(( Jonathan Gulley and Michael Crowe continued from Nightcall ))
So this is what giving up felt like? To just say 'fuck it' and let the powers that be choose for them. To be honest it felt kinda nice. They didn't have to worry about when their time came, they didn't know. There wasn't this clock they had to rush to beat. They didn't have to fear their friends all dying, because they were already dead. They didn't have to fear their own deaths, because in a way they were already dead when they got here. With all of that worrying thrown away, it meant they just had time.
And with that time they spend the entire day traveling the island, just talking about what had happened, and what had happened before the island. They reminisced, talked about their hopes and dreams, and for once, they felt happy. It felt normal. It wasn't real normalcy, but as long as it felt like it, that was all that mattered, right?
It was late at night, and they were sitting on the docks.
"I still don't get how you came across almost every player on this island, and the only one who did anything was Alex..." Jonathan couldn't help but wonder how Michael managed to do that. The stories he told him sounded so fake, like the bullshit he used to make up back at Kingman to impress him. Jon knew he was lying most of the time, but he liked to humor him. What surprised Jonathan was that this time, he believed him.
"Well, they're all fuckin' wimps, man, back home I'd kick all their asses if they talked to me like that, 'specially Min Jae, fuckin' lil punk ass Onceler, lookin'...punk bitch." Jonathan laughed at the Onceler comparison.
"Remember back at the skatepark? That shit you wanted me to scream at him?" Jonathan looked towards Michael, waiting for his response.
"Oh yeah, I was like, 'Hey Jon, tell the Onceler to fuck off." Jonathan laughed, "Yeah, I remember I told you to do it." Michael laughed, then cupped his hands over his mouth, yelling into the ocean.
"HEY ONCELER! EAT SHIT! GO SING 'HOW BAD CAN I BE' SOMEWHERE ELSE, BEEEYYYYIIIIITCH!"
Jonathan giggled, hoping Min Jae wasn't slowly sneaking up behind them right now.
"Ow, that hurt like hell to do." Jonathan looked up to see Michael sticking his tongue through his cheek slash.
"Eww, stop doing that shit! That's friggen gross!"
Michael laughed, then slid his tongue faster, grinning as he watched Jon cringe. "I'm not kissing you if you keep doing that."
"Fuck, that shit was funny. Darius was there too, shit he was rolling around like a retard when I said it."
Jonathan shook his head, "Yeah, he was kind of an asshole, but he was our friend." Michael shrugged. "Yeah, 'course he's an asshole, but he was our asshole, like shit, a whole third of the Men's Hair Club is gone without him."
Jonathan tilted his head at the Men's Hair Club line. "The fuck?"
"What? Men's Hair Club. Coz' us three had the best haircuts out of everyone else." Jonathan's face curled in disgust, "I wasn't told of this name, I didn't vote for it!" "Yeah? Neither did Darius." "So wait, Darius didn't vote for it, and I didn't vote for it. Why's it our name?"
"You want Darius picking a name for us?" "No, I don't want a name in the first place!"
Michael tilted his head back. "Coooome ooon! It'll be like The Warriors!" Michael shifted around, as if he was looking for something. "Shit, I uhhh... I can't find any bottles. Damn, that means I can't do the reference. Fuck."
Jonathan watched Michael search around, before he decided to change the subject. There was something he's always wondered. "Michael, why do you style your hair like that. No offence, but it looks like a bird's planted it's ass on your head."
Michael looked legitimately offended. "You didn't seem to think I was bad at hair styling when I helped spike your hair!" Jonathan laughed. "Well, it didn't stop me from being afraid you were gonna turn me into Duran Duran or something!"
"Still, I like my hair. It's better than those stupid coffee hipsters with their fuckin' undercuts, curly mustaches and beards, and shit."
"But Michael, you are a hipster." Jonathan poked his tongue out. Michael stuttered, dumbfounded. "N-no I'm not! I fuckin' hate hipsters!"
Jonathan didn't stutter when he replied. "That's what every hipster says."
Michael tried to justify himself. "But they all look the same! I hate facial hair, and I hate coffee!"
Jonathan was winning this fight. "Every hipster thinks their different!"
"But I'm not a fuckin' hipster!" Was all Michael could whine, he was practically defeated at this point.
Jonathan forced his voice into a deep rasp, mimicking Hagrid. "You're a hipster, Mikey!"
"Stop it!"
"...Hipster."
"AAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII- God, you're fuckin' mean!"
"It's funny! My parents were afraid of you, they thought you were the mean one!" Jonathan giggled. Michael's fake rage disappeared. "Yeah, my parents were worried about me hanging with you too."
Jonathan looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
Jon saw Mike's grin come back. "They thought... They thought that you were gonna turn me gay."
Jonathan felt a grin curl up on his own lips. "You know... our parents are probably watching us right now... Wanna. Wanna piss them off?"
Michael didn't even get a chance to react before Jonathan planted a kiss on him.
Real Human Being
and a real hero
(ENTER: Alex Tarquin from Lord of Lunatics)
So tired.
So weak, and so frail. He hadn't slept, except for those horrid moments of dark stillness after the shock knife had found his eye. He hadn't been able to eat. He hadn't stopped to rest.
He couldn't stop to rest. Somewhere on this island was Michael Crowe. Somewhere was vengeance for the eye he'd lost, and the screaming pain and the humiliation that had almost cost him everything. Somewhere out there was a man who he'd played paintball with. Whose company he'd honestly enjoyed. The man who had punched him in the face. The man whose finger he'd cut off. Somewhere out there was a man Alex could almost have called a friend, before...
It was wrong. It was so wrong, and so fucked up. They shouldn't be here. Rea shouldn't be dead. Will shouldn't have killed Darius. None of this should be...
But what choice did they have? The cold and clammy metal of the collar still pressed against his neck. Their masters commanded, and they had to obey. Only one survivor. Only one man who could be...
The Fittest. That was an idiotic concept, wasn't it? What did it even mean? What did any of it mean? Including the bullshit Alex had said, to convince the world he was dangerous. 'In that moment, you were weak and I was strong.' Jesus.
And what was the alternative? Rea is dead because you couldn't stop imagining yourself as a badass fighting your way through an action film. And what are you doing now? Wandering the island with weapons in hand in search of vengeance? You should be back in the Asylum, restringing your cans. That was the stage you prepared for yourself. A stage of safety. A place where you could pretend...
