Over the course of his life, Morgan had made a lot of jokes about someone ending up 'inside' someone else. It was low-hanging fruit but usually elicited at least a half-chuckle from most people. It was almost always intended as a sex joke.
There was nothing remotely sexual about the sudden intrusion of fingers into the bullet wound in his shin. The sensation of a wiggling intrusion into his leg was horrific and he screamed in both agony and revulsion as he fell to one knee, grabbing at Diego's arm to try and free the boy's slippery digits from their new home.
The Ultimate Test of Cerebral Fitness
Day 12; late afternoon. Private.
He slid his fingers out the wound, pushed himself up. He circled around Morgan, dodging out of his grasp.
And he pushed.
And he pushed.
Morgan was going to teach Diego how to fly; Diego had insisted he demonstrate.
The pressure relieved from his leg, but as Diego came alive and gave him a shove, Morgan quickly understood that he had a whole new problem now. As he saw the boy move in his peripheral vision, he tried to stand, but he wasn't fast enough; he reached out for something to steady himself, but there was nothing to grab. He managed to take one step back and find solid ground, but his own momentum ensured that the second step didn't. Therein lay the problem.
Fortunately for him, it wasn't likely to be a problem for very long. Diego had just shoved Morgan right off of the cliff.
As he felt himself enter free-fall, Morgan knew that these; the final moments of his life, were a time for reflection. He should have been thinking of how this was fate's way of bitch-slapping him for being so damned preachy — he wasn't a killer. Quipping as he was about to murder someone was something that he might see in a movie, not in a bonafide fight to the death. Had that been a fatal mistake? Probably. The whole enterprise had been a mistake from the start. Trying to hunt down killers was an insane plan and in the end, it was liable to get all of them killed. Lizzie had been right; they should have just hunkered down and enjoyed the moments they had left.
She had been one of a kind, Lizzie. They matched together so well, his irreverence and her comedy. Everything had been awkward between them and yet worked so well, falling into the fountain in Washington had been so very them. He missed her; her death had weighed so heavily upon him, mainly because it had been his own damn fault. Morgan had to go out searching for the lost soul that was Michael Froese.
Of course, over and over, Michael had been a recurring thread throughout his journey. They were best friends — brothers almost — and knowing what kind of a gentle soul that his friend had was enough reason to try and prevent him from doing something awful, something he couldn't take back. Morgan had failed in that regard; Michael had died a multiple murderer whose name would likely never be uttered in the halls of George Hunter again. Morgan himself had felt terrible about disowning his friend, understanding that once he was gone, he couldn't take his feelings back.
He should have thought of his parents; never being able to make things right with his father. That one fateful day had put everything in motion for him. One careless mistake had almost cost him the life of his mother. Perhaps Radko Dragosavich had been right all along — one mistake would cost Morgan his own life. One moment was all it took to unravel the tapestry of life. His mother had been fortunate, she had recovered. What was more, she had forgiven Morgan. Had she not, he wasn't certain that he'd have been able to go on. Her smiling, kind eyes was a memory that had kept him company on many of these lonely nights on this hellish island.
What would they have thought of their son? Morgan had tried his best. That was all that could be asked of a teenager who had no real survival skills to speak of and felt best at home in a laboratory or a garage. His friends were all gone. His girlfriend was gone. There was no one left to utter his name or mourn over his loss. Unless Aurelien had better luck in his own quest for vengeance, no one would notice his demise. No one would vow vengeance for Morgan, as he had for Henry. Poor, kind Henry. His buddy, the Spaceboi. Morgan should have thought that at least, for Henry's sake, he had tried his best. If only it had been good enough.
Morgan should have thought all of those things. Final moments were supposed to be for reflection. They were supposed to be thoughtful and deep. He should have had something better to say for his last words than a stupid joke.
But he didn't.
Instead, the only thing that went through Morgan Dragosavich's mind as the dark, watery surf rushed towards him was pure, unadulterated fear. His arms flailed helplessly; he opened his mouth to try and say some sort of a farewell to anyone who might be listening.
All he could muster was a blood-curdling scream; a scream that after a thunderous crack from the bottom of the cliff was suddenly — mercifully — cut short.
B027: DRAGOSAVICH, MORGAN -- DECEASED
The pressure relieved from his leg, but as Diego came alive and gave him a shove, Morgan quickly understood that he had a whole new problem now. As he saw the boy move in his peripheral vision, he tried to stand, but he wasn't fast enough; he reached out for something to steady himself, but there was nothing to grab. He managed to take one step back and find solid ground, but his own momentum ensured that the second step didn't. Therein lay the problem.
Fortunately for him, it wasn't likely to be a problem for very long. Diego had just shoved Morgan right off of the cliff.
