Morgan seemed hopeful that she was Rueben. Lori hesitated, not sure if it was a good idea to lie to that degree by claiming to be a specific person.
She could have taken the head off, but she rationalized to herself that with Michael stalking around with that gun, if he did try to shoot her maybe he wouldn't hit sometime vital if he couldn't exactly see precisely where all of the various parts of her body were inside the suit. And maybe, just maybe, it would provide some padding. The idea had a small amount of truth to it, mainly that the owl head extended a bit higher than her actual head, so if someone shot the owl in the eyes it might just miss her real head, but other than that it was nonsense.
It felt to be safe inside of something, even if the something didn't really provide that much safety. She imagined that she was an astronaut and the suit was her space suit. Looking out at the slightly dim eyes she was protected from the perils of space, of the island, the way that monsters could not enter the impenetrable barrier of your top bed cover.
He had tried to tell her that they weren't a threat and then his stomach rumbled, eating itself.
Maybe all he wants is...
The gangly one seemed a little bit sharper, immediately deducing that she couldn't be Reuben and making a chill go down her spine when he carried a monstrous stuffed thing towards her.
He smiled grotesquely at her, leering kind of. The owl leaned back and moved its head as far as it could stretch away from him without moving its feet. He didn't get it. He couldn't. He was a freak and a weirdo and she couldn't imagine anyone like that understanding her motives for things, which were very practical in this case.
Lori unzipped the costume from the side and her human arm came sticking out of the side of the creature. She bent down and unzipped her bag and rummaged around until she had rearranged things to her liking. She took a ration bar out of the bag and threw it square at Morgan, cleanly like a football.
While both boys were distracted by the nutritious projectile, she quickly opened two bottles of water, tipped something in, and closed them again.
And all the other one wants is...?
Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Is In)
Thread concluded! Day 3 thru pre-announcement day 4. (@Fenris for the thread title playlist use the White Denim cover please it's what I listened to for writing this!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
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Ruggahissy
- Posts: 1593
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:13 pm
An arm came from the owl, and suddenly Morgan wondered just how insane this might have looked to anyone watching the cameras around them. Michael was right — further proof that he'd managed to shake himself from the depths of despair and depravity; it couldn't have been Reuben. Too short, and besides, the arm was very obviously feminine. He stood silently, waiting for something to happen. If a gun or a sword or a cannon emerged from the bag, he needed to be ready to run.
Instead, an energy bar hurtled towards his head, and in his confusion he didn't move a muscle.
What the heck—
With a soft thud, the bar hit him squarely between the eyes, causing him to instinctively flinch back, his eyes firmly shut in a shameful attempt at defending against the interloping energy bar. Unsurprisingly, it did nothing. Slowly opening them for a moment, Morgan stared down at the foodstuff in front of him, and without a word, looked back up at the owl.
It stared expectantly, waiting.
Slowly looking over at Michael, he once more looked down at the energy bar.
His stomach growled again — loudly.
Fuck it.
Making the very first move, he bent down and very quickly picked up the food, still staring at the owl the entire time. No one had said a word. Not the owl, not Michael, and certainly not Morgan.
"I — thanks, I think."
Hopefully it wasn't poisoned was a thought that he realized he probably should have had before he'd ripped the wrapper open and gobbled a generous chunk of the snack up into his mouth. It tasted like most energy bars that he'd ever had, but with the state of his appetite at the moment, he may as well have been eating the equivalent to a steak dinner.
Trying to savour the flavour, he chewed slowly, to make it last. Visibly, he relaxed, his aching muscles and damp clothes temporarily forgotten in the rush to sate his hunger. This was okay. For a moment, he wondered just who was in the suit, but really — did it matter? Things were okay. He'd talked Michael off the ledge, he'd gotten some food in his belly courtesy of a magnanimous anthropomorphic owl; it looked like everything was going to be okay.
For right now, at least.
Instead, an energy bar hurtled towards his head, and in his confusion he didn't move a muscle.
What the heck—
With a soft thud, the bar hit him squarely between the eyes, causing him to instinctively flinch back, his eyes firmly shut in a shameful attempt at defending against the interloping energy bar. Unsurprisingly, it did nothing. Slowly opening them for a moment, Morgan stared down at the foodstuff in front of him, and without a word, looked back up at the owl.
It stared expectantly, waiting.
Slowly looking over at Michael, he once more looked down at the energy bar.
His stomach growled again — loudly.
Fuck it.
Making the very first move, he bent down and very quickly picked up the food, still staring at the owl the entire time. No one had said a word. Not the owl, not Michael, and certainly not Morgan.
"I — thanks, I think."
Hopefully it wasn't poisoned was a thought that he realized he probably should have had before he'd ripped the wrapper open and gobbled a generous chunk of the snack up into his mouth. It tasted like most energy bars that he'd ever had, but with the state of his appetite at the moment, he may as well have been eating the equivalent to a steak dinner.