And what did your pretending get you? Crowe's down a finger with his cheek torn open. You've lost an eye. Will is hunting you. How many more people will your hurt in the name of...of...
There.
In the distance, two shapes entangled. He squinted with his one good eye, and found he recognized them both. His heart crawled into his throat. He could sneak up, just like Crowe had. He could...
But what would that say about him? About the kind of character he wanted to play?
can you do this?
"Am I interrupting!" he shouted, with that same strange, low rasp he'd come to like so much. The voice of the character he wanted to play. The voice of Alexander David Tarquin, the man who would be the Fittest.
whatever that means
So tired.
So weak, and so frail. He hadn't slept, except for those horrid moments of dark stillness after the shock knife had found his eye. He hadn't been able to eat. He hadn't stopped to rest.
He couldn't stop to rest. Somewhere on this island was Michael Crowe. Somewhere was vengeance for the eye he'd lost, and the screaming pain and the humiliation that had almost cost him everything. Somewhere out there was a man who he'd played paintball with. Whose company he'd honestly enjoyed. The man who had punched him in the face. The man whose finger he'd cut off. Somewhere out there was a man Alex could almost have called a friend, before...
It was wrong. It was so wrong, and so fucked up. They shouldn't be here. Rea shouldn't be dead. Will shouldn't have killed Darius. None of this should be...
But what choice did they have? The cold and clammy metal of the collar still pressed against his neck. Their masters commanded, and they had to obey. Only one survivor. Only one man who could be...
The Fittest. That was an idiotic concept, wasn't it? What did it even mean? What did any of it mean? Including the bullshit Alex had said, to convince the world he was dangerous. 'In that moment, you were weak and I was strong.' Jesus.
And what was the alternative? Rea is dead because you couldn't stop imagining yourself as a badass fighting your way through an action film. And what are you doing now? Wandering the island with weapons in hand in search of vengeance? You should be back in the Asylum, restringing your cans. That was the stage you prepared for yourself. A stage of safety. A place where you could pretend...
And what did your pretending get you? Crowe's down a finger with his cheek torn open. You've lost an eye. Will is hunting you. How many more people will your hurt in the name of...of...
There.
In the distance, two shapes entangled. He squinted with his one good eye, and found he recognized them both. His heart crawled into his throat. He could sneak up, just like Crowe had. He could...
But what would that say about him? About the kind of character he wanted to play?
can you do this?
"Am I interrupting!" he shouted, with that same strange, low rasp he'd come to like so much. The voice of the character he wanted to play. The voice of Alexander David Tarquin, the man who would be the Fittest.
whatever that means
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Five days.
It was five days since now. Five days of nothing but pain, fuck ups, misery, and... not much else.
But this...
This moment?
Michael always had lived in the moment. The past was full of shit he didn't want to remember, and he usually had no idea what was happening next. You wanna know something funny? If the future was like anything happening now, then all that pain all that suffering. Hell, throw out the future for a second, let's just talk right now.
All that shit that happened, he'd go through it all again if he had a choice.
Honestly though, he wished this moment would never end. If time froze right here right now, for eternity? Michael wouldn't even be mad. Of course this moment had to end though, they all do. It's just whether or not they'll end now or later.
After all, good times never last.
And this one was no exception once a ghost spoke up.
The world stopped for Jonathan when he heard a voice shout to them. It was familiar, and it shouldn't have scared him.
But it did. Jonathan turned his head and realized why.
It was Alex Tarquin. Michael said he killed him. He saw his face, and thanks to some nasty flashbacks of Hostel, he could understand why he thought that.
They stood up, and it felt like Jonathan had to help Michael up. He could feel his arm, he was shaking. His eyes were wide and twitching, and it looked like his lips didn't know if they wanted to smile or grimace. He was whispering something under his breath.
"You're dead... I. Killed. You... I killed you!"
This was it then?! Are you fucking serious?! This bastard was still alive! He was still alive, and now he had all of his weapons on him! After everything that's happened to him, and this bastard didn't die?!
"Fuck off, hemorrhoid face! I'm not playing your bullshit, go find someone else who gives a shit!"
He's made you a fool, destroyed your face, and nearly took your life. Now he's after you again to finish the job.
"I give up fucker! You hear me?! I'm through! You wanna go around cutting people, fine! You leave me out of it!"
Then who's next? Jonathan?
"You turn the fuck around right now! I made Will run his puss-ass away, and I already killed you once! Two on one, and I won! Even with all that crap on you, you won't beat me asshole! I'll stay to finish the job this time if you don't leave!"
Naaah. This petty fuck... He knew what he was planning, he knew. He knew what the intentions were with that smug fucking yell of his. He was gonna try to take Jon first, to take everything away from him. Out of reflex, he pushed Jonathan behind him.
"I'll give you a chance to turn around, I really don't wanna deal with your kiddie shit right now! Just walk away!"
Jonathan could hear it in Michael's voice. He knew Michael. Michael would never let his fear show. He knew when he was scared. That wasn't what made Jon scared though. What scared Jon about it, was that Michael couldn't hide it in his voice. Tarquin did all of this to him, and Jon knew Michael couldn't pretend it was no big deal. He could tell it hurt him worse to realize that it wasn't over.
That even after they tried to leave the island behind, it came back for them.
It was five days since now. Five days of nothing but pain, fuck ups, misery, and... not much else.
But this...
This moment?
Michael always had lived in the moment. The past was full of shit he didn't want to remember, and he usually had no idea what was happening next. You wanna know something funny? If the future was like anything happening now, then all that pain all that suffering. Hell, throw out the future for a second, let's just talk right now.
All that shit that happened, he'd go through it all again if he had a choice.
Honestly though, he wished this moment would never end. If time froze right here right now, for eternity? Michael wouldn't even be mad. Of course this moment had to end though, they all do. It's just whether or not they'll end now or later.
After all, good times never last.
And this one was no exception once a ghost spoke up.
The world stopped for Jonathan when he heard a voice shout to them. It was familiar, and it shouldn't have scared him.
But it did. Jonathan turned his head and realized why.
It was Alex Tarquin. Michael said he killed him. He saw his face, and thanks to some nasty flashbacks of Hostel, he could understand why he thought that.
They stood up, and it felt like Jonathan had to help Michael up. He could feel his arm, he was shaking. His eyes were wide and twitching, and it looked like his lips didn't know if they wanted to smile or grimace. He was whispering something under his breath.
