Marco felt the first impact before he heard it. He let go of Aurelien as he stood up and bee lined to the right.
Another clap and another impact, and Marco stumbled, bumping into the wall. He gasped as he realized he’d been hit, and hit twice. Once in the back, just under the ribs, and once in the neck.
This was as over as it could be. One hand applied pressure to his throat to stop the blood flow, he rolled over to lean his back against the wall, craning his neck to see who did it.
He saw Jackson holding the glock. Ariana’s glock. He gasped and growled waiting for the third shot. It never came, the pistol clattering to the floor, followed by the haggard form of Jackson.
Hell no.
Marco pushed off the wall, stumbling, legs quaking. One hand on his neck, one on the wall to keep him up, he moved towards the prone form.
Hell no...
“Get up.” He rasped as he got closer to Jackson. “Hnk, Get the fuck up!” He swung his boot into his side. He reeled his leg back again, only to lose his balance and stop himself just short from his legs buckling underneath him.
He growled in anger, grabbing Jackson by the scruff of his neck and lifting his head up. “Don’t play dead... You kill me, you look me in the eyes, pussy!”
He slammed him into the ground. He was weak. He wasn’t doing much of anything now. Jackson slipped out of his grasp, and Marco almost lost his balance and fell back.
He caught himself on one of the window curtains. If he dropped and hit the ground, he’d never get back up. Legs quaking it took all his energy just to balance, let alone move.
Marco saw the red pit at Jackson’s side and realized he wasn’t long for the world either. With his waning energy he put one more weak kick into the side of his stomach in anger at the audacity of it.
After all of this he’d be laid low by a bullet? A bullet from a dead man? He turned to limp away, his vision fading away into checkerboards and stars, as his hearing faded into ringing.
He leaned against the wall, doing his best to breath what little he could to regain himself. He opened his eye, he could see again. He saw the carnage he left for what it was, and he smiled.
Jackson was crumpled in a pool of blood. Aurelien’s face was crushed to a pulp. Henry was curled up and crawling around the wind knocked away. He did this.
He grabbed onto the bedrail as he trudged forward. “Last man standing, motherfuckers.” He mumbled to himself. He had time, he still had time to go outside, say his goodbyes to Adonis.
He looked at his feet to trudge on out.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Left foot.
He looked up.
Henry was up again.
Marco held his hand to his throat as he watched him. He let go of the railing and stood hunched over, as he saw what was in Henry’s arms.
Guess he wasn’t walking out of here after all... Sorry Adonis. Guess you’ll find what’s left of me splattered all over the walls.
Marco stepped forward, looking down the barrel of the punt gun.
His legs wobbled and almost buckled, but slowly they straightened up as Marco’s hand left the bed, his other leaving his throat, letting the blood flow freely.
He straightened his hunched over back, and raised his arms to the sides, outstretched, the light from the window leaving a warmth along his back as he stood tall, defiant like an evil Jesus.
Nail me to the cross and let me be reborn...
His head looked from the barrel up, into Henry’s eyes. Even now, he stood taller than his killer’s kneeling form. Even now, in his death he would die standing. Even now he was the one who won in the end.
Marcus Volker had no regrets.
“Well? Fuck you waitin’ for, eh? A final speech?”
Valhalla awaits.
Our Mutual Fiend
Day 6 - Private
Jackson crawled away. Got to Ari’s gun. The trail of blood and gunshots made that clear enough. He did his part; more than anyone would’ve ever asked him to. So did Aurelien. They both had done more than Henry ever would’ve asked of anyone. They’d done their best. Bought him enough time to think. To fight through half-breaths and spots in his vision to reach his weapon, to load it.
Now he faced Marco down, and the psycho was still standing. Still getting whatever it was he wanted out of this. Still trying to walk away from what he’d done. Whatever was wrong with him was no small thing. Henry managed to get to one knee, into a position he could brace himself for the recoil. Bloodshot eyes scanned the room. The sight of his fallen allies brought out an anger and sadness Henry knew he wouldn’t soon forget. Marco noticed. Saw what was coming. Prepared for it. As if that changed what it was going to be.
Shaking his head at the defiant question, Henry cocked the hammer on the punt gun and pointed the weapon squarely at Marco’s chest.
“No. You’ve said enough.”
He squeezed the trigger, saturating Marco in lead, smoke, and fire.