Trying to savour the flavour, he chewed slowly, to make it last. Visibly, he relaxed, his aching muscles and damp clothes temporarily forgotten in the rush to sate his hunger. This was okay. For a moment, he wondered just who was in the suit, but really — did it matter? Things were okay. He'd talked Michael off the ledge, he'd gotten some food in his belly courtesy of a magnanimous anthropomorphic owl; it looked like everything was going to be okay.
For right now, at least.
It was like the scene in Alien where the spooky thing popped out of John Hurt's chest except this time it was an arm popping out of the side of an owl's chest. Michael almost flicked the safety off and shot The Owl, but then he saw its human arm wasn't holding anything. The arm was a girl's arm, and about the same length and approximate build as Camila's arms. That was a weird unit of measurement to use. Maybe the owl was the personification of his guilt over Camila's death. Maybe it was a crazy person in an owl suit. He didn't know.
Huh... he felt guilt over Camila's death. Camila felt like guilt, but Beryl -
- Beryl and things like hope and everything else from before the island felt like indescribably soul-crushing existential isolation now. That, and regret. He'd take guilt over that any day. Guilt hurt, but it hurt in a way that made him feel real.
Michael was going to die on this island and he could either die himself or die feeling like he existed but he knew couldn't die both.
He wanted to feel real for once. He had to burn himself to the ground.
He hoped The Owl was pulling a gun from the bag. He was more afraid of living past this moment than he was of dying. The Owl didn't pull a gun. It pulled an energy bar.
Darn.
The Owl whipped it past Michael's head and presumably into Morgan's, judging by the noise. Michael looked back at Morgan and almost smiled a real smile, almost laughed a real laugh, but stopped himself because he didn't know if he could still do either without breaking down into tears. He hoped The Owl was Kelly and the bar was poisoned, because it meant Morgan would die as himself.
He took a quick glance back at The Owl and saw it rifling through its bag. He stood up on his tippie-toes to see exactly what it was doing. He saw it screwing the cap of a water bottle closed and that gave him a pretty decent idea of what it was trying to do so he raised his eyebrows and slowly looked back away. He unshouldered his backpack, placed it on a table, stuck The Many-Eyed Bear in, and zipped the bag up in a fashion that left the bear's head sticking out the top. Then, he unzipped the pocket where he'd been keeping his diabetes stuff and grabbed a tube of low blood sugar meds. Fruit punch flavoured. He extracted a single tablet and cracked it in half. He zipped the pocket up, holding the fragment in his left hand.
He looked up at a camera and shrugged. "L'appel du vide." He said to himself and everybody else in the room, but mostly to the viewer. He turned to The Owl. "I saw that, sneaky owl. Gimme the water bottle."
Huh... he felt guilt over Camila's death. Camila felt like guilt, but Beryl -
- Beryl and things like hope and everything else from before the island felt like indescribably soul-crushing existential isolation now. That, and regret. He'd take guilt over that any day. Guilt hurt, but it hurt in a way that made him feel real.
Michael was going to die on this island and he could either die himself or die feeling like he existed but he knew couldn't die both.
He wanted to feel real for once. He had to burn himself to the ground.
He hoped The Owl was pulling a gun from the bag. He was more afraid of living past this moment than he was of dying. The Owl didn't pull a gun. It pulled an energy bar.
Darn.
The Owl whipped it past Michael's head and presumably into Morgan's, judging by the noise. Michael looked back at Morgan and almost smiled a real smile, almost laughed a real laugh, but stopped himself because he didn't know if he could still do either without breaking down into tears. He hoped The Owl was Kelly and the bar was poisoned, because it meant Morgan would die as himself.
He took a quick glance back at The Owl and saw it rifling through its bag. He stood up on his tippie-toes to see exactly what it was doing. He saw it screwing the cap of a water bottle closed and that gave him a pretty decent idea of what it was trying to do so he raised his eyebrows and slowly looked back away. He unshouldered his backpack, placed it on a table, stuck The Many-Eyed Bear in, and zipped the bag up in a fashion that left the bear's head sticking out the top. Then, he unzipped the pocket where he'd been keeping his diabetes stuff and grabbed a tube of low blood sugar meds. Fruit punch flavoured. He extracted a single tablet and cracked it in half. He zipped the pocket up, holding the fragment in his left hand.
He looked up at a camera and shrugged. "L'appel du vide." He said to himself and everybody else in the room, but mostly to the viewer. He turned to The Owl. "I saw that, sneaky owl. Gimme the water bottle."
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
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Ruggahissy
- Posts: 1593
- Joined: Mon Aug 13, 2018 4:13 pm
Morgan thanked her and something behind her made a small snapping sound. Then she stood back up from her work and closer than she had anticipated there was Michael, and he was a lot closer than she had anticipated or was comfortable with. Out of a panic reflex, she chucked the water towards him and yelled, "I don't know French!" loud enough to penetrate the owl suit.