"You're dead... I. Killed. You... I killed you!"
This was it then?! Are you fucking serious?! This bastard was still alive! He was still alive, and now he had all of his weapons on him! After everything that's happened to him, and this bastard didn't die?!
"Fuck off, hemorrhoid face! I'm not playing your bullshit, go find someone else who gives a shit!"
He's made you a fool, destroyed your face, and nearly took your life. Now he's after you again to finish the job.
"I give up fucker! You hear me?! I'm through! You wanna go around cutting people, fine! You leave me out of it!"
Then who's next? Jonathan?
"You turn the fuck around right now! I made Will run his puss-ass away, and I already killed you once! Two on one, and I won! Even with all that crap on you, you won't beat me asshole! I'll stay to finish the job this time if you don't leave!"
Naaah. This petty fuck... He knew what he was planning, he knew. He knew what the intentions were with that smug fucking yell of his. He was gonna try to take Jon first, to take everything away from him. Out of reflex, he pushed Jonathan behind him.
"I'll give you a chance to turn around, I really don't wanna deal with your kiddie shit right now! Just walk away!"
Jonathan could hear it in Michael's voice. He knew Michael. Michael would never let his fear show. He knew when he was scared. That wasn't what made Jon scared though. What scared Jon about it, was that Michael couldn't hide it in his voice. Tarquin did all of this to him, and Jon knew Michael couldn't pretend it was no big deal. He could tell it hurt him worse to realize that it wasn't over.
That even after they tried to leave the island behind, it came back for them.
It must have been a nice moment. Peace, solace, comfort. Not to mention a little bit of lust. God, Alex could use some lust, but who would ever want to? With a killer whose face looked like this?
And who had done it to him? Michael Crowe, with his lips pressed against another man. Michael Crowe, with the ragged stitches on his cheek that Alex had carved into him. Michael Crowe, his late-night paintball buddy.
In light of this new information, that feels suggestive.
But in spite of how tired he was, in spite of his meandering, envious thoughts, he couldn't help but take satisfaction in the look of horror on Crowe's mangled face, the mumbled protests that Alex couldn't see but could almost understand. The disbelief. The feeble inability to understand.
God, that made him feel powerful. Made him feel like a powerful monster, feared and hated. Nothing worse than a monster you can't kill, right?
"Fuck off, hemorrhoid face!" Crowe screamed, and it was a weak voice, trembling and terrified. The insults felt hollow.
Alex kept walking. Crowe reared up, like a cat puffing itself up to look bigger.
"I give up fucker! You hear me?! I'm through! You wanna go around cutting people, fine! You leave me out of it!"
Closer.
"You turn the fuck around right now! I made Will run his puss-ass away, and I already killed you once! Two on one, and I won! Even with all that crap on you, you won't beat me asshole! I'll stay to finish the job this time if you don't leave!"
Closer. And then...
Crowe pushed his friend--his lover?--behind him. Was that...was that Johnathan Gulley? Alex came to a stop, staring between the two of them. And when Crowe spoke next, the fear in his voice had changed. There was something else there. Something of Will's rage in the warehouse. A fierce, grieving desperation.
"I'll give you a chance to turn around, I really don't wanna deal with your kiddie shit right now! Just walk away!"
Alex stopped where he was, and held himself perfectly still, even though his arms ached with the weapons. Slowly, he let them drape to his side. He let himself look a little more human. A little more mortal.
"I'm tired, Crowe," Alex said. "I'm very, very tired of you. That story you're telling. That story you won't stop telling. You struck the first blow, remember? Every time. You hit me, when I dropped my guard. You snuck up behind me, because you didn't have the guts to face me like a man. And you turned on me when Will was trying to kill. Us. Both."
He dropped the axe to the ground. It clattered against the boards of the dock.
"You want so badly to be the hero," Alex said, and with every word he became angrier and angrier. "But you lash out in fear because you cannot make your story stick. You cried in the dark, because you were afraid. And when I hesitated, just for a moment..." He raised his free hand, and tapped the burnt flesh of his eye. It felt crinkly, like wrinkled paper. "A valuable lesson, Crowe. Mercy's a weakness. Hesitation is a weakness."
"When you were unarmed I did nothing," Alex spat. "And for that you hurt me. When I had the opportunity to take the coward's way and stab you when your guard was down, I defended you and I called out my challenge. You are the worst kind of coward, Crowe. The kind who doesn't hesitate to throw another man to the wolves if it saves his skin."
He wasn't sure he was acting anymore. This didn't feel like someone playing pretend. This felt real. And that dangerous rasp in his voice felt good. The anger and pain were not diminished, but they were somehow alloyed together into something cold, precise, and certain. For the first time since he'd reached this place, he almost felt good.
He kicked the axe towards Crowe. It slid several feet, and gave to a stop perhaps six feet in front of Crowe.
"Pick it up," Alex said.
And who had done it to him? Michael Crowe, with his lips pressed against another man. Michael Crowe, with the ragged stitches on his cheek that Alex had carved into him. Michael Crowe, his late-night paintball buddy.
In light of this new information, that feels suggestive.
But in spite of how tired he was, in spite of his meandering, envious thoughts, he couldn't help but take satisfaction in the look of horror on Crowe's mangled face, the mumbled protests that Alex couldn't see but could almost understand. The disbelief. The feeble inability to understand.
God, that made him feel powerful. Made him feel like a powerful monster, feared and hated. Nothing worse than a monster you can't kill, right?
"Fuck off, hemorrhoid face!" Crowe screamed, and it was a weak voice, trembling and terrified. The insults felt hollow.
Alex kept walking. Crowe reared up, like a cat puffing itself up to look bigger.
"I give up fucker! You hear me?! I'm through! You wanna go around cutting people, fine! You leave me out of it!"
Closer.
"You turn the fuck around right now! I made Will run his puss-ass away, and I already killed you once! Two on one, and I won! Even with all that crap on you, you won't beat me asshole! I'll stay to finish the job this time if you don't leave!"
Closer. And then...
Crowe pushed his friend--his lover?--behind him. Was that...was that Johnathan Gulley? Alex came to a stop, staring between the two of them. And when Crowe spoke next, the fear in his voice had changed. There was something else there. Something of Will's rage in the warehouse. A fierce, grieving desperation.
