He wouldn't do it again, well wasn't that peachy that he wouldn't slice Kayla to pieces twice now that he'd made extra-freaking-sure that all those bits inside of her were definitely real bits under the cold light of day? Basically no way of being sure otherwise, to be honest. Garnet bit down on the sarcasm, but she was reaching a boiling point without a vent. It felt like every option of letting off that steam was bad. Yell at Marco, he either crumpled or detonated. Throw a punch, well that was probably worse. Walk off, after all the effort she bent towards getting here? That would pretty much be running away.
Marco had always exasperated Garnet a little in an adjacent but not identical manner to Shauna. They were two similar kinds of people, always felt a little self-sabotaging (often more than a little), seeming to suffer from a critical lack of confidence, which you couldn't blame either of them for exactly, but could still be hard to deal with. Without showing some faith in yourself, half the time you were giving up before you even started and most of the rest of the time you'd already given up in spirit and so you were already doomed to failure. So yeah, maybe Garnet had given a pep talk or two and maybe Marco had been pulled along with that in Shauna's wake. She'd never been able to see a glum face without wanting to buoy it back up again.
He kept talking and Garnet's emotions tangled into a twisted knot. She didn't know how much of what he was saying that he believed and how much was contorted logic bent to fit the situation, a way for him to cram his headspace into where they were and create something approaching sense. She shook her head mutely in reply to his question, simultaneously guilty and then indignant at her own guilt. They weren't like, best friends, and Garnet wasn't a psychologist. It hurt a bit that she must have missed his suffering and discomfort to at least some degree, but it wasn't her job to help anyone come to terms with their own identity. Sure, she'd taken exasperated responsibility for Marco now and then, but when someone seemed to struggle with basics like 'put food in body' that was kind of just the decent thing to do.
She tried another 'what would Song do?'
She realised that she didn't know.
I could kill you, if you make me.
Don't make me kill you.
The laugh came out of nowhere, hard and harsh and bitter. And there she'd been afraid for his safety. Now he was threatening her. The anger was still there, still seething, but growing more distant, more detached. For a second, Garnet thought she was letting it go, then an acid feeling dropped into her stomach.
Ah.
She was still pissed. She was just precipice pissed. At the top of the rollecoaster, looking down at the wild ride ahead. The calm before the storm.
"Why do you deserve it and they don't?" she said. "You don't get to name yourself judge of that, dude!"
She could feel the brakes of the coaster car creaking, the lever pulling back bit by bit to release her, send her careening out of control.
Or, as she'd put it many a time in Song's shoes.
'Ima rage.'
I Came In The Name Of The Dead, To Bring My Neck To The Blade
(Day 3, Post Announcement, Private until Goose and Fen Post)
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Emprexx Plush
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The simple answer was that it didn't matter. Marco had seized control of his narrative and his word was the only one that counted; he'd already told Garnet she wouldn't understand, so he was under no obligation to answer her questions. What she had to say wasn't directed at him any way. She was trying to convince herself into a course of action, because Garnet hadn't grown at all in the last three days. There wasn't this aura of violence in any argument he'd seen back home, but even that was toothless below the surface. She wouldn't kill him.If she had it in her to do that she would either understand because she wanted to survive too or she wouldn't be wasting time talking because she was willing to do whatever it took to right the wrongs her classmates committed. Without fighting back she might hurt him really, really bad, but she wouldn't consciously decide to end it.
Marco closed his eyes and exhaled to steady himself. "You think I'm weak." His eyelids felt so heavy as he opened them again. "It's a joke, that I could hurt you. I mean if I was really dangerous, really really dangerous, you wouldn't make it so obvious how bad you want to hit me. You're protecting me from yourself, right? You don't...you just don't get it..."
Inevitable confrontation wrote itself, the narrative cues were all there. Garnet had no weapon and nothing to fight for but her own anger. Marco wasn't fighting for survival. Living wasn't enough. If Garnet attacked him he might find himself in the same panicked place he was moments before he slit Kayla's throat and he hated that, the idea of being too weak to control himself and do what needed to be done with consciousness and consequences. When she lay on the ground bleeding out though, their eyes locked in mirrored disbelief, his shock would fade first. Hatred turned from the act to himself, but it was a numb sort of loathing, too familiar to cut through the tense emotions between them. Resigned, just like the laugh he returned to her. "Are you really okay with dying here, or just not thinking about it?"
Marco closed his eyes and exhaled to steady himself. "You think I'm weak." His eyelids felt so heavy as he opened them again. "It's a joke, that I could hurt you. I mean if I was really dangerous, really really dangerous, you wouldn't make it so obvious how bad you want to hit me. You're protecting me from yourself, right? You don't...you just don't get it..."
Inevitable confrontation wrote itself, the narrative cues were all there. Garnet had no weapon and nothing to fight for but her own anger. Marco wasn't fighting for survival. Living wasn't enough. If Garnet attacked him he might find himself in the same panicked place he was moments before he slit Kayla's throat and he hated that, the idea of being too weak to control himself and do what needed to be done with consciousness and consequences. When she lay on the ground bleeding out though, their eyes locked in mirrored disbelief, his shock would fade first. Hatred turned from the act to himself, but it was a numb sort of loathing, too familiar to cut through the tense emotions between them. Resigned, just like the laugh he returned to her. "Are you really okay with dying here, or just not thinking about it?"
Garnet shook.
Of all the people she expected to get under her skin, it wasn't Marco. Then again, of all the people she expected to claw a classmate to pieces, it wasn't Marco either, so that was what preconceptions netted you.
She'd wrapped so far out the opposite side of angry she'd looped around to—actually no, she was just extra pissed.
"Yeah! Kayla's body was real ha-ha fucking funny, Marco! I laughed my ass off counting how many shreds you tore her into!" Garnet slammed her free fist into her own leg with an audible smack. Something, anything to vent the fury smouldering inside her. "Quit acting like you're some, some kind of victim softboy! You think I'm not taking you seriously after seeing what you did!?"
His attitude. That was what got to her. The fact he had the fucking brass ones to make out she was still protecting him, that she was ever infantalising him. Yeah, that was what was holding her back. Not every scrap of self control and willpower telling her that it wasn't right, that there was a good way out of this, that this road she was rushing down wasn't a good one.