As he felt himself enter free-fall, Morgan knew that these; the final moments of his life, were a time for reflection. He should have been thinking of how this was fate's way of bitch-slapping him for being so damned preachy — he wasn't a killer. Quipping as he was about to murder someone was something that he might see in a movie, not in a bonafide fight to the death. Had that been a fatal mistake? Probably. The whole enterprise had been a mistake from the start. Trying to hunt down killers was an insane plan and in the end, it was liable to get all of them killed. Lizzie had been right; they should have just hunkered down and enjoyed the moments they had left.
She had been one of a kind, Lizzie. They matched together so well, his irreverence and her comedy. Everything had been awkward between them and yet worked so well, falling into the fountain in Washington had been so very them. He missed her; her death had weighed so heavily upon him, mainly because it had been his own damn fault. Morgan had to go out searching for the lost soul that was Michael Froese.
Of course, over and over, Michael had been a recurring thread throughout his journey. They were best friends — brothers almost — and knowing what kind of a gentle soul that his friend had was enough reason to try and prevent him from doing something awful, something he couldn't take back. Morgan had failed in that regard; Michael had died a multiple murderer whose name would likely never be uttered in the halls of George Hunter again. Morgan himself had felt terrible about disowning his friend, understanding that once he was gone, he couldn't take his feelings back.
He should have thought of his parents; never being able to make things right with his father. That one fateful day had put everything in motion for him. One careless mistake had almost cost him the life of his mother. Perhaps Radko Dragosavich had been right all along — one mistake would cost Morgan his own life. One moment was all it took to unravel the tapestry of life. His mother had been fortunate, she had recovered. What was more, she had forgiven Morgan. Had she not, he wasn't certain that he'd have been able to go on. Her smiling, kind eyes was a memory that had kept him company on many of these lonely nights on this hellish island.
What would they have thought of their son? Morgan had tried his best. That was all that could be asked of a teenager who had no real survival skills to speak of and felt best at home in a laboratory or a garage. His friends were all gone. His girlfriend was gone. There was no one left to utter his name or mourn over his loss. Unless Aurelien had better luck in his own quest for vengeance, no one would notice his demise. No one would vow vengeance for Morgan, as he had for Henry. Poor, kind Henry. His buddy, the Spaceboi. Morgan should have thought that at least, for Henry's sake, he had tried his best. If only it had been good enough.
Morgan should have thought all of those things. Final moments were supposed to be for reflection. They were supposed to be thoughtful and deep. He should have had something better to say for his last words than a stupid joke.
But he didn't.
Instead, the only thing that went through Morgan Dragosavich's mind as the dark, watery surf rushed towards him was pure, unadulterated fear. His arms flailed helplessly; he opened his mouth to try and say some sort of a farewell to anyone who might be listening.
All he could muster was a blood-curdling scream; a scream that after a thunderous crack from the bottom of the cliff was suddenly — mercifully — cut short.
B027: DRAGOSAVICH, MORGAN -- DECEASED
The echoed screams resounded through the area long after Morgan died, somehow making themselves heard above the thunderous crashing of the waves.
Diego stared from above at the foamy water long after they swallowed up his body, leaving just the implication of it being dashed against the rocks over and over again, tossed like a ragdoll.
He took a few stuttered steps away from the edge and stumbled, fell on his back, collapsed onto the dusty ground with a thud.
And in the moments after, giddy laughter trickled out of Diego's throat, almost but not completely overwhelmed by the ocean roaring and laughing with him. He was alive.
Almost every square inch of his face screamed, moaned. Almost every square inch of his face had been bruised or broken in some manner, but he was alive.
Blood continued to trickle from his rib, the daylight stars continued to twinkle at him from the overcast sky, the world turned and turned around him and there was a growing urge to expel all the contents of his stomach, but he was alive.
And that was something Morgan couldn't say now.
For once, he was left speechless.
What Henry and Morgan didn't get — what they would never get — was that survival without integrity was still survival. It still meant something to him. He might not be able to look at himself in the mirror anytime soon, literally, metaphorically, but there would still be a mirror to look at at the end of the day. If he survived, then there'd be time to feel bad, there'd be time to atone for everything he'd done.
Not that he was feeling bad just yet. All the broken bones and teeth aside, he felt great.
That feeling subsided, of course. Everything good did.
What eventually set in was that the pain, the dizziness, the nausea that wouldn't go away. What set in was that he was missing three of the teeth on the left side of his face, that he tasted nothing but blood, that he couldn't breath through his nose now. Even just touching his nose, cheek made him whimper a bit.
The blood that trickled out of his side had dried by the time he sat up. Just another tear to bandage now.
He placed a bandage where the bullet had grazed him, wrapped around his torso with gauze to secure the bandage. This has been done with difficulty, the wound on his arm protesting as he reached around his back to perform the task.
This would've been easier with someone else.
He didn't like dealing with this stuff on his own. It would've been nice if Marceline had been around to help him with this. Or Ty. Or Cam. Or Theo or Declyn or Drew or Stephanie or really anyone.
He was so sick of thinking of people in past tense.