"I'll give you a chance to turn around, I really don't wanna deal with your kiddie shit right now! Just walk away!"
Alex stopped where he was, and held himself perfectly still, even though his arms ached with the weapons. Slowly, he let them drape to his side. He let himself look a little more human. A little more mortal.
"I'm tired, Crowe," Alex said. "I'm very, very tired of you. That story you're telling. That story you won't stop telling. You struck the first blow, remember? Every time. You hit me, when I dropped my guard. You snuck up behind me, because you didn't have the guts to face me like a man. And you turned on me when Will was trying to kill. Us. Both."
He dropped the axe to the ground. It clattered against the boards of the dock.
"You want so badly to be the hero," Alex said, and with every word he became angrier and angrier. "But you lash out in fear because you cannot make your story stick. You cried in the dark, because you were afraid. And when I hesitated, just for a moment..." He raised his free hand, and tapped the burnt flesh of his eye. It felt crinkly, like wrinkled paper. "A valuable lesson, Crowe. Mercy's a weakness. Hesitation is a weakness."
"When you were unarmed I did nothing," Alex spat. "And for that you hurt me. When I had the opportunity to take the coward's way and stab you when your guard was down, I defended you and I called out my challenge. You are the worst kind of coward, Crowe. The kind who doesn't hesitate to throw another man to the wolves if it saves his skin."
He wasn't sure he was acting anymore. This didn't feel like someone playing pretend. This felt real. And that dangerous rasp in his voice felt good. The anger and pain were not diminished, but they were somehow alloyed together into something cold, precise, and certain. For the first time since he'd reached this place, he almost felt good.
He kicked the axe towards Crowe. It slid several feet, and gave to a stop perhaps six feet in front of Crowe.
"Pick it up," Alex said.
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
"Bullshit..."
Jonathan watched as Alex called Michael a coward, as he ranted on about striking first. How it somehow made him the good one.
"Bullshit..."
He looked back and forth between the two. At first, it seemed like only Alex was getting angrier. Then he saw Mike's face twitching, that rapid breathing that was so familiar. He's seen Michael fight back in Kingman, and one of two things happened.
He'd either sucker punch them when they didn't see it coming and be done with it, or if they did see it coming, he wouldn't let them off the ground.
Jonathan was sure Michael was gonna choose the latter.
"Bullshit! You fuckin' hypocrite! You wanna talk about honor and cowardice or whatever the fuck it is you jack it to, but your only fuckin' kill was a damn girl with nothing on her! That's all you did! You hadn't fought anyone else, hadn't beat anyone else either! You're not some fuckin' warrior, you're not a badass! You're forgettin' each time you got me I wasn't looking at you! I was focused on someone else!"
Jonathan watched Michael practically explode on Alex. He told him everything he thought about Alex's idea of 'cowardice'.
"You wanna play the big bad wolf then go ahead, I grew the fuck up out of it! But I want no fuckin' part, you hear me? I gave that shit up because it was pointless, but it looks like you're too stupid to realize it either!
'Oooooh look at me, Big-Bad fuckin' Tarquin, here! I killed one little girl and now I'm hot shit!' Fuck off! Nobody knows your goddamn name, Mr. one kill! Someone like Alvaro, Nancy, or Isabel would eat you and shit you back out you fuckin' wimp!"
Michael cocked his head, before unzipping his jacket.
"I quit that shit because I knew it was pointless, I'd rather spend my time with the ones I care about! You got anyone you care about, Alex? How about Jeremy? What happened to him, huh? You don't got anyone do you?
Just yourself.
That's all you got, ain't it? It's just you. That's why you gotta play like that, you're afraid nobody's gonna mourn you, so you want people to remember you. Alright, fine, I'll get people to remember you."
Michael took off his jacket and handed it to Jonathan. It didn't take but a second later for Jon to stop him.
"No, what the hell are you doing?! After everything, you're just going to go back?"
"I don't have a choice. If I don't, he'll go after you. That's the way he plays, the fuckin' hypocrite."
"You're hurt though, you might not win this!"
"So's he. I scrambled his brains with a shock knife. That's why half of him looks like a baked flatbread."
Jonathan saw Michael crack a smile, it helped to ease his worrying, but not by much.
"You're really gonna fight him?"
"Nah. I'ma dominate him."
Michael turned back to Alex. He began walking forwards, pulling his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket. He was halfway to putting them on, before he realized he didn't need them anymore. He didn't need the mask anymore.
Oh... and it was also some time after midnight. That too.
The shades made a small clink sound as the hit the docks while Michael walked past them.
"Maybe you're right though. Maybe I am a coward. I beat Nancy, I beat Alessio, and I beat you. Didn't kill none of you. Guess I was afraid of getting blood on my hands, right? Maybe I might be to scared to kill you now.
Don't matter though. I'll just pop your other eye out and let Will do the rest for me, okay? I dunno, depends on how I feel I guess. Y'know you could always leave. Ain't no shame in changing your ways if it's for the better."
He grinned watching Alex's good eye twitch. That one got him. Heh.
He stood above his axe.
"You gonna let Jon leave if we do this? He don't need to see what I'ma bout to do to you."
Jonathan watched as Alex called Michael a coward, as he ranted on about striking first. How it somehow made him the good one.
"Bullshit..."
He looked back and forth between the two. At first, it seemed like only Alex was getting angrier. Then he saw Mike's face twitching, that rapid breathing that was so familiar. He's seen Michael fight back in Kingman, and one of two things happened.
He'd either sucker punch them when they didn't see it coming and be done with it, or if they did see it coming, he wouldn't let them off the ground.
Jonathan was sure Michael was gonna choose the latter.
"Bullshit! You fuckin' hypocrite! You wanna talk about honor and cowardice or whatever the fuck it is you jack it to, but your only fuckin' kill was a damn girl with nothing on her! That's all you did! You hadn't fought anyone else, hadn't beat anyone else either! You're not some fuckin' warrior, you're not a badass! You're forgettin' each time you got me I wasn't looking at you! I was focused on someone else!"
Jonathan watched Michael practically explode on Alex. He told him everything he thought about Alex's idea of 'cowardice'.
"You wanna play the big bad wolf then go ahead, I grew the fuck up out of it! But I want no fuckin' part, you hear me? I gave that shit up because it was pointless, but it looks like you're too stupid to realize it either!