She tried to claw back some focus.
"if I die," she started, voice unsteady, seething. "It's gonna be swinging at whoever's here making this bullshit game run. That's what's right."
Of all the people she expected to get under her skin, it wasn't Marco. Then again, of all the people she expected to claw a classmate to pieces, it wasn't Marco either, so that was what preconceptions netted you.
She'd wrapped so far out the opposite side of angry she'd looped around to—actually no, she was just extra pissed.
"Yeah! Kayla's body was real ha-ha fucking funny, Marco! I laughed my ass off counting how many shreds you tore her into!" Garnet slammed her free fist into her own leg with an audible smack. Something, anything to vent the fury smouldering inside her. "Quit acting like you're some, some kind of victim softboy! You think I'm not taking you seriously after seeing what you did!?"
His attitude. That was what got to her. The fact he had the fucking brass ones to make out she was still protecting him, that she was ever infantalising him. Yeah, that was what was holding her back. Not every scrap of self control and willpower telling her that it wasn't right, that there was a good way out of this, that this road she was rushing down wasn't a good one.
She tried to claw back some focus.
"if I die," she started, voice unsteady, seething. "It's gonna be swinging at whoever's here making this bullshit game run. That's what's right."
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Emprexx Plush
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People in glass houses should not throw stones. Citation: Complicated. You would kind of figure it'd be a recent turn of phrase, or one so old that we have no idea when it started, right? Turns out it's kind of in the middle; the oldest credited inspiration goes all the way back to Geoffery Chaucer in the late 1300s, some poem about Troy written in Middle English that might as well have been nonsense to him. The words weren't clear on reflection, just the sensation of reading them on the screen.
First some ancient incantation, the soft blue glow of the screen filling in for runes etched in stone coming to life with power. On the tenth read it began to feel like he was just out of reach of understanding what it meant.
Five, at most ten more passes and he'd be able to grab the original meaning without looking for a translation, it was not so alien as it had appeared at first glance.
Around the fiftieth read it was four in the morning and he was giggling to himself between dramatic recitations in the same tone and cadence as the Swedish Chef.
He was pretty sure he never went back to get the actual meaning. Chaucer was an afterthought to the question after all, and though the itch still dug inside his skull the next morning he was done with poetry. That's what he thought, at least, until the next link in the chain was a religious poet in the 1600s. George Something or other. He'd presented it as a proverb, one of many in a large collection: Whose house is of glass, must not throw stones at another. What followed was a game of artistic telephone among poets, priests, authors, statesmen, and more including even a possibly apocryphal recitation by none other than Benjamin Franklin. Some variations, despite reportedly appearing after George's, felt more antiquated; Who hath glass windows of his own must take heed how he throw stones at his neighbor's house, or Thou shouldst not throw stones, who have a head of glass thyself. That was his favorite. A head of glass as opposed to a home gave the proverb a more sinister tint, risking not only shelter but your very life on hypocrisy.
It was that relatable deterrent that kept him from calling Garnet out for the insane delusion she had just expressed. Swinging at whoever's here making this bullshit game run? On every level it was crazier than anything he'd dreamt up. Tacit acceptance of their circumstances invalidated any hope of striking back at their captors because, well, Marco was not an expert but if anyone had ever succeeded in hurting anyone behind the attacks they would have heard about that, right? There was something a few years back about a bunch of kids escaping with the help and he vaguely remembered someone important getting shot, but that was years ago. It'd been a whole operation, things like that didn't just happen. No government in the world had ever managed to capture anyone involved, or at least if they did it hadn't led to anything important enough to talk about it. "Garnet, that's..." Marco had looked up to Garnet, but he didn't have any illusions that she could one woman army her way through an organization that might as well be made up of ghosts. "That's crazy. There's nobody here but us. Thinking like that, If-" He choked a little and hesitated to correct himself.
It was possible she was right to look down on him. What if she'd tried this with someone like Quinn? Would she have made it through the first sentence without a bullet in her stomach? How many people had ended up on the wrong side of the announcements because they tried to moralize and their killers decided they didn't have time to waste on it? Dragging this out, letting her posture, did it make him weak?
"Nick's here."
He tilted his head back into the mouth of the cave.
"It's not deep. Just far enough to shout if we need each other."
It might. It might make him weak to let her threaten him, or it might be that he showed restraint in allowing her to vent. Naked distraction notwithstanding, he and Nick could have scared her off or worse if he'd just said the right words, but he didn't even think about it. It was handled. In a strange way standing at the edge of Garnet's fury calmed his panic, because he hadn't flinched. Whatever decision she made, he hadn't flinched, and he would deal with the consequences himself. Marco desired Nick's in more ways than he was comfortable outlining even to his most private thoughts, but if he could weather Garnet alone then it was possible, plausible that he could do more for himself. That regardless of how badly he wanted Nick, he didn't need him.
He didn't need anyone.
Marco Hart could, and would, be everything he ever needed.
The glove came up, pinpricks of steel sliding along faint red lines with a shiver. "I didn't, because we're just talking, right? Remember that. Otherwise if-" The correction came without stutter. "When you die, it'll be because you try this with somebody who doesn't care about you enough to listen."
First some ancient incantation, the soft blue glow of the screen filling in for runes etched in stone coming to life with power. On the tenth read it began to feel like he was just out of reach of understanding what it meant.
Five, at most ten more passes and he'd be able to grab the original meaning without looking for a translation, it was not so alien as it had appeared at first glance.
Around the fiftieth read it was four in the morning and he was giggling to himself between dramatic recitations in the same tone and cadence as the Swedish Chef.
He was pretty sure he never went back to get the actual meaning. Chaucer was an afterthought to the question after all, and though the itch still dug inside his skull the next morning he was done with poetry. That's what he thought, at least, until the next link in the chain was a religious poet in the 1600s. George Something or other. He'd presented it as a proverb, one of many in a large collection: Whose house is of glass, must not throw stones at another. What followed was a game of artistic telephone among poets, priests, authors, statesmen, and more including even a possibly apocryphal recitation by none other than Benjamin Franklin. Some variations, despite reportedly appearing after George's, felt more antiquated; Who hath glass windows of his own must take heed how he throw stones at his neighbor's house, or Thou shouldst not throw stones, who have a head of glass thyself. That was his favorite. A head of glass as opposed to a home gave the proverb a more sinister tint, risking not only shelter but your very life on hypocrisy.