He stared at the ocean beyond the cliffs. Had Marceline jumped off here? Had she shot herself elsewhere? She had walked off with a gun, he remembered. He could still see her taking her mile-long walk, alone, shrinking. Another sight to be imprinted on the back of his eyelids.
His sight drifted over to Dane, Mike, their eyeless corpses still staring at him.
He'd put in the work. This was what Ty had meant.
He'd told himself this a million times before, but this time he really meant it. No more allies. He'd meant it all the previous times, but he'd mean it again too. Maybe this time it'd stick. He knew what he had to do now, he knew what he had to face.
After work, of course, one had to clean. He traipsed across the area, cleaning up the aftermath of the fight. The grenade launcher again found its way around his neck. Ty's gun had been where he dropped it, near the rock. His bag, along with it Marceline's gun, the shovel, was still near the tree he'd left them. If he hadn't dropped the bag, the fight would've been over quicker, would've been less costly. Served him right for abandoning them.
Walking felt difficult now. He hoped to God it wasn't some sort of concussion, traumatic brain injury, something he could fade away from. He hoped as if he had any right to.
He'd stay awake for the night, he decided. Concussions were only bad if he fell asleep during them, right?
They were close enough to the end anyways. One, two days away, at most. The sleep he'd gotten last night would have to sustain him for the rest of his time.
Leaving the manor had been a mistake.
He went back into the woods to seek another shelter. He knew a place nearby.
((Diego Larrosa continues elsewhere))
Diego stared from above at the foamy water long after they swallowed up his body, leaving just the implication of it being dashed against the rocks over and over again, tossed like a ragdoll.
He took a few stuttered steps away from the edge and stumbled, fell on his back, collapsed onto the dusty ground with a thud.
And in the moments after, giddy laughter trickled out of Diego's throat, almost but not completely overwhelmed by the ocean roaring and laughing with him. He was alive.
Almost every square inch of his face screamed, moaned. Almost every square inch of his face had been bruised or broken in some manner, but he was alive.
Blood continued to trickle from his rib, the daylight stars continued to twinkle at him from the overcast sky, the world turned and turned around him and there was a growing urge to expel all the contents of his stomach, but he was alive.
And that was something Morgan couldn't say now.
For once, he was left speechless.
What Henry and Morgan didn't get — what they would never get — was that survival without integrity was still survival. It still meant something to him. He might not be able to look at himself in the mirror anytime soon, literally, metaphorically, but there would still be a mirror to look at at the end of the day. If he survived, then there'd be time to feel bad, there'd be time to atone for everything he'd done.
Not that he was feeling bad just yet. All the broken bones and teeth aside, he felt great.
That feeling subsided, of course. Everything good did.
What eventually set in was that the pain, the dizziness, the nausea that wouldn't go away. What set in was that he was missing three of the teeth on the left side of his face, that he tasted nothing but blood, that he couldn't breath through his nose now. Even just touching his nose, cheek made him whimper a bit.
The blood that trickled out of his side had dried by the time he sat up. Just another tear to bandage now.
He placed a bandage where the bullet had grazed him, wrapped around his torso with gauze to secure the bandage. This has been done with difficulty, the wound on his arm protesting as he reached around his back to perform the task.
This would've been easier with someone else.
He didn't like dealing with this stuff on his own. It would've been nice if Marceline had been around to help him with this. Or Ty. Or Cam. Or Theo or Declyn or Drew or Stephanie or really anyone.
He was so sick of thinking of people in past tense.
He stared at the ocean beyond the cliffs. Had Marceline jumped off here? Had she shot herself elsewhere? She had walked off with a gun, he remembered. He could still see her taking her mile-long walk, alone, shrinking. Another sight to be imprinted on the back of his eyelids.
His sight drifted over to Dane, Mike, their eyeless corpses still staring at him.
He'd put in the work. This was what Ty had meant.
He'd told himself this a million times before, but this time he really meant it. No more allies. He'd meant it all the previous times, but he'd mean it again too. Maybe this time it'd stick. He knew what he had to do now, he knew what he had to face.
After work, of course, one had to clean. He traipsed across the area, cleaning up the aftermath of the fight. The grenade launcher again found its way around his neck. Ty's gun had been where he dropped it, near the rock. His bag, along with it Marceline's gun, the shovel, was still near the tree he'd left them. If he hadn't dropped the bag, the fight would've been over quicker, would've been less costly. Served him right for abandoning them.
Walking felt difficult now. He hoped to God it wasn't some sort of concussion, traumatic brain injury, something he could fade away from. He hoped as if he had any right to.
He'd stay awake for the night, he decided. Concussions were only bad if he fell asleep during them, right?
They were close enough to the end anyways. One, two days away, at most. The sleep he'd gotten last night would have to sustain him for the rest of his time.
Leaving the manor had been a mistake.
He went back into the woods to seek another shelter. He knew a place nearby.
((Diego Larrosa continues elsewhere))