Something about him really unsettled her even beyond the their dank surroundings. She zipped the side of the costume back up and made to back away from him, still concerned about the gun. Lori felt her breathing bottom out and her exhales compressed her lungs all the way.
Shuffling to the other side of the room to put some distance between them, Lori's foot hit something. It was a little hard to see at first through the owl head, but it looked like a really dirty blanket. Her nudging the lump caused the covering to shift a little and revealed stiff, ashen arm. She moved her leg away from the body quickly, not wanting to touch it and screamed.
It was only then that she realized her foot had smudged a bloody message on the floor. The inside of her costume began to close in. She'd never seen a dead person before and it was possible this weirdo had done the deed.
Lori quickly backed away from the body, but her foot hit a snag of something on the floor. Luckily her reflexes went to autopilot and she ended up doing a backbend kickover, landing squarely back on her feet after what a layperson might think of as a slow backflip.
The room now sufficiently awkward and Lori still terrified, she blinked (unseen inside the owl), grabbed her bag and ran back out to find friendlier shelter.
((Lori Martin continued in Hoo-Hoo's There?))
Something about him really unsettled her even beyond the their dank surroundings. She zipped the side of the costume back up and made to back away from him, still concerned about the gun. Lori felt her breathing bottom out and her exhales compressed her lungs all the way.
Shuffling to the other side of the room to put some distance between them, Lori's foot hit something. It was a little hard to see at first through the owl head, but it looked like a really dirty blanket. Her nudging the lump caused the covering to shift a little and revealed stiff, ashen arm. She moved her leg away from the body quickly, not wanting to touch it and screamed.
It was only then that she realized her foot had smudged a bloody message on the floor. The inside of her costume began to close in. She'd never seen a dead person before and it was possible this weirdo had done the deed.
Lori quickly backed away from the body, but her foot hit a snag of something on the floor. Luckily her reflexes went to autopilot and she ended up doing a backbend kickover, landing squarely back on her feet after what a layperson might think of as a slow backflip.
The room now sufficiently awkward and Lori still terrified, she blinked (unseen inside the owl), grabbed her bag and ran back out to find friendlier shelter.
((Lori Martin continued in Hoo-Hoo's There?))
So thank fucking God, he had something in his stomach after days of wandering around with nothing of substance. The energy bar barely lasted, but as his attention was fixed on devouring it, a few things happened all at once. Michael started yelling at the owl, the owl yelled back and threw a water bottle at him, and then bumped into the body — Jesus, the body — screamed again, and fled as quickly as it had arrived. Wrapper in hand, he stopped mid-chew to watch the comedy of errors that the owl had wrought on their unhappy reunion.
"Mffgh fghh fhegh —" Morgan coughed, swallowing the rest of the food in his mouth. "I mean, what the fuck was that all about?"
What was any of it all about, really? Everything that had happened since he'd gotten on the bus to Washington had been a blur of ups and downs that was ultimately going to culminate in his untimely demise. It wasn't a foregone conclusion, of course, though he couldn't imagine if people were betting on him to come out the victor of this unhappy little game. The thought soured the contents of his stomach almost immediately. Were people actually betting on their survival? How fucking morbid would someone be to put a wager on that — no, of course they absolutely would.
There was also the other elephant in the room — owl in the room, who was actually no longer in the room — to figure out. Turning to Michael, he shook his head in slow disbelief.
"That had to be like, a cheerleader or someone in that, right? Last I checked, mascots didn't do backflips, or whatever that was supposed to be," casually discarding the wrapper, Morgan slowly made his way over to a discarded duffel pack on the floor, evidently Camila's if his buddy was to be believed.
Morgan didn't doubt him at all. Not after the state he'd found him in.
Body flooding with relief, Morgan found that the supplies in the bag were almost entirely intact, most of it having barely been touched before Camila had gone off and — no, he was just going to conveniently forget that his best friend had admitted to murdering someone. It was probably best for Michael not to dwell on it, and Morgan wasn't going to bring it up. Besides, this was a fight to the death, maybe it was — it had to be self defense, right?
Grabbing a water bottle, cracking it open and taking a swig, Morgan visibly relaxed as the lukewarm water flooded down his throat. For the time being, he would be okay. Shelter, friends, supplies — he was more or less back where he started, before Wyatt had gone and done Wyatt things to him. Fuck that guy.
"So uh," he glanced back up at Michael, still seeming to have clung to the thread of sanity that he'd grasped in the storeroom. "Do we hole up here for the night? I know that uh," Morgan glanced over at the body, the sheet covering it slightly dislodged by the owl's exit. He felt his face pale. "We probably don't want to risk sleeping in the rain. Try and wait it out, and..."