Now he faced Marco down, and the psycho was still standing. Still getting whatever it was he wanted out of this. Still trying to walk away from what he’d done. Whatever was wrong with him was no small thing. Henry managed to get to one knee, into a position he could brace himself for the recoil. Bloodshot eyes scanned the room. The sight of his fallen allies brought out an anger and sadness Henry knew he wouldn’t soon forget. Marco noticed. Saw what was coming. Prepared for it. As if that changed what it was going to be.
Shaking his head at the defiant question, Henry cocked the hammer on the punt gun and pointed the weapon squarely at Marco’s chest.
“No. You’ve said enough.”
He squeezed the trigger, saturating Marco in lead, smoke, and fire.
Marco choked back a laugh at what Henry said.
Maybe so, may maybe so... In the end, at least he could back it all up.
Marco saw Henry’s hand tighten. He closed his eyes and bit his lip in anticipation, not even bothering to hide his smirk.
Even with his eyes closed he saw the flash through his eyelid. Once it got dark again, he opened his eyes and saw nothing but smoke. The world slowed down and Marco’s feet lifted off the air.
There was no pain, no sensations of pressure, nothing but the light show, and Marco was along for the ride. He didn’t feel nothing until he hit the window.
For a while he was just... pinned. Stuck like a bug until he felt pressure along his chest. It was like someone pressed their fist to his ribs and started pushing. The pressure amplified and Marco gasped, but it didn’t hurt. It continued to increase and Marco could hear his ribs cracking, concaving as it projectile forced its way through him.
There was another set of cracking, amplifying around him as the sounds from his chest got louder and louder. Through his peripheral vision he saw the windows cracking, as the pressure compressed and crawled through him. He felt it bore through him and the window, and for a moment he wondered if he’d get sucked through the hole in the window before the whole thing gave, dragging him outside.
As he was pulled out he was followed by the cloud of smoke and for a while, that was his whole world, nothing but smoke. Eventually, he broke through the cloud and could see the sun, the trees, the grass, and the smoke billowing out of the window. The mixture of lights and colors were one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, fitting because it would be the last thing he saw.
His ascent stopped and he began his descent back to the earth below. Smoke billowed out of his mouth and out of his chest, trailing him like the jet stream of an airplane.
He hit the ground and bounced, once. Twice, then skidded a few more feet to a stop.
His mouth motioned to exhale, but nothing came in, or out, considering there were no lungs in his chest to filter it, let alone a heart to pump blood or a spine to deliver sensations.
There was a gaping basketball sized hole right through his ribs, the rim a mixture of red flesh and blackened chars, as ash and burning cinders floating around the center with wafts of smoke. From his abdomen to his chin, he was painted a dark silver, covered in gunsmoke and ash like tribal body paint. Bits of his hair were singed, and blood painted his lips like smeared makeup.
His mouth peeled into a smile as he did his best to hold onto the experience before it all washed away. Again, he had no regrets, and knowing what he knew now, he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.
He savored his last moments.
He lasted about four seconds after point of impact.
MARCUS VOLKER: DECEASED
Maybe so, may maybe so... In the end, at least he could back it all up.
Marco saw Henry’s hand tighten. He closed his eyes and bit his lip in anticipation, not even bothering to hide his smirk.
Even with his eyes closed he saw the flash through his eyelid. Once it got dark again, he opened his eyes and saw nothing but smoke. The world slowed down and Marco’s feet lifted off the air.
There was no pain, no sensations of pressure, nothing but the light show, and Marco was along for the ride. He didn’t feel nothing until he hit the window.
For a while he was just... pinned. Stuck like a bug until he felt pressure along his chest. It was like someone pressed their fist to his ribs and started pushing. The pressure amplified and Marco gasped, but it didn’t hurt. It continued to increase and Marco could hear his ribs cracking, concaving as it projectile forced its way through him.
There was another set of cracking, amplifying around him as the sounds from his chest got louder and louder. Through his peripheral vision he saw the windows cracking, as the pressure compressed and crawled through him. He felt it bore through him and the window, and for a moment he wondered if he’d get sucked through the hole in the window before the whole thing gave, dragging him outside.
As he was pulled out he was followed by the cloud of smoke and for a while, that was his whole world, nothing but smoke. Eventually, he broke through the cloud and could see the sun, the trees, the grass, and the smoke billowing out of the window. The mixture of lights and colors were one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, fitting because it would be the last thing he saw.
His ascent stopped and he began his descent back to the earth below. Smoke billowed out of his mouth and out of his chest, trailing him like the jet stream of an airplane.