'Oooooh look at me, Big-Bad fuckin' Tarquin, here! I killed one little girl and now I'm hot shit!' Fuck off! Nobody knows your goddamn name, Mr. one kill! Someone like Alvaro, Nancy, or Isabel would eat you and shit you back out you fuckin' wimp!"
Michael cocked his head, before unzipping his jacket.
"I quit that shit because I knew it was pointless, I'd rather spend my time with the ones I care about! You got anyone you care about, Alex? How about Jeremy? What happened to him, huh? You don't got anyone do you?
Just yourself.
That's all you got, ain't it? It's just you. That's why you gotta play like that, you're afraid nobody's gonna mourn you, so you want people to remember you. Alright, fine, I'll get people to remember you."
Michael took off his jacket and handed it to Jonathan. It didn't take but a second later for Jon to stop him.
"No, what the hell are you doing?! After everything, you're just going to go back?"
"I don't have a choice. If I don't, he'll go after you. That's the way he plays, the fuckin' hypocrite."
"You're hurt though, you might not win this!"
"So's he. I scrambled his brains with a shock knife. That's why half of him looks like a baked flatbread."
Jonathan saw Michael crack a smile, it helped to ease his worrying, but not by much.
"You're really gonna fight him?"
"Nah. I'ma dominate him."
Michael turned back to Alex. He began walking forwards, pulling his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket. He was halfway to putting them on, before he realized he didn't need them anymore. He didn't need the mask anymore.
Oh... and it was also some time after midnight. That too.
The shades made a small clink sound as the hit the docks while Michael walked past them.
"Maybe you're right though. Maybe I am a coward. I beat Nancy, I beat Alessio, and I beat you. Didn't kill none of you. Guess I was afraid of getting blood on my hands, right? Maybe I might be to scared to kill you now.
Don't matter though. I'll just pop your other eye out and let Will do the rest for me, okay? I dunno, depends on how I feel I guess. Y'know you could always leave. Ain't no shame in changing your ways if it's for the better."
He grinned watching Alex's good eye twitch. That one got him. Heh.
He stood above his axe.
"You gonna let Jon leave if we do this? He don't need to see what I'ma bout to do to you."
So, so tired.
So, so angry.
He was swaying on his feet, with the surf crashing in nearby. His one good eye was wide to stave off his crushing exhaustion. He was sore to the goddamn marrow, and Crowe wouldn't. Stop. Talking.
The same problem, over and over again. Crowe, refusing to fit into the narrative. Crowe, refusing to see his own cowardice. Crowe, shaking with fear and spewing bullshit every which way.
And of course, it didn't help that he risked showing Alex's hand, and making him look weak and hollow.
"The difference," Alex said. "Is that I don't pretend I didn't kill her. I don't pretend that it wasn't my hand that did the deed. And I don't pretend there's any virtue in it."
He pointed with the machete. "I saw your face, Crowe. You thought you'd killed me. Don't pretend your weakness is kindness."
That was the line, of course: to make Crowe look like he was the one creating fantasies, not Alex. But was it a fantasy anymore? The fire he felt licking in his belly, this eager trembling in his hand. And still Crowe wouldn't stop. Parting jabs about his other eye, and about leaving him for Will to find. Alex couldn't help it: his good eye widened, with the thought of another pain like that.
But then Crowe was asking about Jon. Even after he'd already asked about Jeremy.
No mercy. No hesitation.
"You can't save him, Crowe," Alex said. "Not from what we might do to him. Not from what he might have to do."
But he looked at Gulley, trying so badly to keep Crowe cool. Trying so badly to be better. A little like Jeremy. And...and the last time he'd killed someone, their avenger had nearly put him in the ground.
"I won't go looking for him," Alex said.
So, so angry.
He was swaying on his feet, with the surf crashing in nearby. His one good eye was wide to stave off his crushing exhaustion. He was sore to the goddamn marrow, and Crowe wouldn't. Stop. Talking.
The same problem, over and over again. Crowe, refusing to fit into the narrative. Crowe, refusing to see his own cowardice. Crowe, shaking with fear and spewing bullshit every which way.
And of course, it didn't help that he risked showing Alex's hand, and making him look weak and hollow.
"The difference," Alex said. "Is that I don't pretend I didn't kill her. I don't pretend that it wasn't my hand that did the deed. And I don't pretend there's any virtue in it."
He pointed with the machete. "I saw your face, Crowe. You thought you'd killed me. Don't pretend your weakness is kindness."
That was the line, of course: to make Crowe look like he was the one creating fantasies, not Alex. But was it a fantasy anymore? The fire he felt licking in his belly, this eager trembling in his hand. And still Crowe wouldn't stop. Parting jabs about his other eye, and about leaving him for Will to find. Alex couldn't help it: his good eye widened, with the thought of another pain like that.
But then Crowe was asking about Jon. Even after he'd already asked about Jeremy.
No mercy. No hesitation.
"You can't save him, Crowe," Alex said. "Not from what we might do to him. Not from what he might have to do."
But he looked at Gulley, trying so badly to keep Crowe cool. Trying so badly to be better. A little like Jeremy. And...and the last time he'd killed someone, their avenger had nearly put him in the ground.
"I won't go looking for him," Alex said.
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
This was it then.
"Yeah, that was different, that was me or you. Like it is now. It helped, kinda. Made me realize this whole thing is pointless, being so close to death. It was either me or you, and either one didn't matter at that point. Now... Now it does."
This fucker wanted to talk about differences? Why they were the same but not. Why Alex was the villain but also the hero because 'muh honor'. That non-existent honor he's got a real fetish for. The same honor that lets him cut someone on the ground, or target the defenseless first. At least Michael gave him a warning before he attacked him. He could've killed him three times before today. He didn't.
The difference was, was that even though Michael used underhanded tactics, even though he intimidated, interrogated, and insulted his way here, he did it for his own idea of justice. Sure, it got corrupted along the way, but the difference was Michael realized it. He gave up, because he wouldn't let this island change him. It wasn't gonna take who he was away from him. I think, therefore I am, and all that jazz.
Maybe, maybe he was lying to himself a little bit. He gave up because spending his remaining time left with Jonathan was a better alternative for him than dying alone in some shithole. He had his own selfish reasons, but really, what difference would it have made. If he stayed on the road he was on he'd have died horribly. Maybe he left because he thought he could find some peace in his last days. Not like it mattered though. He left the garbage, but it was right there waiting for him in the end. Cue M.O.O.N- Dust and the chicken reaper telling him he fucked up or some shit.
