewhere in the woods, shivering and trying to sleep under some sort of shrubbery. It was so dark that he couldn't tell where he was, couldn't see anyone. There were noises, of course. The odd gunshot, a scream, faint sounds of talking. Morgan had curled into the fetal position and tried to use his pack as a pillow.

Morgan hadn't slept much.

When the morning announcement had broken the silence all over the island, Morgan had listened intently. Same fucking story as before. He knew them all. His friends — miraculously — weren't among the dead or the killers, and so he counted that as a victory before grimly moving on from his woodland home.

((Morgan Dragosavich continued from The Unavoidable Sun))

It was still raining as he came across the small village, and his hunger was finally getting to the point where he had to find some food, lest he start eating grass or leaves. Desperation was starting to set in, and while he'd made a point of avoiding anyone, he was going to have to start trying at least a little to find a friendly face. The largest building in the area seemed to be a commissary of sorts, and so hey, maybe it would have a kitchen or something. Odds are it was empty, but he'd be okay with a working tap with water in it. That would do nicely.

So Morgan cautiously approached the door, stopping in his tracks as he saw the bullet hole through it. His eyes widened. Good God, what was he about to walk into? Everything in his head screamed at him to run, to flee, to get the fuck out of there at as fast a speed as he was humanly possible.

Instead, he slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It slammed heavily behind him, causing him to shut his eyes and tense up. Idiot. He may as well have rang the dinner bell. It was lunchtime, and Morgan was on the menu. Calming his nerves with a bad joke, he allowed himself a look.

Immediately, he regretted it.

There was a lot to see, but the first thing his eyes caught was the only thing he'd have been able to look at had he seen it last, either. Across the room, there was a large shape underneath what looked to be a pile of blankets. It could have been a couch or a chair or something, except for all of the blood and —

No.

He knew.

Right away, he knew what it was. The smell told the whole story. Morgan wasn't stupid. He'd taken sciences. Chemistry, mainly, but biology too. He'd cut up frogs. He knew what the smell was. Even through the strong scent of formaldehyde, the stench of death was unmistakable.

Someone had died here, and Morgan was staring at their body.

"Shit," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

[Kermit]

It'd been an hour or so since Michael'd shot Camila. He'd spent that time replaying the brief moments they'd spent together; kept seeing himself tell the girl she was dead inside and then offer her a way out. Kept seeing himself point the gun at her gut, look in her eyes, fire, look down at the hole he'd blown through her, look back into her eyes, and stumble away.

He'd murder her in his head again and again and again and again and again until he heard something other than rain. He had nothing else to do.

Eventually, there was something other than rain. Someone slammed a door. Either someone getting sloppy or someone using it as a ruse to draw out potential victims. Michael slowly pointed his pistol up at the approximate location of the door to the storeroom. He was blind as a bat in here. He listened intently.

There was a voice. An expletive, barely audible above the rain. He tried to place a face to it. It was tough, he could barely even remember what his own voice sounded like.

...

no no no no no

...Morgan.

He'd thought about murdering him at least two times now and Morgan was one of his best friends and was certainly his closest surviving friend and

oh god oh god oh god oh god

He lashed out like a wounded animal, instinctively kicking his legs against the ground and pushing his back flat against the crate he'd propped himself on. Feet connected with cookware, creating a cacophony of metallic crashing. Feral. He was trying and trying to move backwards but he couldn't and the gun fell to the ground and Michael hugged his or Camila's bag - he wasn't sure which one he'd grabbed after the murder - to his chest and fell on his side. Tears started at some point and didn't relent. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to do. He didn't -

- He didn't want Morgan to see him like this; he didn't want Morgan to see what he'd become. He knew it would hurt Morgan to see him. He didn't want to hurt Morgan like that. He pressed his head against the backpack, hiding his face. Screamed with his teeth clenched together into the bag's fabric; muffled the sound a little.

He wanted to be small. He wanted to hide.