He shrugged. Planning had never been his strong suit and he wasn't sure just how to finish that sentence. Maybe Mike would have an idea what to do next. Perhaps all they needed to do was survive.
Seemed like a fairly straightforward priority, and yet...
... he glanced back at the body again.
Maybe, not so much.
"Mffgh fghh fhegh —" Morgan coughed, swallowing the rest of the food in his mouth. "I mean, what the fuck was that all about?"
What was any of it all about, really? Everything that had happened since he'd gotten on the bus to Washington had been a blur of ups and downs that was ultimately going to culminate in his untimely demise. It wasn't a foregone conclusion, of course, though he couldn't imagine if people were betting on him to come out the victor of this unhappy little game. The thought soured the contents of his stomach almost immediately. Were people actually betting on their survival? How fucking morbid would someone be to put a wager on that — no, of course they absolutely would.
There was also the other elephant in the room — owl in the room, who was actually no longer in the room — to figure out. Turning to Michael, he shook his head in slow disbelief.
"That had to be like, a cheerleader or someone in that, right? Last I checked, mascots didn't do backflips, or whatever that was supposed to be," casually discarding the wrapper, Morgan slowly made his way over to a discarded duffel pack on the floor, evidently Camila's if his buddy was to be believed.
Morgan didn't doubt him at all. Not after the state he'd found him in.
Body flooding with relief, Morgan found that the supplies in the bag were almost entirely intact, most of it having barely been touched before Camila had gone off and — no, he was just going to conveniently forget that his best friend had admitted to murdering someone. It was probably best for Michael not to dwell on it, and Morgan wasn't going to bring it up. Besides, this was a fight to the death, maybe it was — it had to be self defense, right?
Grabbing a water bottle, cracking it open and taking a swig, Morgan visibly relaxed as the lukewarm water flooded down his throat. For the time being, he would be okay. Shelter, friends, supplies — he was more or less back where he started, before Wyatt had gone and done Wyatt things to him. Fuck that guy.
"So uh," he glanced back up at Michael, still seeming to have clung to the thread of sanity that he'd grasped in the storeroom. "Do we hole up here for the night? I know that uh," Morgan glanced over at the body, the sheet covering it slightly dislodged by the owl's exit. He felt his face pale. "We probably don't want to risk sleeping in the rain. Try and wait it out, and..."
He shrugged. Planning had never been his strong suit and he wasn't sure just how to finish that sentence. Maybe Mike would have an idea what to do next. Perhaps all they needed to do was survive.
Seemed like a fairly straightforward priority, and yet...
... he glanced back at the body again.
Maybe, not so much.
Michael caught the spiked water bottle between his forearms and slid it down onto a table. The Owl spoke English, apparently, or at least enough English to be able to communicate that it didn't know how to speak French. That was cool, he guessed. He didn't know French either.
As The Owl stumbled away, Michael unscrewed the bottle's cap and dropped the fruit-flavoured chunk of sugar in. He screwed the cap back on and shook the bottle until the sugar dissolved, leaving the water with a slight reddish tint. He watched as The Owl kicked Jeremiah and then did a gymnastics thing and then ran away.
"Stop bullying Jeremiah!" he called out after it, and then it was gone.
Morgan was, very understandably, confused. "Do not worry about it." Michael said in an overly-dramatic tone, putting the facade back on.
Tomorrow everyone would know him as a murderer, but he could pretend like he was still himself for today. Morgan deserved that.
His last day as himself. It was a bittersweet feeling, like watching the final episode of a TV series you really liked.
"Let's just hang here for a while, y'know? Shoot the shit and stuff."
He glanced down at the red water. The Owl had either poisoned it or drugged it.
Michael Froese would die during the night, either literally or metaphorically. It would be a surprise which.
He hoped it would be literal.
They spent the day like old times. Talking, snarking. Morgan carried the mood.
At one point, Morgan went over the gist of his time on the island. Michael'd been right when he thought Morgan hadn't seen shit compared to him, but he didn't vocalize it. He didn't want to delegitimize what Morgan had been through.
When it came time for Michael to share his own story, he kept things as brusque as he could, leaving out anything that had happened to him internally or while he was by himself. It was still a lot.
"I woke up, I saw Benny get bludgeoned, and I pointed my gun at Justin. Benny wandered off and I followed him into the woods. I heard Darlene Silva shoot Beryl, I heard Nick mercy kill her; I didn't know it was her at the time. I cried in the bushes for an hour and nobody knew I was there and Nick and Henry — Henry was doing okay — carried her body to the coast. I followed the trail of blood for... a while, and I found Nick and Henry, and then we buried her at sea. In the morning, Henry said he needed to do something and went off by himself, and then Nick and I went here. We found Nia and Alexander, and then Jeremiah came in behind Nick and attacked him because he thought Nick had murdered Beryl, maybe. I'm not completely sure. Nia pointed a gun at me, and I asked her to shoot, but she didn't. Nick punched Jeremiah in the throat, I think, and I watched him choke to death on his own blood. Alexander picked up Nia's gun and aimed it at us, kinda — he's blind, y'know, so yeah — and he asked us to leave and we left. We went to the menagerie and found Marco Hart. He was nice. We all had a big hug and then I left to come back here, and I slept. Camila showed up in the morning, and we had a heart-to-heart and she was really hurting so I - I told her I was here if she needed a way out and... you know the rest, I guess. I might have forgotten something somewhere. I dunno."