He hit the ground and bounced, once. Twice, then skidded a few more feet to a stop.
His mouth motioned to exhale, but nothing came in, or out, considering there were no lungs in his chest to filter it, let alone a heart to pump blood or a spine to deliver sensations.
There was a gaping basketball sized hole right through his ribs, the rim a mixture of red flesh and blackened chars, as ash and burning cinders floating around the center with wafts of smoke. From his abdomen to his chin, he was painted a dark silver, covered in gunsmoke and ash like tribal body paint. Bits of his hair were singed, and blood painted his lips like smeared makeup.
His mouth peeled into a smile as he did his best to hold onto the experience before it all washed away. Again, he had no regrets, and knowing what he knew now, he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.
He savored his last moments.
He lasted about four seconds after point of impact.
MARCUS VOLKER: DECEASED
-
Primrosette
- Posts: 1033
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 9:58 am
- Location: In the Dark Abyss
Adonis had heard the gunshots and he had been trying not to think about what he had done to Wyatt. He was trying to keep his mind more focused on the situation in front of him and he could see Tristan with blood all over his body and pointing at Adonis like he was a guilty person. He blinked. Tristan was gone. Nothing but a delusion. He felt like static was ringing in his ears as he felt himself sinking more and more into a spiral.
Glass shattered.
A body was suddenly outside.
He knew who it was.
But he had to check.
Why didn't he say anything before Marco went inside?
He found himself dragging his feet slowly over towards the corpse and the chainsaw was thumping over the ground lightly by his side. He stopped beside Marco's battered, fucked-up body and he... didn't cry. He found himself smiling as he thought about how Marco wanted to die while taking on anyone who he wanted revenge against. Dying like a true warrior.
Adonis knelt down beside Marco and he touched Marco's cheek, getting some sticky blood on his hand. He didn't care about that at all.
"My warrior...." He chuckled a little. Forgetting that the world around him was still in chaos.
Glass shattered.
A body was suddenly outside.
He knew who it was.
But he had to check.
Why didn't he say anything before Marco went inside?
He found himself dragging his feet slowly over towards the corpse and the chainsaw was thumping over the ground lightly by his side. He stopped beside Marco's battered, fucked-up body and he... didn't cry. He found himself smiling as he thought about how Marco wanted to die while taking on anyone who he wanted revenge against. Dying like a true warrior.
Adonis knelt down beside Marco and he touched Marco's cheek, getting some sticky blood on his hand. He didn't care about that at all.
"My warrior...." He chuckled a little. Forgetting that the world around him was still in chaos.
Henry looked on with some satisfaction as he saw that Marco was no longer standing there, or in the Infirmary for that matter. The blast had knocked him off of his feet, and through the window. Henry spat bloody saliva to the ground, a final gesture of disrespect to a person he knew he’d never fully understand.
There was blood all over the walls. Anywhere Marco had fought, he left it. Smoke from the punt gun and haze from the fire extinguisher hung in the air. Embers from the muzzle blast had set a small fire, and it was slowly beginning to spread. There was a trail from Jackson crawling to get Ari’s gun. Now his friend was lying in a puddle that was slowly leaking through the wooden floorboards.
At least they did it. They got one. For whatever that was worth.
Henry dropped the gun and ran to his bag, fetching what few first-aid supplies he had left and making a beeline to Jackson. He knelt down in the other boy’s blood, once again frantically trying to stop the bleeding. It would hurt. Jackson might scream, or wince, or make the noises Henry heard him make in his sleep. But he’d live. He had to live. Otherwise, there wasn’t any point to this.
Otherwise, they’d lost. Otherwise there was nothing to take away from this but pain. Henry shouted back, over his shoulder.
“Aurelien! You alive? I need you! Jackson’s bleeding again. We - we have to help him!”
He kept talking to Jackson, carrying on in a harried tone. Words and promises as much for the other boy as they were for Henry himself.
“C’mon. Stay with me. I promised you, we - we promised you. We’re not letting you die. Just hang on. Stay awake. Do your job, I’ll do mine. Marco’s dead, it’s just us now. You're safe. We patched you up before. We can do it again. Just pressure and time, right? Right? Jackson? This isn’t - this isn’t happening again.”
There wasn’t anything else he knew how to do.
“Not again. Not for nothing.”
Keep trying.
“I’m here. You’ve gotta stay awake.”
Just work the problem.
“Please. Please don’t go.”