It was that relatable deterrent that kept him from calling Garnet out for the insane delusion she had just expressed. Swinging at whoever's here making this bullshit game run? On every level it was crazier than anything he'd dreamt up. Tacit acceptance of their circumstances invalidated any hope of striking back at their captors because, well, Marco was not an expert but if anyone had ever succeeded in hurting anyone behind the attacks they would have heard about that, right? There was something a few years back about a bunch of kids escaping with the help and he vaguely remembered someone important getting shot, but that was years ago. It'd been a whole operation, things like that didn't just happen. No government in the world had ever managed to capture anyone involved, or at least if they did it hadn't led to anything important enough to talk about it. "Garnet, that's..." Marco had looked up to Garnet, but he didn't have any illusions that she could one woman army her way through an organization that might as well be made up of ghosts. "That's crazy. There's nobody here but us. Thinking like that, If-" He choked a little and hesitated to correct himself.
It was possible she was right to look down on him. What if she'd tried this with someone like Quinn? Would she have made it through the first sentence without a bullet in her stomach? How many people had ended up on the wrong side of the announcements because they tried to moralize and their killers decided they didn't have time to waste on it? Dragging this out, letting her posture, did it make him weak?
"Nick's here."
He tilted his head back into the mouth of the cave.
"It's not deep. Just far enough to shout if we need each other."
It might. It might make him weak to let her threaten him, or it might be that he showed restraint in allowing her to vent. Naked distraction notwithstanding, he and Nick could have scared her off or worse if he'd just said the right words, but he didn't even think about it. It was handled. In a strange way standing at the edge of Garnet's fury calmed his panic, because he hadn't flinched. Whatever decision she made, he hadn't flinched, and he would deal with the consequences himself. Marco desired Nick's in more ways than he was comfortable outlining even to his most private thoughts, but if he could weather Garnet alone then it was possible, plausible that he could do more for himself. That regardless of how badly he wanted Nick, he didn't need him.
He didn't need anyone.
Marco Hart could, and would, be everything he ever needed.
The glove came up, pinpricks of steel sliding along faint red lines with a shiver. "I didn't, because we're just talking, right? Remember that. Otherwise if-" The correction came without stutter. "When you die, it'll be because you try this with somebody who doesn't care about you enough to listen."
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General Goose
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Nick was bad at comforting people. It wasn't his strong suit. It was just...well, he tended to get distracted, by his own predicaments and his own concerns. Nick knew that that was a problem, knew that it was selfish, and he envied those who were able to, without complaint or hesitation, power through their own anxieties and be a shoulder to cry on and an ear to vent at and a source of support and comfort to those who needed it more. He wanted to! He knew it was a virtue. Nick did feel their pain - he was no sociopath. Just...he always got distracted by his own. Even when it was objectively less important, it just...was happening in his brain, and he knew that that was logically irrelevant but he'd never quite worked out how to get around that.
It was like a fucking superpower, to be honest. Nick knew it was common. Oh so common. Basically every inspirational person, every rescue worker, every therapist, every hero, every consistently decent person, had that power. Most of his friends - and everyone in his family - seemed to have it. It was what made them capable of putting up with Nick, after all. But if Nick had ever exhibited that power himself, well, fuck, he had no idea.
He'd comforted Marco, sure. But that was...that wasn't the same. That wasn't proper conventional normal comforting. Nick could crack a dark joke, recognise when someone needed some alone time, maybe point them in the direction of someone who was actually good at that shit or provide other practical advice but...yeah. Best case scenario is that they could wallow in their unhappiness together, that they could talk about and share experiences, that Nick could be the 'company' in the old phrase 'misery loves company'. They were all technically ways of comforting people, but not the traditional ways. Not the ways that normally actually helped. That's what had happened with Marco. Nick knew what his strengths and weaknesses were. He rarely, with hindsight, did anything that was completely surprising.
Well, this was an exception to that rule, as, for some reason, Nick found himself being willing to comfort Axel. And that was surprising.
Now, if he'd actually be any good at it, if he'd actually be wanted, that was an open question. Nick didn't know. He didn't have the faintest bloody idea. But for once, even though he had his own shit to worry about, he found himself actually able to park it to one side, compartmentalise that, and think about Axel for a bit. Here was someone that he had a proper preexisting relationship with that he wasn't having to mercy kill or fight off. Like, he'd been aware of Michael. Been aware of Henry. Had been to a fair few parties with Marco before, but hadn't really known him. That he hadn't even known Marco's actual gender was a relatively minor part of that. He knew Beryl, of course, but he hadn't really interacted with her on the island. Just...delivered a killing blow. No meaningful interaction. No words had been exchanged.
But he knew Axel. And seeing someone that he knew that was neither scared or contemptuous of him, that was not bleeding out and paralysed, that was...yeah. Fuck. It felt good.
So Nick probably was feeling far better than he should have, and it wasn't that he'd suddenly acquired that power to be decent, but that the obstruction of his own trauma had been temporarily alleviated. Which was an awful thing to think because everything Axel was saying was harrowing and pointed to a world out there even crueller than the glib dishonesty of the announcements suggested but, fuck, being able to have a conversation with a friend was a way bigger high than hearing yet more novel bad news was a downer.
Axel was suffering. And Nick could actually be here for someone. Just this once.
He got up onto his knees, setting the knife down on a rock a few inches away. His waistcoat stuck to his form, wet and sodden with the water from the rain and the splash of the waterfall. He couldn't think of anything comforting to say - that was a gift Nick would never have - but he could be here for Axel. Give him a bit of strength, just to make a little bit more progress that day. "Listen, man, if it's any help, we can hug it out? I mean…I get if you’re reluctant. But…statistically, so long as my hands are away from your throat, you’re fine."
He cringed.
"Sorry. Bad joke. Really bad joke."
It was like a fucking superpower, to be honest. Nick knew it was common. Oh so common. Basically every inspirational person, every rescue worker, every therapist, every hero, every consistently decent person, had that power. Most of his friends - and everyone in his family - seemed to have it. It was what made them capable of putting up with Nick, after all. But if Nick had ever exhibited that power himself, well, fuck, he had no idea.