Time passed.
Michael was sitting against the wall in the side of the room opposite of where Morgan was sleeping.
It was time to drink the proverbial Flavour-Aid.
He sang quietly. Calculation Theme by Metric.
"I'm sick, you're tired.
Let's dance.
Break to love, make lust,
I know it isn't.
I'm sick, you're tired.
Let's dance.
Cold as numbers but let's dance."
He hoped Morgan was still asleep.
"As though it were easy for you to lead me,
I could be passive, gracefully.
Half the horizon's gone;
Skyline of numbers.
Half the horizon's gone;
Working the numbers,
'Til I'm sick."
He bit the inside of his lip. He felt like he was freezing.
"Sleep, don't pacify us until
daybreak sky lights up the grid we live in.
Dizzy when we talk so fast.
Fields of numbers streaming past.
I wish we were farmers.
I wish we knew how to grow sweet potatoes and milk cows."
He inhaled softly.
"I wish we were lovers,
But it's -"
He choked. Shut his eyes tight. Exhaled.
"- but it's for the best."
Inhaled. Opened his eyes. This was it.
"Tonight, your ghost will ask my ghost
'Where is the love?'.
Tonight, your ghost will ask my ghost
'Who here is in line for a raise?'.
Tonight, your ghost will ask my ghost
'Where is the love?'.
Tonight, your ghost will ask my ghost
'Who put these bodies between us?'".
He unscrewed the red water's cap and took a swig. He slumped back against the wall and closed his eyes.
And that was that.
He waited. If he lived through this he couldn't go back.
Flashes of light, rippling back and forth, making rainbows through the darkness of his eyelids.
He opened his eyes, pushed up against the wall.
The oscillating sprites continued. Everything looked like it was moving.
He glanced over at The Many-Eyed Bear. When he contemplated its eyes, it turned a sickly pale glow and he was reminded of an old friend and an old place in time and space.
"...please no..." he whisper-screamed.
It stung.
He heard Beryl's voice, almost. The words it said were disjointed nonsense. Hallucinations.
He pulled the bear close to his chest; held it tight. Silent tears.
He didn't have avoidant personality disorder. He had dependent personality disorder.
He wept for the next few hours.
_____
His pod beeped. One hour until he needed to change it. He'd change it now, as to avoid having to do it during the announcements.
He unzipped the pocket of his backpack that he kept his diabetes stuff in. Something blue caught his eye; a cheap rubber wristband with the words 'Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History' stenciled on it in white. He could remember, Beryl'd bought it at the museum's gift shop and given it to him as a surprise before they boarded the bus back to Chattanooga.
That was the last conversation they'd ever had.
It still hurt. The pain would never go away, not really. It was part of him now.
He grabbed the wristband and slipped it on over his left hand.
It was a memorial to the lives that had once been, and a memorial to the lives that once could have been. A memorial to the lives that now only existed in dreams and memories.
A memorial to lost humanity.
A keepsake.
Nobody made it out unbroken. Nobody made it out alive. Nobody ever did.
Same as it ever went.
Michael went through the motions; finished changing his pod. He stuffed everything except the gun back into the bag, stood up and floated out through the door, quiet as a ghost. As he stepped through the door, he flicked the safety off.
He stopped for a few seconds. He wasn't used to the smell of fresh air. He almost said something, parting words to Morgan that would fall upon presumably sleeping ears. Instead, he grimaced and shook his head.
When there was no way out, the only way out was to give in.
He faded away into the rain once more.
This was him giving in.
((Michael continued in Becoming A Jackal))
As The Owl stumbled away, Michael unscrewed the bottle's cap and dropped the fruit-flavoured chunk of sugar in. He screwed the cap back on and shook the bottle until the sugar dissolved, leaving the water with a slight reddish tint. He watched as The Owl kicked Jeremiah and then did a gymnastics thing and then ran away.
"Stop bullying Jeremiah!" he called out after it, and then it was gone.
Morgan was, very understandably, confused. "Do not worry about it." Michael said in an overly-dramatic tone, putting the facade back on.
Tomorrow everyone would know him as a murderer, but he could pretend like he was still himself for today. Morgan deserved that.
His last day as himself. It was a bittersweet feeling, like watching the final episode of a TV series you really liked.
"Let's just hang here for a while, y'know? Shoot the shit and stuff."