Alex said Jonathan could leave. If there was anything Michael could take comfort in, it was that.
Jonathan protested almost immediately.
"No! No, Michael, I'm not leaving you here, you're coming with me! You tell him to fuck off, to find someone else to kill!"
He grabbed Michael by the arm, he wanted him to turn around, to look at him. He held his hand, and only then realized his right pinkie was missing.
"Jon... It's gotta be this way-" "No it's not, you're just saying that because you're afraid of what's gonna happen to me! You shouldn't, we know it's over anyways, we're as good as dead, you don't have to do this for me! W-we could just... we could turn around right now, drown ourselves in the ocean and not even give him the satisfaction for it!"
"Jon... I know I told you I gave up, but... This last day we had. I'd go through everything again ten times just for that one moment again. If I gotta fight one more time to do this again, to be with you again, I think it's a fair trade, don't you? I'm not afraid, I won't lose. T-this ain't over."
"Then why are you crying? You're afraid you're never going to see me again aren't you. Michael, we don't have to do this..."
"I-I know we don't. But I do... I've given everything for you, and if you think I won't do it again, you're wrong. It don't matter if I die here, I've been dead for five days now. Today though, the day I spend with you, it was my one day alive. I've been dead for five days, and today I live. You've given me everything I could have ever wanted. You were worth it all."
"Stop it! Jus-just stop with the action movie bullshit! You're giving him exactly what he wants! Please Mike... Don't leave me."
"I. I-I'll never leave you. No matter what happens tonight, I'll never leave you. Don't worry Jon... It's just one last fight. Not for justice, or freedom, or anything we'll never see again. This one's for us."
Jonathan realized he wasn't going to get to him. He walked in front of Michael just for one last thing.
It was another kiss.
"I'll wait for you."
Jonathan ran away, not looking back.
Michael stood unmoving. He didn't even get to tell him he loved him.
Here he stood, tears dripping down his eyes, torn up mouth quivering, he tried to smile. It didn't work. That was his last chance at happiness, and it was gone.
There were nothing wrong with emotions. It was okay to be afraid, and okay to feel sad. You wanna know what courage is? You get up and fight even if you're scared of what'll happen if you do, because you don't give up. And if you turn that sadness into anger, you're putting your feelings into a productive use. He wanted to see Jon again? Well then he'll fight for it. He'll give this fucker all he's got because he won't let Alex take away everything from him. Not now, not when he's finally found some semblance of peace. Alex wants a fight? Then he'll fucking get one.
"Lemme tell you something, now that he's gone. You talk all this shit about differences, but let's go to the similarities. I'll tell you a big one. I see two dumbass glory hounds facing each other on a dead end road, ready to tear each other apart for some chance at glory or justice or what the fuck ever. No matter what happens though, neither of them are gonna get what they want. You wanna see the difference? One of them was smart enough to realize it, but he realized it too late. The other won't hear any of it."
Michael took two steps back, drawing a line on the docks with his axe. He wouldn't move past this spot. He didn't care to hide the fact he was crying. Hell, this was the first time Alex saw his eyes since he woke up on the island. It was fitting really. If he went out, he wasn't going out as a facade. He was leaving as him, on his own terms.
"I've got no regrets..."
He pointed his axe at Alex.
"Let's dance, fucker."
"Yeah, that was different, that was me or you. Like it is now. It helped, kinda. Made me realize this whole thing is pointless, being so close to death. It was either me or you, and either one didn't matter at that point. Now... Now it does."
This fucker wanted to talk about differences? Why they were the same but not. Why Alex was the villain but also the hero because 'muh honor'. That non-existent honor he's got a real fetish for. The same honor that lets him cut someone on the ground, or target the defenseless first. At least Michael gave him a warning before he attacked him. He could've killed him three times before today. He didn't.
The difference was, was that even though Michael used underhanded tactics, even though he intimidated, interrogated, and insulted his way here, he did it for his own idea of justice. Sure, it got corrupted along the way, but the difference was Michael realized it. He gave up, because he wouldn't let this island change him. It wasn't gonna take who he was away from him. I think, therefore I am, and all that jazz.
Maybe, maybe he was lying to himself a little bit. He gave up because spending his remaining time left with Jonathan was a better alternative for him than dying alone in some shithole. He had his own selfish reasons, but really, what difference would it have made. If he stayed on the road he was on he'd have died horribly. Maybe he left because he thought he could find some peace in his last days. Not like it mattered though. He left the garbage, but it was right there waiting for him in the end. Cue M.O.O.N- Dust and the chicken reaper telling him he fucked up or some shit.
Alex said Jonathan could leave. If there was anything Michael could take comfort in, it was that.
Jonathan protested almost immediately.
"No! No, Michael, I'm not leaving you here, you're coming with me! You tell him to fuck off, to find someone else to kill!"
He grabbed Michael by the arm, he wanted him to turn around, to look at him. He held his hand, and only then realized his right pinkie was missing.
"Jon... It's gotta be this way-" "No it's not, you're just saying that because you're afraid of what's gonna happen to me! You shouldn't, we know it's over anyways, we're as good as dead, you don't have to do this for me! W-we could just... we could turn around right now, drown ourselves in the ocean and not even give him the satisfaction for it!"
"Jon... I know I told you I gave up, but... This last day we had. I'd go through everything again ten times just for that one moment again. If I gotta fight one more time to do this again, to be with you again, I think it's a fair trade, don't you? I'm not afraid, I won't lose. T-this ain't over."
"Then why are you crying? You're afraid you're never going to see me again aren't you. Michael, we don't have to do this..."
"I-I know we don't. But I do... I've given everything for you, and if you think I won't do it again, you're wrong. It don't matter if I die here, I've been dead for five days now. Today though, the day I spend with you, it was my one day alive. I've been dead for five days, and today I live. You've given me everything I could have ever wanted. You were worth it all."
"Stop it! Jus-just stop with the action movie bullshit! You're giving him exactly what he wants! Please Mike... Don't leave me."
"I. I-I'll never leave you. No matter what happens tonight, I'll never leave you. Don't worry Jon... It's just one last fight. Not for justice, or freedom, or anything we'll never see again. This one's for us."
Jonathan realized he wasn't going to get to him. He walked in front of Michael just for one last thing.