He'd comforted Marco, sure. But that was...that wasn't the same. That wasn't proper conventional normal comforting. Nick could crack a dark joke, recognise when someone needed some alone time, maybe point them in the direction of someone who was actually good at that shit or provide other practical advice but...yeah. Best case scenario is that they could wallow in their unhappiness together, that they could talk about and share experiences, that Nick could be the 'company' in the old phrase 'misery loves company'. They were all technically ways of comforting people, but not the traditional ways. Not the ways that normally actually helped. That's what had happened with Marco. Nick knew what his strengths and weaknesses were. He rarely, with hindsight, did anything that was completely surprising.
Well, this was an exception to that rule, as, for some reason, Nick found himself being willing to comfort Axel. And that was surprising.
Now, if he'd actually be any good at it, if he'd actually be wanted, that was an open question. Nick didn't know. He didn't have the faintest bloody idea. But for once, even though he had his own shit to worry about, he found himself actually able to park it to one side, compartmentalise that, and think about Axel for a bit. Here was someone that he had a proper preexisting relationship with that he wasn't having to mercy kill or fight off. Like, he'd been aware of Michael. Been aware of Henry. Had been to a fair few parties with Marco before, but hadn't really known him. That he hadn't even known Marco's actual gender was a relatively minor part of that. He knew Beryl, of course, but he hadn't really interacted with her on the island. Just...delivered a killing blow. No meaningful interaction. No words had been exchanged.
But he knew Axel. And seeing someone that he knew that was neither scared or contemptuous of him, that was not bleeding out and paralysed, that was...yeah. Fuck. It felt good.
So Nick probably was feeling far better than he should have, and it wasn't that he'd suddenly acquired that power to be decent, but that the obstruction of his own trauma had been temporarily alleviated. Which was an awful thing to think because everything Axel was saying was harrowing and pointed to a world out there even crueller than the glib dishonesty of the announcements suggested but, fuck, being able to have a conversation with a friend was a way bigger high than hearing yet more novel bad news was a downer.
Axel was suffering. And Nick could actually be here for someone. Just this once.
He got up onto his knees, setting the knife down on a rock a few inches away. His waistcoat stuck to his form, wet and sodden with the water from the rain and the splash of the waterfall. He couldn't think of anything comforting to say - that was a gift Nick would never have - but he could be here for Axel. Give him a bit of strength, just to make a little bit more progress that day. "Listen, man, if it's any help, we can hug it out? I mean…I get if you’re reluctant. But…statistically, so long as my hands are away from your throat, you’re fine."
He cringed.
"Sorry. Bad joke. Really bad joke."
"Nah dude, you don't get it.
"Whoever's here."
Garnet pointed at the ground, the waterfall, the cave. Then Marco.
"Making the game run."
She couldn't attack the people behind the cameras. She knew that, didn't accept it, but she knew it. Would take someone with much more brains, equipment and subterfuge than her to land a meaningful blow against Survival of the Fittest. That left people this side of the cameras. That left the thieves and the murders. That left the Blaises, the Tys, the... the Erikas, and yeah, it left the Marcos too.
Smart? No. Just? Probably not either, but if you couldn't tear the machine to pieces, what was there except to break the gears? It was right because that was all there was.
He had that fucking glove held up. Could have called Nick any time. The implication—fuck, was it even a so subtle as an implication?—the threat was clear. You're only alive because I'm letting you be alive. Cause I'm dangerous, cause you don't know what you're dealing with, cause I'm a fucking murderer and that makes me understand more than you, damn Garnet look at you being such a wet blanket trying to talk to such a dangerous—
Garnet was three bounding steps towards Marco before she realised she'd finally lost her temper, the blaze overflowing into a roiling conflagration.
A roll of coins was no bastard sword but this? This was surely a rage.
She plunged headlong into the flames and launched an overhanded punch at Marco's face.
"Whoever's here."
Garnet pointed at the ground, the waterfall, the cave. Then Marco.
"Making the game run."
She couldn't attack the people behind the cameras. She knew that, didn't accept it, but she knew it. Would take someone with much more brains, equipment and subterfuge than her to land a meaningful blow against Survival of the Fittest. That left people this side of the cameras. That left the thieves and the murders. That left the Blaises, the Tys, the... the Erikas, and yeah, it left the Marcos too.
Smart? No. Just? Probably not either, but if you couldn't tear the machine to pieces, what was there except to break the gears? It was right because that was all there was.
He had that fucking glove held up. Could have called Nick any time. The implication—fuck, was it even a so subtle as an implication?—the threat was clear. You're only alive because I'm letting you be alive. Cause I'm dangerous, cause you don't know what you're dealing with, cause I'm a fucking murderer and that makes me understand more than you, damn Garnet look at you being such a wet blanket trying to talk to such a dangerous—
Garnet was three bounding steps towards Marco before she realised she'd finally lost her temper, the blaze overflowing into a roiling conflagration.
A roll of coins was no bastard sword but this? This was surely a rage.
She plunged headlong into the flames and launched an overhanded punch at Marco's face.
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Emprexx Plush
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The last time someone had punched him in the face Marco had been unable to process the sequence of events. One moment Johnny was glaring at him, the next he was on the floor. When he'd decided he was going to hit him, what he'd hit, where he'd gone after, why he stopped at a single punch, how he slipped away without consequence, someone like Katelynne or an observing employee could answer those questions a lot better than he could. It was as blurry now as the moment it had happened; there had been a moment weeks later on the trip where he wondered if Garren had about to strike him the same way Johnny had, but the sense memory his-not fear, fear was the first fill for the blank that came to mind because he was supposed to be afraid, he was always afraid, but it had felt more like curiosity bordering longing-was a fabrication. Stimulus that lined up with what he expected to experience, no more real than his forced certainty towards a bus hidden away to take them all home. It was impossible to recall what the attack was like on a surface level. He had gone blank. Being completely honest, he didn't even remember how he got home.
Which should have made it shocking that any feeling underneath the surface could be recalled with clarity but one stood out more sharply than even the impact of Johnny's fist against his face. He hadn't wanted to confront the thought then. Too much he was not ready to think about tied into it. It had been there though, the reflection on how uncharacteristic his actions were. The notion that indisputable facts were his defense, worth conflict even with someone as crazy eyed as Johnny because he was already in so bad a place that there was nothing worse he could do to him. Subtracting the threat of physical violence nothing Johnny could say or do could have put him in a worse place than the one he'd forced himself into by venturing into an unknown, high stress environment. Fear, he had mused, had diminishing returns.