He glanced down at the red water. The Owl had either poisoned it or drugged it.
Michael Froese would die during the night, either literally or metaphorically. It would be a surprise which.
He hoped it would be literal.
They spent the day like old times. Talking, snarking. Morgan carried the mood.
At one point, Morgan went over the gist of his time on the island. Michael'd been right when he thought Morgan hadn't seen shit compared to him, but he didn't vocalize it. He didn't want to delegitimize what Morgan had been through.
When it came time for Michael to share his own story, he kept things as brusque as he could, leaving out anything that had happened to him internally or while he was by himself. It was still a lot.
"I woke up, I saw Benny get bludgeoned, and I pointed my gun at Justin. Benny wandered off and I followed him into the woods. I heard Darlene Silva shoot Beryl, I heard Nick mercy kill her; I didn't know it was her at the time. I cried in the bushes for an hour and nobody knew I was there and Nick and Henry — Henry was doing okay — carried her body to the coast. I followed the trail of blood for... a while, and I found Nick and Henry, and then we buried her at sea. In the morning, Henry said he needed to do something and went off by himself, and then Nick and I went here. We found Nia and Alexander, and then Jeremiah came in behind Nick and attacked him because he thought Nick had murdered Beryl, maybe. I'm not completely sure. Nia pointed a gun at me, and I asked her to shoot, but she didn't. Nick punched Jeremiah in the throat, I think, and I watched him choke to death on his own blood. Alexander picked up Nia's gun and aimed it at us, kinda — he's blind, y'know, so yeah — and he asked us to leave and we left. We went to the menagerie and found Marco Hart. He was nice. We all had a big hug and then I left to come back here, and I slept. Camila showed up in the morning, and we had a heart-to-heart and she was really hurting so I - I told her I was here if she needed a way out and... you know the rest, I guess. I might have forgotten something somewhere. I dunno."
Time passed.
Day 4 – 1:00 AM
Michael was sitting against the wall in the side of the room opposite of where Morgan was sleeping.
It was time to drink the proverbial Flavour-Aid.
He sang quietly. Calculation Theme by Metric.
"I'm sick, you're tired.
Let's dance.
Break to love, make lust,
I know it isn't.
I'm sick, you're tired.
Let's dance.
Cold as numbers but let's dance."
He hoped Morgan was still asleep.
"As though it were easy for you to lead me,
I could be passive, gracefully.
Half the horizon's gone;
Skyline of numbers.
Half the horizon's gone;
Working the numbers,
'Til I'm sick."
He bit the inside of his lip. He felt like he was freezing.
"Sleep, don't pacify us until
daybreak sky lights up the grid we live in.
Dizzy when we talk so fast.
Fields of numbers streaming past.
I wish we were farmers.
I wish we knew how to grow sweet potatoes and milk cows."
He inhaled softly.
"I wish we were lovers,
But it's -"
He choked. Shut his eyes tight. Exhaled.
"- but it's for the best."
Inhaled. Opened his eyes. This was it.
"Tonight, your ghost will ask my ghost
'Where is the love?'.
Tonight, your ghost will ask my ghost
'Who here is in line for a raise?'.
Tonight, your ghost will ask my ghost
'Where is the love?'.
Tonight, your ghost will ask my ghost
'Who put these bodies between us?'".
He unscrewed the red water's cap and took a swig. He slumped back against the wall and closed his eyes.
And that was that.
He waited. If he lived through this he couldn't go back.
Day 4 – 1:20 AM
Flashes of light, rippling back and forth, making rainbows through the darkness of his eyelids.
He opened his eyes, pushed up against the wall.
The oscillating sprites continued. Everything looked like it was moving.
He glanced over at The Many-Eyed Bear. When he contemplated its eyes, it turned a sickly pale glow and he was reminded of an old friend and an old place in time and space.
"...please no..." he whisper-screamed.
It stung.
He heard Beryl's voice, almost. The words it said were disjointed nonsense. Hallucinations.
He pulled the bear close to his chest; held it tight. Silent tears.
He didn't have avoidant personality disorder. He had dependent personality disorder.
He wept for the next few hours.
_____
Day 4 – 8:00 AM
His pod beeped. One hour until he needed to change it. He'd change it now, as to avoid having to do it during the announcements.
He unzipped the pocket of his backpack that he kept his diabetes stuff in. Something blue caught his eye; a cheap rubber wristband with the words 'Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History' stenciled on it in white. He could remember, Beryl'd bought it at the museum's gift shop and given it to him as a surprise before they boarded the bus back to Chattanooga.
That was the last conversation they'd ever had.
It still hurt. The pain would never go away, not really. It was part of him now.
He grabbed the wristband and slipped it on over his left hand.
It was a memorial to the lives that had once been, and a memorial to the lives that once could have been. A memorial to the lives that now only existed in dreams and memories.