There was blood all over the walls. Anywhere Marco had fought, he left it. Smoke from the punt gun and haze from the fire extinguisher hung in the air. Embers from the muzzle blast had set a small fire, and it was slowly beginning to spread. There was a trail from Jackson crawling to get Ari’s gun. Now his friend was lying in a puddle that was slowly leaking through the wooden floorboards.
At least they did it. They got one. For whatever that was worth.
Henry dropped the gun and ran to his bag, fetching what few first-aid supplies he had left and making a beeline to Jackson. He knelt down in the other boy’s blood, once again frantically trying to stop the bleeding. It would hurt. Jackson might scream, or wince, or make the noises Henry heard him make in his sleep. But he’d live. He had to live. Otherwise, there wasn’t any point to this.
Otherwise, they’d lost. Otherwise there was nothing to take away from this but pain. Henry shouted back, over his shoulder.
“Aurelien! You alive? I need you! Jackson’s bleeding again. We - we have to help him!”
He kept talking to Jackson, carrying on in a harried tone. Words and promises as much for the other boy as they were for Henry himself.
“C’mon. Stay with me. I promised you, we - we promised you. We’re not letting you die. Just hang on. Stay awake. Do your job, I’ll do mine. Marco’s dead, it’s just us now. You're safe. We patched you up before. We can do it again. Just pressure and time, right? Right? Jackson? This isn’t - this isn’t happening again.”
There wasn’t anything else he knew how to do.
“Not again. Not for nothing.”
Keep trying.
“I’m here. You’ve gotta stay awake.”
Just work the problem.
“Please. Please don’t go.”
Everything hurt.
His whole body felt like it was on fire. And yet at the same time, a cold shiver ran down his spine. Odd. His vision was blurred, even more so than before. He couldn’t bring himself to focus on anything. It made him feel dizzy, so he shut his eyes. The smell of blood and gunpowder was all around him. Every breath was followed by a hack or cough, a wetness in his throat stopping him from taking in the right amount of air. There was a warm wet feeling on his cheek, his own blood, presumably. He must have been bleeding quite a lot for the pool to have reached so far. It was becoming hard to stay awake. Hard to think.
And yet.
Jackson was strangely happy.
He’d done it. He didn’t let anyone else die. Wasn’t that everything they’d wanted to do since forming this group? Jackson did it. And what’s more, he avenged Ariana’s brutal death. He hoped she had seen. He hoped it would help her find easier rest. He hoped it would do the same for him. Another weak couch spilled from his mouth, bringing the coppery taste of his own blood back to his taste buds. What he wouldn’t give for a strong drink to wash out the awful flavor. If he had to choose, a nice glass of whiskey would do the trick. Yeah, a drink would do him just fine right about now. Too bad. If he’d known this was how it was all going to end, he’d have snuck a bottle into his bag for the trip.
Noise nearby. He moved his head as best he could towards the source. Henry. Although he couldn’t see him very clearly, he could tell. Henry was talking, moving him, pressing on his wounds. It hurt. He knew Henry was talking, but he could barely hear him. Everything sounded muffled and far away. His eyes kept threatening to roll back as he did his best to focus on Henry’s face. Probably not good, he thought to himself wryly. He tried to speak, but only a weak cough followed where he wanted there to be words. That was pretty fucked. He couldn’t even have some badass last words or nothin’.
Well, whatever. Didn’t matter.
He wondered how his parents would react. If they’d watch. He hoped they didn’t. He didn’t want them to see this. Him so pathetic. Dying like a fucking weakling. His father didn’t need the stress. He was so weak already. He hoped this wouldn’t make him give up. And his mom… He wanted her to find a way to get through this. She was a good person, but life always had a way of beating her down. He hoped one day she could find some happiness. Some joy. Something good, instead of all the bad and sadness that their family had gone through for so long. He wished he’d called home one last time before he got on that bus. Told them how much he loved them. Even though life with them was hard, and they fought and hurt each other with words and bitterness. Told them that he would do anything to be back with them.
He thought about Luca. He wished he could hear her voice again. See her smile as she came to visit him at work with coffee in hand. Smell her perfume one last time. He’d been such a coward. He never did tell her how much he cared. How she was his everything. How the sun rose and set with her smile in his eyes. He thought about prom night. How he missed his opportunity.