It would be ridiculous to think that he'd been inoculated to horror that'd left him frozen after just one punch, but there were other factors to consider. You could argue that this time he'd seen it coming. There wasn't a moment since she'd cleared the brush on the way down that Garnet wasn't broadcasting her desire to make him suffer. It would have been more shocking if she'd turned around without hitting him, wouldn't it? Going broader, it could be said that Marco had spent the last two and a half days in a crash course of brutality. Torn throats, bullet riddled corpses, stabbings, burnings, poison, gravity assisted homicide, the list ran on and on. In the context of everything he and anyone else paying attention had to internalize just to keep standing, a punch seemed ignorant. The final, most pertinent argument bridges out of that ignorance. Marco had spent the last few minutes coming to grips with this person he had admired, respected, relied on for so long, as a willfully ignorant bottle of rage. For all her talk about stopping the game, he was certain Garnet had not thought past the first punch.
In not only Marco's mind but his heart, she was already dead.
When he'd written lines like that into the fabric of his characters, it was usually a cold revelation. Maybe a sign that they were too far gone for redemption. Comfort to salve the pain of their action. No matter the trope it was numbing. Marco didn't feel that relief. It burned inside of him. If you wanted to keep deconstructing his response you could find salvation in that. Certain interpretations could say it wasn't his preparation, or desensitization, or resolve that kept him on his feet. Garnet's fist glancing off his chin hurt. It staggered him a step back, drew the taste of sour copper into his mouth. There was no way to be certain whether it hurt more than when Johnny laid him out. Compared to the pain that blossomed through his chest, screaming through neurons, sparking nerves, twitching muscles, all with the certainty that his friend would rather force him to kill her than let go of her pride?
Marco felt nothing but the weight of his claws slicing into her arm.
Which should have made it shocking that any feeling underneath the surface could be recalled with clarity but one stood out more sharply than even the impact of Johnny's fist against his face. He hadn't wanted to confront the thought then. Too much he was not ready to think about tied into it. It had been there though, the reflection on how uncharacteristic his actions were. The notion that indisputable facts were his defense, worth conflict even with someone as crazy eyed as Johnny because he was already in so bad a place that there was nothing worse he could do to him. Subtracting the threat of physical violence nothing Johnny could say or do could have put him in a worse place than the one he'd forced himself into by venturing into an unknown, high stress environment. Fear, he had mused, had diminishing returns.
It would be ridiculous to think that he'd been inoculated to horror that'd left him frozen after just one punch, but there were other factors to consider. You could argue that this time he'd seen it coming. There wasn't a moment since she'd cleared the brush on the way down that Garnet wasn't broadcasting her desire to make him suffer. It would have been more shocking if she'd turned around without hitting him, wouldn't it? Going broader, it could be said that Marco had spent the last two and a half days in a crash course of brutality. Torn throats, bullet riddled corpses, stabbings, burnings, poison, gravity assisted homicide, the list ran on and on. In the context of everything he and anyone else paying attention had to internalize just to keep standing, a punch seemed ignorant. The final, most pertinent argument bridges out of that ignorance. Marco had spent the last few minutes coming to grips with this person he had admired, respected, relied on for so long, as a willfully ignorant bottle of rage. For all her talk about stopping the game, he was certain Garnet had not thought past the first punch.
In not only Marco's mind but his heart, she was already dead.
When he'd written lines like that into the fabric of his characters, it was usually a cold revelation. Maybe a sign that they were too far gone for redemption. Comfort to salve the pain of their action. No matter the trope it was numbing. Marco didn't feel that relief. It burned inside of him. If you wanted to keep deconstructing his response you could find salvation in that. Certain interpretations could say it wasn't his preparation, or desensitization, or resolve that kept him on his feet. Garnet's fist glancing off his chin hurt. It staggered him a step back, drew the taste of sour copper into his mouth. There was no way to be certain whether it hurt more than when Johnny laid him out. Compared to the pain that blossomed through his chest, screaming through neurons, sparking nerves, twitching muscles, all with the certainty that his friend would rather force him to kill her than let go of her pride?
Marco felt nothing but the weight of his claws slicing into her arm.
"Yeah, holy shit, dude."
Christ, and Axel thought he had a bad habit of sticking his foot directly in his mouth. It was weird, though, like, considering the circumstances, it was kind of endearing? Like if they were at home he'd be razzing Nick on that fuckup for a while (not that, like, it was the kind of joke that would mean anything in any other circumstance) (well okay there were some jokes he could make about Nick choking people back home that would make perfect sense but yknow). But here? Little bit of levity didn't hurt. Kinda took the edge off the whole murder thing. Serial killers tell bad jokes too, they're just like you, except they kill people. How many people did you have to kill to make a serial killer? Hel probably knew that off the top.
Axel frowned. Okay, focus.
"But yeah, I, uh—shit—"
So, a hug sounded good, actually, because he was realizing he hadn't had one in a while. Because it felt weird to ask Andy for best bro, Hel-would-probably-have-something-to-say-here-about-toxic-masculinity-or-whatever reasons, and it felt weird to ask Abe for secrets-we-shall-take-to-the-grave reasons, and in retrospect wow were those stupid fucking hangups to have, and wow was he gonna be pissed at himself if he died with that big dumbass regret hanging on him. But Nick was here, and he was offering, and he'd tossed his knife aside.
Axel could probably run at the knife and grab it before Nick could stop him. Nick probably wouldn't stop him. He'd drank half the water and eaten most of the energy bar already, he could move again. Not that he'd kill Nick or anything, course not, jesus, but he could run, then. Have something half-decent to defend himself with, not have to worry so much about being attacked on his way back to camp. There was Marco Kreuger to worry about, wherever he'd wandered off to, but... there wasn't actually a but because he wasn't actually serious. The thought popped into his mind and deflated like a balloon that someone stabbed with a knife or with a knife-glove, whichever.