A memorial to lost humanity.
A keepsake.
Nobody made it out unbroken. Nobody made it out alive. Nobody ever did.
Same as it ever went.
Michael went through the motions; finished changing his pod. He stuffed everything except the gun back into the bag, stood up and floated out through the door, quiet as a ghost. As he stepped through the door, he flicked the safety off.
He stopped for a few seconds. He wasn't used to the smell of fresh air. He almost said something, parting words to Morgan that would fall upon presumably sleeping ears. Instead, he grimaced and shook his head.
When there was no way out, the only way out was to give in.
He faded away into the rain once more.
This was him giving in.
((Michael continued in Becoming A Jackal))
destroy the UN08/03/2019
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Micheal experienced super position wherein he was both Beryl and he was Beryl's RP site quote. He was sure he could be happy about this but he no longer knew what happiness meant.
Morgan allowed himself to relax. Thank God. After all of it — after all of the heartache and all of the trauma, Michael had managed to pull himself out of the depths of despair. Now that the owl had departed, his friend seemed a lot more himself, maybe aside from the odd flicker behind his eyes that he imagined was Michael's mind reconciling the fact that he'd killed someone. How did one even go about that? Morgan didn't have the first clue how to answer, so instead, he eagerly dove right in to the suggested course of action.
They made camp.
They shot the shit, talked like old times. Reminisced about the high school experience and the friends they'd left behind. They were wistful at the memories of those who they were aware had already passed and at times, it felt just like they were back in Morgan's garage, working on some sort of crazy experiment. Neon dye, or homemade fireworks, or making their own food colouring — if he squinted, it was almost the same.
For a few minutes, anyway.
At one point, Michael had asked about his own island journey. Morgan had told him about all of it — the encounter with the Carters, getting his ass kicked and saved by Bryan. Waking up and being helped out by Andy and Axel and then running afoul of Lorenzo Tavares. He detailed the morning spent at the rice paddies, where Facefuck Lucas Brady decided to come along and be a huge jerkass.
He neglected to mention the point where he'd kicked Lucas in the sternum for being such an asshole. It was out of character enough that he didn't know what Michael would think. So he left it out, which was almost farcical, considering that Mike had already done things that were far more objectionable, as he'd later detail. Morgan could only listen, surprised at the violence that seemed to follow his friend around.
No wonder he'd been in shambles.
It was good that he'd managed to help him out of his own personal hell. This one, they could share.
At some point, they both fell asleep.
Morgan slept poorly that night.
His dreams were all the same, more feelings than imagery, and this feeling was that of impending doom. Something was chasing him, something was hovering over him and waiting for him to make the wrong move before it would swoop in and finally catch up to him. Several times, he woke up with a start as whatever it was managed to catch him.
At one point, he woke up in a cold sweat, the only sounds from the rain on the roof of the commissary.
No, that wasn't right — there was something else. Crying. Ah. Of course.
He got it. Morgan had done his fair share already. This was overwhelming, facing the concept of one's own mortality. Between that and the guilt that he knew his friend was probably feeling, well... he wanted to say something, to sit up and comfort Michael. Tell him that it was going to be okay, that they'd think of some way to get the fuck out of here and stick this stupid death game up their asses.
Instead, he just let him be.
Sometimes the worst thing someone could say was that it was going to be okay. He didn't live in Michael's head. He didn't know how his friend was dealing with all of this. If he were going to cope with what he'd done, what he'd seen and what he'd likely have to do before the week was out, he'd need to figure out how to make it all make sense inside of his own mind. Morgan wouldn't always be there —
Shit.
Why wouldn't he?
A really good reason was the first one that came to mind.
It was, unfortunately, the second and third reason that he thought of, too.
If people were — and the thought made him queasy — wagering on their fates and how likely they all might be to survive this ordeal, Morgan knew that he and Michael were undoubtedly near the bottom of the list of contenders. That was just common sense. They weren't athletic, weren't horribly damaged by a shitty upbringing, and outside of Michael's gun, weren't overly well-armed.
"I'm not going to die here," he murmured.
Nobody answered and the sounds of sniffling didn't even acknowledge his words, so he didn't say anything much after that. Eventually, he fell asleep, unsure if the soft sounds of weeping had stopped or if his consciousness had.
Michael was gone when Morgan woke up.
Of everything that had happened to him while on the island so far, this one was probably the least surprising. It also hurt the most — even more than the broken ribs or the concussion, both of which were now, four days later, mostly a constant, dull ache.
No, this pain was sharp, and left him feeling as though he were searching for a phantom limb.
Perhaps, in a manner of speaking, he was.
It took him a few minutes to gather his belongings up and consolidate everything into the duffel bag that had once belonged to Camila. While he may not have had a way to defend himself, he at least had supplies again. He wouldn't go hungry — not for now, anyway.