There was nowhere for him to hide. Not in here

[Cactus]

He couldn't stop staring at the sheet across the room. Morgan's feet were rooted in place, and for all of the things that he knew he should do — investigate the discarded bags, ascertain the identity of the body, maybe find a defensible position — the only thing that his mind let him do was stand there like an idiot.

Shit was right. The wind had been taken so far out of his sails, it was as if Wyatt Carter had kicked him in the ribs all over again. But this wasn't Wyatt's doing. For all of their menace and malice, the Carters hadn't killed anyone yet. Maybe they weren't truly bad people, just unpleasant and willing to use violence to cover for their fear.

Or maybe they just hadn't had the chance yet.

Either way, it didn't change that other people he'd gone to school with had found no issue with crossing the proverbial line. Violence was becoming easier to stomach, and —

All of his muscles simultaneously shot to attention as a loud noise echoed through the empty hall. Eyes wide, all of his attention now rested on a door at the other end of the room. It was closed. His heart started to thunder within his chest, wounded ribs aching as it did. Who else was here? Someone was undoubtedly hiding away. Was it the person who created the body outside?

He should run, far away from here.

Was that — a scream? Someone could have been in trouble.

Or they could have gone insane.

"Shit," he echoed himself, his body starting to carry himself towards the room amid the protestations of his mind. Morgan didn't want to see what was inside the room, he wanted to run away, but he was starving and if someone was dying in there — it was an awful, no-good thought but he couldn't help it — maybe there would be some food left.

He felt his humanity slowly slip away from him. Morgan felt no better than a common beggar on the street, looking for a handout. Beggars didn't have to worry about death around every corner, though. Actually no, he frowned for a moment, stopping just short of the door. That wasn't true at all. The homeless population fell victim to many violent crimes in the United States. It was like a Survival of the Fittest going on under their noses. Every person stopped, every car asked for a dollar; all a risk for someone with nothing to lose. Who missed the invisible?

Morgan felt very invisible right now.

Stopping short of the door also brought another thing to mind — the bullet hole in the front door. Barely feeling as though he had the ability to stand, Morgan moved to the left-hand side of the door frame, taking a shaky breath as his hand reached for the door-knob. Halfway to the door, said hand turned into a fist, and he weakly knocked on it.

"Hello? Who's there?"

He sounded as pitiful as Andy had assigned him to be, his fear getting the better of him. Silently he dreaded what came next. Someone would answer, or else he would surely die.

[Kermit]

Footsteps slowly got louder until there was a light knocking at the door. The voice asked who was there.

"Hey Morgan, I guess you could say I'm in the closet." Michael would have said if everything was okay. Things weren't okay and they would never be okay ever again.

Morgan had probably seen Jeremiah's corpse. He had probably seen Camila's corpse; freshly murdered. He'd know whoever was in the storeroom was a murderer. He'd know Michael was a murderer.

He was a murderer. He was still a murderer. He'd always be a murderer now.

Michael wasn't aware Camila'd left before dying.

He reached around in the darkness. Found a grip on the pistol; pointed it at nowhere. His hands were shaking again. Everything was shaking. He craned his neck back, head impacting against the crate. "No -" he choked into the bag. "- please no - Morgan don't — please don't."

[Cactus]

The voice — that voice, he knew. His chest tightened, there was a frog in his throat. A part of him wanted to throw open the door, run in, thank whatever God was above that he had finally been able to find one of his friends, someone he could truly and completely trust in this hellish abode.

But there was something about his tone, something off.

Something broken.

Morgan hadn't had a great couple of days. He'd been beaten, attacked, probably concussed, yelled at, accosted, robbed and threatened. He was tired, wet, hungry and a whole other host of adjectives that just continued to pile on his shoulders and weigh him down like the damp clothes that clung to his back. He'd long since taken off his long-sleeved shirt, and he looked down at his t-shirt. The small orange cat could only hiss back via speech bubble. He'd last worn this shirt on the trip, on one of the museum days. Henry had been a bull in a china shop in the space museum, putting Morgan's usual near-manic energy level to shame.

For once, he'd been the one rolling his eyes, joining in the joke with his other good buddy, who'd been there too.