More to the point was that Nick didn't have the knife, so he wasn't gonna stab him, and if he was gonna strangle him or whatever he probably would have already, so a hug seemed like a good idea. Except he was, and this was pretty important, still not wearing pants. Or anything else. He glanced at his pile of still wet clothes, but Nick was already literally like standing there with his arms out so faffing around trying to get his fucking boxers back on was actually probably weirder than just hugging him with his dick out. Not like Nick wasn't familiar enough with it already!
It was still pretty weird.
Mostly he was just happy that he could stand up without immediately falling on his ass again. He didn't feel great or anything, but he felt capable of walking on his own again. Sacrificing his own supplies for his sake was pretty fucking cool of Nick, murder aside because he was gonna keep having to put the murder aside or else he'd go fucking crazy. He wished he had something to give back, but literally all he had at the moment was a bunch of soaking wet clothes and he didn't think those were particularly useful.
He hugged Nick, anyway. Dude was huge, made him feel kind of tiny, reminded him very much once again that he could kill him right here and now but he wasn't doing that and that counted as comforting. Every moment someone wasn't killing him kinda counted as comforting. Those moments were numbered. Mikki hadn't known how few she had until it was too late. It would probably be the same for all of them. Kinda hard to say, kinda hard to imagine. Death was this whole big thing he still couldn't grasp and by the time he understood it he wouldn't be able to tell anyone else what he'd learned because he wouldn't exist anymore and he was gonna start crying and if he started crying in Nick's arms he honestly might as well stuff and mount his pride on the fucking cave wall.
"Thanks," he muttered awkwardly, buried somewhere in Nick's not-quite-bare chest (seriously, if you're just gonna wear a vest you might as well go shirtless) before pulling back. "I, uh. I ought to get dressed, and then... get out of here. Get back to the others." He was staring at the floor. It made sense and all but it still felt like "thanks for the stuff, now goodbye forever", because that's probably what it was.
That's probably what every goodbye was. God, he was eighteen. He wasn't meant for this.
Christ, and Axel thought he had a bad habit of sticking his foot directly in his mouth. It was weird, though, like, considering the circumstances, it was kind of endearing? Like if they were at home he'd be razzing Nick on that fuckup for a while (not that, like, it was the kind of joke that would mean anything in any other circumstance) (well okay there were some jokes he could make about Nick choking people back home that would make perfect sense but yknow). But here? Little bit of levity didn't hurt. Kinda took the edge off the whole murder thing. Serial killers tell bad jokes too, they're just like you, except they kill people. How many people did you have to kill to make a serial killer? Hel probably knew that off the top.
Axel frowned. Okay, focus.
"But yeah, I, uh—shit—"
So, a hug sounded good, actually, because he was realizing he hadn't had one in a while. Because it felt weird to ask Andy for best bro, Hel-would-probably-have-something-to-say-here-about-toxic-masculinity-or-whatever reasons, and it felt weird to ask Abe for secrets-we-shall-take-to-the-grave reasons, and in retrospect wow were those stupid fucking hangups to have, and wow was he gonna be pissed at himself if he died with that big dumbass regret hanging on him. But Nick was here, and he was offering, and he'd tossed his knife aside.
Axel could probably run at the knife and grab it before Nick could stop him. Nick probably wouldn't stop him. He'd drank half the water and eaten most of the energy bar already, he could move again. Not that he'd kill Nick or anything, course not, jesus, but he could run, then. Have something half-decent to defend himself with, not have to worry so much about being attacked on his way back to camp. There was Marco Kreuger to worry about, wherever he'd wandered off to, but... there wasn't actually a but because he wasn't actually serious. The thought popped into his mind and deflated like a balloon that someone stabbed with a knife or with a knife-glove, whichever.
More to the point was that Nick didn't have the knife, so he wasn't gonna stab him, and if he was gonna strangle him or whatever he probably would have already, so a hug seemed like a good idea. Except he was, and this was pretty important, still not wearing pants. Or anything else. He glanced at his pile of still wet clothes, but Nick was already literally like standing there with his arms out so faffing around trying to get his fucking boxers back on was actually probably weirder than just hugging him with his dick out. Not like Nick wasn't familiar enough with it already!
It was still pretty weird.
Mostly he was just happy that he could stand up without immediately falling on his ass again. He didn't feel great or anything, but he felt capable of walking on his own again. Sacrificing his own supplies for his sake was pretty fucking cool of Nick, murder aside because he was gonna keep having to put the murder aside or else he'd go fucking crazy. He wished he had something to give back, but literally all he had at the moment was a bunch of soaking wet clothes and he didn't think those were particularly useful.
He hugged Nick, anyway. Dude was huge, made him feel kind of tiny, reminded him very much once again that he could kill him right here and now but he wasn't doing that and that counted as comforting. Every moment someone wasn't killing him kinda counted as comforting. Those moments were numbered. Mikki hadn't known how few she had until it was too late. It would probably be the same for all of them. Kinda hard to say, kinda hard to imagine. Death was this whole big thing he still couldn't grasp and by the time he understood it he wouldn't be able to tell anyone else what he'd learned because he wouldn't exist anymore and he was gonna start crying and if he started crying in Nick's arms he honestly might as well stuff and mount his pride on the fucking cave wall.
"Thanks," he muttered awkwardly, buried somewhere in Nick's not-quite-bare chest (seriously, if you're just gonna wear a vest you might as well go shirtless) before pulling back. "I, uh. I ought to get dressed, and then... get out of here. Get back to the others." He was staring at the floor. It made sense and all but it still felt like "thanks for the stuff, now goodbye forever", because that's probably what it was.
That's probably what every goodbye was. God, he was eighteen. He wasn't meant for this.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Fighting, it turned out, wasn't just throwing punches.
Her hair move, her earrings moved, her bodyweight shifted. Throwing full force behind that closed fist was one thing, but where did the rest of the momentum go? Garnet's lead foot slid on the trail and she rocked all the way forward as her knuckles clipped Marco's face, knocking him back. She was forced to correct, planting her back foot, and that moment where she was teetering off balance was when Marco swiped at her extended arm as she pulled it back.
Cloth tore, her jacket's sleeve. She thought she felt a scratch. No time to think about that, not with a handful of knives slashing at her. She threw a kick, low and scything, then leaned forward into it.
Fighting, it turned out, wasn't just throwing punches.