It was another kiss.
"I'll wait for you."
Jonathan ran away, not looking back.
Michael stood unmoving. He didn't even get to tell him he loved him.
Here he stood, tears dripping down his eyes, torn up mouth quivering, he tried to smile. It didn't work. That was his last chance at happiness, and it was gone.
There were nothing wrong with emotions. It was okay to be afraid, and okay to feel sad. You wanna know what courage is? You get up and fight even if you're scared of what'll happen if you do, because you don't give up. And if you turn that sadness into anger, you're putting your feelings into a productive use. He wanted to see Jon again? Well then he'll fight for it. He'll give this fucker all he's got because he won't let Alex take away everything from him. Not now, not when he's finally found some semblance of peace. Alex wants a fight? Then he'll fucking get one.
"Lemme tell you something, now that he's gone. You talk all this shit about differences, but let's go to the similarities. I'll tell you a big one. I see two dumbass glory hounds facing each other on a dead end road, ready to tear each other apart for some chance at glory or justice or what the fuck ever. No matter what happens though, neither of them are gonna get what they want. You wanna see the difference? One of them was smart enough to realize it, but he realized it too late. The other won't hear any of it."
Michael took two steps back, drawing a line on the docks with his axe. He wouldn't move past this spot. He didn't care to hide the fact he was crying. Hell, this was the first time Alex saw his eyes since he woke up on the island. It was fitting really. If he went out, he wasn't going out as a facade. He was leaving as him, on his own terms.
"I've got no regrets..."
He pointed his axe at Alex.
"Let's dance, fucker."
He waited.
He waited in silence with watching eyes. He let the drama unfold. He let the story reach its end.
The question is, why? Why not move, and end the fight? Why not move and cut them both down, if you are to be a villain? Why let Crowe shoot his mouth off so much?
But the answer's obvious. They deserve to. Just like Jeremy deserved to find his friends, just like Alex couldn't quite bring himself to hide away from Hazel and Jordan. There are many stories on this island, and Alex cannot quite bear to cut this one short.
That, and he's tired as hell. He's lost an eye. He hasn't stopped moving since the wee hours of the morning, hasn't stopped looking for Crowe. He's barely keeping his feet now, and he knows Crowe is just as weak as he is but is he okay with this? Is he okay with risking everything on this idiotic duel? It'll be a fine spectacle, but it's his life on the line, it's...
Oh.
Maybe the answer wasn't so obvious. Maybe Alex is here to die. Maybe he's here because that's the fitting end to the villain, one last jump-scare before the credits fade away, and now Crowe gets to ride off into the sunset with Gulley, bloody but triumphant, and somehow they'll break this whole game wide open and save each other and Alex will be the last great obstacle standing in their way.
And are you okay with that, Alex?
They kissed, and Gulley ran. Alex felt something pang against his heart. A kiss like that. A companion like that.
Crowe turned to face him, axe in hand. Crowe, his paintball buddy, his could-have-been-friend if not for this nightmare, if not for cutting blades and lost fingers, lost skin, lost faces, lost knives. Crowe, spouting still-more wink-at-the-camera come-on-buddy-just-admit-it bullshit.
But the scene had played out. The stakes were set. And Alex couldn't see out of his left eye. Crowe had taken that from him, as repayment for Alex's momentary hesitation. Crowe had tried, over and over, to take everything from him.
So Alex started to walk, his machete in front of him, his stance shifted as though he were about to fence with the man in front of him. Another game of make-believe, another mock-battle, pretense playing at reality. But their blades were sharp, weren't they? They'd both felt their sting.
The play was very real now. And Alexander David Tarquin was ready.
"You talk too much, Crowe" Alex said.
He waited in silence with watching eyes. He let the drama unfold. He let the story reach its end.
The question is, why? Why not move, and end the fight? Why not move and cut them both down, if you are to be a villain? Why let Crowe shoot his mouth off so much?
But the answer's obvious. They deserve to. Just like Jeremy deserved to find his friends, just like Alex couldn't quite bring himself to hide away from Hazel and Jordan. There are many stories on this island, and Alex cannot quite bear to cut this one short.
That, and he's tired as hell. He's lost an eye. He hasn't stopped moving since the wee hours of the morning, hasn't stopped looking for Crowe. He's barely keeping his feet now, and he knows Crowe is just as weak as he is but is he okay with this? Is he okay with risking everything on this idiotic duel? It'll be a fine spectacle, but it's his life on the line, it's...
Oh.
Maybe the answer wasn't so obvious. Maybe Alex is here to die. Maybe he's here because that's the fitting end to the villain, one last jump-scare before the credits fade away, and now Crowe gets to ride off into the sunset with Gulley, bloody but triumphant, and somehow they'll break this whole game wide open and save each other and Alex will be the last great obstacle standing in their way.
And are you okay with that, Alex?
They kissed, and Gulley ran. Alex felt something pang against his heart. A kiss like that. A companion like that.
Crowe turned to face him, axe in hand. Crowe, his paintball buddy, his could-have-been-friend if not for this nightmare, if not for cutting blades and lost fingers, lost skin, lost faces, lost knives. Crowe, spouting still-more wink-at-the-camera come-on-buddy-just-admit-it bullshit.
But the scene had played out. The stakes were set. And Alex couldn't see out of his left eye. Crowe had taken that from him, as repayment for Alex's momentary hesitation. Crowe had tried, over and over, to take everything from him.
So Alex started to walk, his machete in front of him, his stance shifted as though he were about to fence with the man in front of him. Another game of make-believe, another mock-battle, pretense playing at reality. But their blades were sharp, weren't they? They'd both felt their sting.
The play was very real now. And Alexander David Tarquin was ready.
"You talk too much, Crowe" Alex said.
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Jonathan continued forwards into the woods. They mentioned that if they got separated, they'd regroup at the vehicle depot. He was afraid for Mike, but it's what he wanted.
He had hope though. He looked at the emblem on the back of Michael's jacket. He's been through worse than this. He'll make it out alright.
He continued to move through the forests until he heard a faint echo.
He froze in his tracks, unsure of who it came from. He wanted to turn around, he wanted to see.
He forced himself not to, he had hope.
That's all he was running on at that point.
(( Jonathan Gulley continued elsewhere))
Unbeknownst to him, however.
Michael Crowe was killed in his fight against Alex Tarquin.