His partner in crime, his scientific equal, one of his best friends in the world who probably both hated and loved being dragged along for all of the stupid shit that he'd think up or the latest caper that Morgan decided was a great idea that day.

His good buddy, whom was now hiding in the closet, screaming and crying and having been a witness to horrors that Morgan couldn't fathom. The words didn't make sense. He was telling him not to do — something. Morgan couldn't tell what he was saying.

But if Michael Froese had been shaken this hard by his Survival of the Fittest experience, then dammit, it wasn't even a choice. Morgan decided then and there exactly what he had to do next. Reaching out, he twisted the knob of the storeroom and slowly opened the door, staying on the edge of the door-frame.

Friends didn't leave one another behind. No matter what.

Hesitating, he slowly leaned his head into the door-frame, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the change in light.

"Mike? Is — is that you, man?"

Eyes adjusted, they widened in horror at the state of his friend, the visage — and the gun in Michael's hands — knocking the rest of the words out of his throat before he had a chance to utter them.

[Kermit]

The pale, dreary light poured in from through the doorway. It burned Michael's eyes and he reflexively blocked his face with his left hand, bloodied palm out. He aimed the gun wildly at the doorway, his trigger finger resting on the trigger guard instead of the trigger itself. His throat made a sobbing-choking sound. Feet kicked out again. One collided with a plate on the ground and sent it careening at a wall. Morgan's head popped into view and Michael accidentally, instinctively looked at his eyes. Gun arm fully extended.

"Mike? Is — is that you, man?"

The question meant something completely different to him than it did Morgan.

He accidentally kept looking at his eyes. Gun arm tremored. Mouth made words. "I - I don- don't -"

He had nothing left to hide.

Muscles relaxed. Arms fell limp. Tears became vestigial. Head rested against the floor. It felt sort of like he was falling asleep. He looked into his eyes.

"...I don't know. Morgan... I don't... I don't know."

[Cactus]

All of a sudden, nothing he'd been through to this point seemed to be worth a damn. The fear upon waking up, getting beaten by Wyatt, threatened by Lorenzo, kicking Lucas and getting abandoned by the guys — it was all crappy stuff, but it paled in comparison to whatever had happened to Michael. He could barely recognize the person lying on the ground before him. His breathing had stopped when he'd seen the gun pointed in his direction, but then, they'd locked eyes.

Much like Michael's mental walls, the gun fell by the wayside.

What he saw in his friend's eyes was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. There was that same wry intelligence, the sense that Michael was humouring everyone and had likely heard all of the jokes before. That was still there. Behind that; however, was something else entirely. A look that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.

Whatever Michael had seen had haunted him; broken him.

Every instinct in his body told him the same thing. Morgan wasn't safe with his best friend anymore. But that didn't matter — what was 'safe' now, anyway?

"Mike," he could barely put words together. "It's — it's," it wasn't okay. Not even by a long-shot. Morgan wasn't going to lie to him.

But he wasn't going to let him lay on the ground anymore, either.

Letting his knapsack drop on the ground, Morgan slowly walked over to where Michael lay. The storeroom was a disaster. There were dishes, plates, pots and pans all over the place. The commotion he had heard upon coming into the commissary was undoubtedly his pal tearing the room apart.

What the hell had he seen?

What had he done?

More importantly — to Morgan, did it matter?

It did not.

Sliding down beside his prone friend and leaning against one of the crates on the wall, Morgan felt his eyes blur a little. His heart ached for the shell of his friend, and he didn't even know what had happened. Through all of high school, Mike hadn't been much of a touchy-feely type, but dammit, he had to do something. So he reached over and gently placed his hand on Michael's shoulder.

"C'mon, man. Sit up," he could barely hold his own voice steady and together. "I've got you, man. Let's — let's figure this out."

Morgan didn't know what he was talking about but they'd find a way. They'd figure it out (whatever it was), and Michael would snap out of it and everything would be okay. He'd bring his friend back from the brink and they'd find a way out and back home and everything would be fine.

Everything would be okay.

Same as it ever was.

Totally fine.

Peachy.






They were so fucked, but he had to try.