But you know, another angry haymaker flung at the face still probably counted.
Her hair move, her earrings moved, her bodyweight shifted. Throwing full force behind that closed fist was one thing, but where did the rest of the momentum go? Garnet's lead foot slid on the trail and she rocked all the way forward as her knuckles clipped Marco's face, knocking him back. She was forced to correct, planting her back foot, and that moment where she was teetering off balance was when Marco swiped at her extended arm as she pulled it back.
Cloth tore, her jacket's sleeve. She thought she felt a scratch. No time to think about that, not with a handful of knives slashing at her. She threw a kick, low and scything, then leaned forward into it.
Fighting, it turned out, wasn't just throwing punches.
But you know, another angry haymaker flung at the face still probably counted.
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Emprexx Plush
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A fist flew wide over Marco's head without credit to prediction or expert footwork. Garnet's kick sent his foot skidding along wet ground without purchase, and as she leaned forward he fell.
Another memory, more fresh and clear than the last, flashed before his eyes. The water had roared then instead of drizzled. His legs were stolen from him by fatigue instead of violence. Garnet's face was concerned, not twisted. He'd reached out for a tanktop where there was now a hoodie. Then was something desperate for something to keep him upright despite his weakness. This time one hand curled into her hoodie to show Garnet he was strong. Strong enough to pull her into the fall she'd started, his full dead weight hanging around her.
He didn't wait for her to give in before the copper clad back of his hand swung for her chin.
Another memory, more fresh and clear than the last, flashed before his eyes. The water had roared then instead of drizzled. His legs were stolen from him by fatigue instead of violence. Garnet's face was concerned, not twisted. He'd reached out for a tanktop where there was now a hoodie. Then was something desperate for something to keep him upright despite his weakness. This time one hand curled into her hoodie to show Garnet he was strong. Strong enough to pull her into the fall she'd started, his full dead weight hanging around her.
He didn't wait for her to give in before the copper clad back of his hand swung for her chin.
Marco grabbed her as she naturally came forward with her weight behind the punch. Again, Garnet tried to catch herself with a foot on the ground, but this time there was a skid, this time the ground came with her and she lurched, staggering, stumbling.
Falling.
He took another swing at her as they both fell together, striking up as they both went down. Garnet twisted her head to the side but caught an impact across the right side of her jaw. Another scratch, more pain this time. Was that trickle rain, sweat, or blood?
Garnet did what she could to adjust herself, fall away from that lethal clawed hand, though a heap was a heap and she crashed down atop of Marco either way. Immediately, she snatched out to try and grip Marco's wrist, control the weapon away from her. Even if there wasn't much room to make a swing while he was on his back, you didn't need a lot of space for all kinds of nasty stuff with the weapons. Her other hand sought purchase on the ground, trying to push up, gain some leverage to go from laying atop Marco to a mounted position.
What came next? What came next?
Falling.
He took another swing at her as they both fell together, striking up as they both went down. Garnet twisted her head to the side but caught an impact across the right side of her jaw. Another scratch, more pain this time. Was that trickle rain, sweat, or blood?
Garnet did what she could to adjust herself, fall away from that lethal clawed hand, though a heap was a heap and she crashed down atop of Marco either way. Immediately, she snatched out to try and grip Marco's wrist, control the weapon away from her. Even if there wasn't much room to make a swing while he was on his back, you didn't need a lot of space for all kinds of nasty stuff with the weapons. Her other hand sought purchase on the ground, trying to push up, gain some leverage to go from laying atop Marco to a mounted position.
What came next? What came next?
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General Goose
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Hugs were good. Nick had always sorta taken them for granted. By and large his friends were an affectionate and touchy-feely bunch, there was no hesitation to wrap arms around someone else as a casual greeting or to provide solace for even the most minor of troubles, and Nick's family had no reservations about hugging either. He hadn't realised how that had mutated into a certain reliance, on his part, that he'd never consciously clicked onto. It was only when Marco had started hugging him - Michael too, but it was Marco who was giving those one-on-one hugs - that Nick clicked onto just how much he got out of the hug. Practically, it changed nothing. But it did something psychologically that was just irreplicable, without compare or substitute.
So he needed this hug, but he wagered Axel needed this hug too. He wasn't sure who needed it more - Nick knew that that sort of comparison was never healthy and never exactly productive. But they both needed it, and it was a need that they could deal with together. They hadn't actually hugged before, Nick realised, as Axel's arms began to embrace him and he buried his head in Nick's chest, bar some post-coital cuddling that definitely had different connotations to what they were doing now.
The hug didn't last as long as Nick would have liked, but that was true for all of the hugs he'd received while on the island. Metaphor for life as a whole, he supposed. And when Axel broke the hug, it wasn't like Nick could just, like, resume it. That would have been weird. And probably terrifying. A teeny bit possessive with a hint of the unhinged, too. So he just nodded solemnly as Axel explained his plans.
"Thanks," Nick murmured. "For, like, tolerating my bad joke and the hug and giving me a chance and, yeah." He couldn't explain just how much this had meant to him - especially in part because anyone he'd had some kind of pre-island friendship with could have done the same, though Nick was undoubtedly grateful it was Axel that had fallen into that position.
"Do you still need a hand? With walking back up to the entrance?" Axel seemed healthier, but not exactly at tip-top condition. It wasn't like that snack bar and those few sips of water constituted some rejuvenation serum or something.
So he needed this hug, but he wagered Axel needed this hug too. He wasn't sure who needed it more - Nick knew that that sort of comparison was never healthy and never exactly productive. But they both needed it, and it was a need that they could deal with together. They hadn't actually hugged before, Nick realised, as Axel's arms began to embrace him and he buried his head in Nick's chest, bar some post-coital cuddling that definitely had different connotations to what they were doing now.
The hug didn't last as long as Nick would have liked, but that was true for all of the hugs he'd received while on the island. Metaphor for life as a whole, he supposed. And when Axel broke the hug, it wasn't like Nick could just, like, resume it. That would have been weird. And probably terrifying. A teeny bit possessive with a hint of the unhinged, too. So he just nodded solemnly as Axel explained his plans.
"Thanks," Nick murmured. "For, like, tolerating my bad joke and the hug and giving me a chance and, yeah." He couldn't explain just how much this had meant to him - especially in part because anyone he'd had some kind of pre-island friendship with could have done the same, though Nick was undoubtedly grateful it was Axel that had fallen into that position.