"Not giving up on you that easy," he mumbled to the camera closest to him.
There were many other friends out there that Morgan could have decided to go after. His girlfriend was still alive, best he knew. Henry too. Ross' girlfriend wasn't a bad sort and was probably the kind of person that would be all for keeping people safe. He wouldn't be at all upset to run into Jonah, either. But Lizzie notwithstanding, he knew there was one person out there who probably needed him and the strength that he could provide more than anyone else.
So with nary a look back at the carnage laying about in the commissary, Morgan Dragosavich ventured out into the rain, in search of his friend Michael.
((Morgan Dragosavich continued in Ninety-Nine Nights Just Means There's More He Can Find))
They made camp.
They shot the shit, talked like old times. Reminisced about the high school experience and the friends they'd left behind. They were wistful at the memories of those who they were aware had already passed and at times, it felt just like they were back in Morgan's garage, working on some sort of crazy experiment. Neon dye, or homemade fireworks, or making their own food colouring — if he squinted, it was almost the same.
For a few minutes, anyway.
At one point, Michael had asked about his own island journey. Morgan had told him about all of it — the encounter with the Carters, getting his ass kicked and saved by Bryan. Waking up and being helped out by Andy and Axel and then running afoul of Lorenzo Tavares. He detailed the morning spent at the rice paddies, where Facefuck Lucas Brady decided to come along and be a huge jerkass.
He neglected to mention the point where he'd kicked Lucas in the sternum for being such an asshole. It was out of character enough that he didn't know what Michael would think. So he left it out, which was almost farcical, considering that Mike had already done things that were far more objectionable, as he'd later detail. Morgan could only listen, surprised at the violence that seemed to follow his friend around.
No wonder he'd been in shambles.
It was good that he'd managed to help him out of his own personal hell. This one, they could share.
At some point, they both fell asleep.
Morgan slept poorly that night.
His dreams were all the same, more feelings than imagery, and this feeling was that of impending doom. Something was chasing him, something was hovering over him and waiting for him to make the wrong move before it would swoop in and finally catch up to him. Several times, he woke up with a start as whatever it was managed to catch him.
At one point, he woke up in a cold sweat, the only sounds from the rain on the roof of the commissary.
No, that wasn't right — there was something else. Crying. Ah. Of course.
He got it. Morgan had done his fair share already. This was overwhelming, facing the concept of one's own mortality. Between that and the guilt that he knew his friend was probably feeling, well... he wanted to say something, to sit up and comfort Michael. Tell him that it was going to be okay, that they'd think of some way to get the fuck out of here and stick this stupid death game up their asses.
Instead, he just let him be.
Sometimes the worst thing someone could say was that it was going to be okay. He didn't live in Michael's head. He didn't know how his friend was dealing with all of this. If he were going to cope with what he'd done, what he'd seen and what he'd likely have to do before the week was out, he'd need to figure out how to make it all make sense inside of his own mind. Morgan wouldn't always be there —
Shit.
Why wouldn't he?
A really good reason was the first one that came to mind.
It was, unfortunately, the second and third reason that he thought of, too.
If people were — and the thought made him queasy — wagering on their fates and how likely they all might be to survive this ordeal, Morgan knew that he and Michael were undoubtedly near the bottom of the list of contenders. That was just common sense. They weren't athletic, weren't horribly damaged by a shitty upbringing, and outside of Michael's gun, weren't overly well-armed.
"I'm not going to die here," he murmured.
Nobody answered and the sounds of sniffling didn't even acknowledge his words, so he didn't say anything much after that. Eventually, he fell asleep, unsure if the soft sounds of weeping had stopped or if his consciousness had.
Michael was gone when Morgan woke up.
Of everything that had happened to him while on the island so far, this one was probably the least surprising. It also hurt the most — even more than the broken ribs or the concussion, both of which were now, four days later, mostly a constant, dull ache.
No, this pain was sharp, and left him feeling as though he were searching for a phantom limb.
Perhaps, in a manner of speaking, he was.
It took him a few minutes to gather his belongings up and consolidate everything into the duffel bag that had once belonged to Camila. While he may not have had a way to defend himself, he at least had supplies again. He wouldn't go hungry — not for now, anyway.
"Not giving up on you that easy," he mumbled to the camera closest to him.
There were many other friends out there that Morgan could have decided to go after. His girlfriend was still alive, best he knew. Henry too. Ross' girlfriend wasn't a bad sort and was probably the kind of person that would be all for keeping people safe. He wouldn't be at all upset to run into Jonah, either. But Lizzie notwithstanding, he knew there was one person out there who probably needed him and the strength that he could provide more than anyone else.
So with nary a look back at the carnage laying about in the commissary, Morgan Dragosavich ventured out into the rain, in search of his friend Michael.
((Morgan Dragosavich continued in Ninety-Nine Nights Just Means There's More He Can Find))