B011- Michael Crowe- ELIMINATED
He had hope though. He looked at the emblem on the back of Michael's jacket. He's been through worse than this. He'll make it out alright.
He continued to move through the forests until he heard a faint echo.
He froze in his tracks, unsure of who it came from. He wanted to turn around, he wanted to see.
He forced himself not to, he had hope.
That's all he was running on at that point.
(( Jonathan Gulley continued elsewhere))
Unbeknownst to him, however.
Michael Crowe was killed in his fight against Alex Tarquin.
B011- Michael Crowe- ELIMINATED
The haft of the axe quivered in his hands. Or was it that his hands were quivering, and the axe was shaking with him? Hard to tell anymore, where he ended and the axe began.
He stumbled backwards, staring down at Crowe's corpse. Corpse, absolutely: the machete was buried in his belly, and the blade of the axe was sunk deep into his throat. Alex raised a hand to his stinging face, another bruise from Crowe (opposite side this time, symmetry and bookends, symbolism, ha!).
He stared at the man he'd killed. No, be honest: the man he'd hunted.
Cameras are still rolling.
"The real difference between us," Alex rasped. "Is that when I kill someone, they don't get back up."
Was that badass? Was it the taunt of a merciless psycho, or the desperate plea of a broken man? Which vision of him were the cameras seeing?
The one that's still alive.
And did living require you to hunt down Crowe? Did it require you to cut off his finger, slice open his cheek, and leave him gutted on the docks.
Fucking god damn it I should have used that as my line.
The thought shot across his consciousness and he giggled. He raised his hand to his mouth at once, embarrassed by the sound, but then he thought better of it. A little madness wasn't a bad thing. A little madness would make him seem that much more terrifying. A little madness, like giggling again, and raising it to a low, throaty chuckle, and it hurts your sore throat which gives it a nice guttural edge and look at you now, Alex, with the marks from Crowe's last stand on your skin and a man you hunted dead at your feet. No turning back now. You're a killer in earnest, aren't you? And a thorough one, too.
He walked away from Crowe, and almost tripped over the mancatcher that lay fallen on the ground, when he had flung it at Crowe when the other man had moved in fro the kill. His ribs ached where Crowe had kicked him, and knocked the machete from his grasp. A fight. A mad fight. Death hanging on every instant.
Gone now. Alex was still standing. Minus an eye, but still alive. His anger was dying, but guilt did not rush in to fill the void. He felt a peculiar hollow clarity. He was so tired, and so sore, and so awake, and so...
So what? What was the word?
He made his way to the beach, and dropped his pants. He peeled the sticky leather sleeves off, and left them in the sand. He peeled the hairband from his pony tail, and placed it carefully atop his socks and shoes. He walked into the cold ocean, with the moon barely visible through thickening clouds.
Later, he would gather his things against. He would clean his bloodstained weapons (how well he couldn't say). He would return to the warehouse where Rea had died, and find new clothes, and do away with the old. He would find a safe place, and sleep the sleep of the dead.
But that was later. For now, Alexander David Tarquin bathed in stinging saltwater, rinsed it through his hair, splashed it against his face, submerged himself and imagined some half-hidden beast rising from the deep to take him, but what beast was his equal now? What monster would trump his?
Crowe was dead. Alex was alive. And for the first time since Rea had died on his blade, Alex felt alright.
(EXIT: Alexander David Tarquin)
He stumbled backwards, staring down at Crowe's corpse. Corpse, absolutely: the machete was buried in his belly, and the blade of the axe was sunk deep into his throat. Alex raised a hand to his stinging face, another bruise from Crowe (opposite side this time, symmetry and bookends, symbolism, ha!).
He stared at the man he'd killed. No, be honest: the man he'd hunted.
Cameras are still rolling.
"The real difference between us," Alex rasped. "Is that when I kill someone, they don't get back up."
Was that badass? Was it the taunt of a merciless psycho, or the desperate plea of a broken man? Which vision of him were the cameras seeing?
The one that's still alive.
And did living require you to hunt down Crowe? Did it require you to cut off his finger, slice open his cheek, and leave him gutted on the docks.
Fucking god damn it I should have used that as my line.
The thought shot across his consciousness and he giggled. He raised his hand to his mouth at once, embarrassed by the sound, but then he thought better of it. A little madness wasn't a bad thing. A little madness would make him seem that much more terrifying. A little madness, like giggling again, and raising it to a low, throaty chuckle, and it hurts your sore throat which gives it a nice guttural edge and look at you now, Alex, with the marks from Crowe's last stand on your skin and a man you hunted dead at your feet. No turning back now. You're a killer in earnest, aren't you? And a thorough one, too.
He walked away from Crowe, and almost tripped over the mancatcher that lay fallen on the ground, when he had flung it at Crowe when the other man had moved in fro the kill. His ribs ached where Crowe had kicked him, and knocked the machete from his grasp. A fight. A mad fight. Death hanging on every instant.
Gone now. Alex was still standing. Minus an eye, but still alive. His anger was dying, but guilt did not rush in to fill the void. He felt a peculiar hollow clarity. He was so tired, and so sore, and so awake, and so...
So what? What was the word?
He made his way to the beach, and dropped his pants. He peeled the sticky leather sleeves off, and left them in the sand. He peeled the hairband from his pony tail, and placed it carefully atop his socks and shoes. He walked into the cold ocean, with the moon barely visible through thickening clouds.
Later, he would gather his things against. He would clean his bloodstained weapons (how well he couldn't say). He would return to the warehouse where Rea had died, and find new clothes, and do away with the old. He would find a safe place, and sleep the sleep of the dead.
But that was later. For now, Alexander David Tarquin bathed in stinging saltwater, rinsed it through his hair, splashed it against his face, submerged himself and imagined some half-hidden beast rising from the deep to take him, but what beast was his equal now? What monster would trump his?
Crowe was dead. Alex was alive. And for the first time since Rea had died on his blade, Alex felt alright.
(EXIT: Alexander David Tarquin)
Those Whose Time Has Come]
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”
Terra Johnson (female student no. 73, DECEASED): Oh...duh...Abel's...dead...the one who...lives is...
Tom Swift (male student no. 60): It didn't matter what he wanted anymore.
Daria Bhatia (female student no. 56): "I pity you, and everyone who knows you. Because if you can live with this, I don't...I don't think you're human anymore.”