"Do you still need a hand? With walking back up to the entrance?" Axel seemed healthier, but not exactly at tip-top condition. It wasn't like that snack bar and those few sips of water constituted some rejuvenation serum or something.
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Emprexx Plush
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She was trying to get on top of him. The control she'd expressed over him socially turned more literal, his wrist pinned in her grasp, her legs locking around his torso.
It was fine.
She could come as close as she wanted.
Marco let her take his wrist. He invited her to loom over him. He wanted her snarliing, animal face to show her true colors hanging just above him.
Their eyes locked. Hers were fixed in an unblinking glare.
That's when he spat the blood pooling in his mouth.
It was fine.
She could come as close as she wanted.
Marco let her take his wrist. He invited her to loom over him. He wanted her snarliing, animal face to show her true colors hanging just above him.
Their eyes locked. Hers were fixed in an unblinking glare.
That's when he spat the blood pooling in his mouth.
"Yeah."
"... Yeah."
He probably was supposed to have more to say than that, but he was fresh out of words.
He still had to wrangle with his clothes, though. Theoretically, anyway. Considering the whole pile was kind of a big "eh" of both "wow those still look gross" and "wow that feels like too much energy right now" and like, he'd been naked on camera for a while now so it wasn't like he had all that much shame left? He shuffled his boxers back on, at least, and his socks and shoes even though the squishing between his toes made him wince. The shirt was kind of a waste and no fucking way was he gonna deal with wet denim again, shit was gross. Boxers were kind of like shorts, right? Like walking back to camp in them wasn't that weird. Right? Andy and Abe had both been in them when he'd left, so. Fair was fair, or something.
There was still the water and the rest of the energy bar; he crammed the last of the latter into his face and let the wrapper flutter to the floor. The water bottle ended up in a pile with his other stuff; probably having some more to drink on his way back to camp would be a good idea, maybe the rain could fill it up? Was rainwater, like, safe to drink? Probably he'd be dead from something else before dysentery or whatever got him so who cared. He'd gone through this exact same train of thought earlier, hadn't he? Felt like a lifetime ago.
He wondered how much time had actually passed. He kept reaching on instinct for a phone that wasn't there. Christ he hoped he wasn't too late.
Taking Nick's hand would still be too weird, so he looped his arm through his instead, at least for a few steps until he realized he wasn't actually about to flop over. He glanced at Nick nervously before letting go. That kinda felt like a goodbye, too.
Hey, something was, uh.
Uh?
They both sped up a bit.
They—
...
Axel slipped away through the mouth of the cave, quick as he could. This sure as fuck wasn't his scene. Nick wasn't paying attention anymore, anyway.
It was fine. It was whatever.
Seriously.
>> Axel Fontaine has a better party to get back to anyway.
"... Yeah."
He probably was supposed to have more to say than that, but he was fresh out of words.
He still had to wrangle with his clothes, though. Theoretically, anyway. Considering the whole pile was kind of a big "eh" of both "wow those still look gross" and "wow that feels like too much energy right now" and like, he'd been naked on camera for a while now so it wasn't like he had all that much shame left? He shuffled his boxers back on, at least, and his socks and shoes even though the squishing between his toes made him wince. The shirt was kind of a waste and no fucking way was he gonna deal with wet denim again, shit was gross. Boxers were kind of like shorts, right? Like walking back to camp in them wasn't that weird. Right? Andy and Abe had both been in them when he'd left, so. Fair was fair, or something.
There was still the water and the rest of the energy bar; he crammed the last of the latter into his face and let the wrapper flutter to the floor. The water bottle ended up in a pile with his other stuff; probably having some more to drink on his way back to camp would be a good idea, maybe the rain could fill it up? Was rainwater, like, safe to drink? Probably he'd be dead from something else before dysentery or whatever got him so who cared. He'd gone through this exact same train of thought earlier, hadn't he? Felt like a lifetime ago.
He wondered how much time had actually passed. He kept reaching on instinct for a phone that wasn't there. Christ he hoped he wasn't too late.
Taking Nick's hand would still be too weird, so he looped his arm through his instead, at least for a few steps until he realized he wasn't actually about to flop over. He glanced at Nick nervously before letting go. That kinda felt like a goodbye, too.
Hey, something was, uh.
Uh?
They both sped up a bit.
They—
...
Axel slipped away through the mouth of the cave, quick as he could. This sure as fuck wasn't his scene. Nick wasn't paying attention anymore, anyway.
It was fine. It was whatever.
Seriously.
>> Axel Fontaine has a better party to get back to anyway.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
What came next, on the most superficial level where it was an answer to the question but not an answer to the question, was two different things.
Marco, as Garnet took position and tucked in her elbow, spat blood at her. The spray hit her full in the face, misting everything and splattering her glasses. It didn't blind her, as he might have hoped, but it made her jolt. She'd drawn blood hitting him like that? She faltered, and the planned elbow to Marco's jaw turned into more of a shove, forcing his head to one side.
The point of this was? What she'd do was? She hadn't talked any sense into him, so now she was beating it in? Was that how breaking the game worked? Drawing blood from people who were here because all of them were here, who had never hurt anyone before?
But he had hurt someone here. More than hurt, and it was no accident.
Garnet heard movement, looked up, saw that the two of them were no longer alone, that the backup Marco had mentioned was indeed in the neighbourhood.
Make that three things, and still no closer to a real answer.
Marco, as Garnet took position and tucked in her elbow, spat blood at her. The spray hit her full in the face, misting everything and splattering her glasses. It didn't blind her, as he might have hoped, but it made her jolt. She'd drawn blood hitting him like that? She faltered, and the planned elbow to Marco's jaw turned into more of a shove, forcing his head to one side.
The point of this was? What she'd do was? She hadn't talked any sense into him, so now she was beating it in? Was that how breaking the game worked? Drawing blood from people who were here because all of them were here, who had never hurt anyone before?
But he had hurt someone here. More than hurt, and it was no accident.
Garnet heard movement, looked up, saw that the two of them were no longer alone, that the backup Marco had mentioned was indeed in the neighbourhood.
Make that three things, and still no closer to a real answer.