*~*~*~*~*~*
The night had been long. Full of dancing and smiles and laughter. The class of 2018 knew their way around a party, and prom had been no exception. But now, it was almost over. The time flew by, and people began to clear out bit by bit. Jackson and Luca were still there. They weren’t in a rush to leave just yet. The two had decided to step outside the ballroom for some air. There was a small garden connected to the ballroom’s outer door. Jackson held the door open as Luca gracefully stepped out. He watched her as she elegantly moved across the floor. She walked over to a small table and leaned forward on it, looking out over the beautiful flowers that surrounded them.
But Jackson had no care for flowers and scenery.
The only thing he could look at was her. Stunningly beautiful even now, at the end of the night. His eyes were locked on her as he moved closer, but he stopped just short of reaching her. He.. he wanted to say something. Something desperately wanted to burst forth, but he didn't know how. He didn’t know what the right words would be. How to force them past his lips. Luca turned, and just like every time before, his breath left him as he gazed into her eyes. She smiled awkwardly at him. His favorite smile.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight, I… I really appreciate it.” She said as she reached over and intertwined her hand with his.
Jackson’s face softened, and a shy smile spread across his face, a blush coming soon after. How had he gotten so lucky to have someone like this in his life. He was just some loser who came from nothing. It didn’t make sense.
“I wouldn’t want to be anyplace else.” He took her hand and covered it with his free hand, cradling it between both hands gently.
“Luca, I…” He hesitated. Why couldn’t he just say what he wanted. Why wouldn’t the words come out?
“You’re so important to me.” She looked down at her feet almost embarrassed as he said it, but before he could quickly apologize, she squeezed his hand and stopped him.
“You mean-” She was stumbling over her words a bit, and for a second, Jackson’s heart leapt out of his chest and into his throat.
“I feel the same about you.” Her words baffled him. How she could say that so casually, but he couldn’t bring himself to agree.
Jackson’s eyes widened and he began to feel himself start to sweat as he stood there in front of her. Her hand in his. It was the perfect moment. But… she was everything and he was nobody. She had a future that was as bright as a star, and his was unclear. This wasn’t meant to be. She deserved so much more than he could ever offer.
“You really are-” The love of my life. “-my best friend.”
He hated himself. He couldn’t say it after all. He started sadly at her for a moment. She looked confused. As if she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what. A look of concern passed over her beautiful features and it broke his heart for a moment. She peered down at him and smiled.
“Thank you, I - I’m glad.” He looked away in shame. She moved into his field of vision and held out her arms. “... Hug?”
He nodded, and moved into her embrace. The sweet smell of her perfume invaded his senses and he sighed with a small weak smile on his face. Maybe this could be enough. Maybe he could live knowing she was better off this way. He would just be a constant burden on her life. She was worth more than he could ever afford.
So this was enough.
*~*~*~*~*~*
He smiled as the memory faded away.
Luca was kind, and good, and everything anyone could ask for. He was glad. Glad for his cowardice. Glad she’d never know. It would only cause her pain now. It would only make this worse. One day, he was sure, she’d find someone who made her feel as good as she made him every time she turned to smile at him. Her life would be full of happiness. One day, he’d be nothing but a distant memory of a boy she once knew, and that was okay. She deserved every ounce of joy the world could give her.
Jackson’s thoughts began to trip over one another. He couldn’t think straight at all. His vision was growing dark. His body losing feeling as he slipped away. The muffled sounds around him grew quieter and quieter as he felt himself slipping. Soon, he could hear nothing at all. See nothing.
Just darkness.
And he let it take him away.
BOY #36 JACKSON SULLIVAN - DECEASED
ONLY 84 STUDENTS REMAIN
His whole body felt like it was on fire. And yet at the same time, a cold shiver ran down his spine. Odd. His vision was blurred, even more so than before. He couldn’t bring himself to focus on anything. It made him feel dizzy, so he shut his eyes. The smell of blood and gunpowder was all around him. Every breath was followed by a hack or cough, a wetness in his throat stopping him from taking in the right amount of air. There was a warm wet feeling on his cheek, his own blood, presumably. He must have been bleeding quite a lot for the pool to have reached so far. It was becoming hard to stay awake. Hard to think.
And yet.
Jackson was strangely happy.
He’d done it. He didn’t let anyone else die. Wasn’t that everything they’d wanted to do since forming this group? Jackson did it. And what’s more, he avenged Ariana’s brutal death. He hoped she had seen. He hoped it would help her find easier rest. He hoped it would do the same for him. Another weak couch spilled from his mouth, bringing the coppery taste of his own blood back to his taste buds. What he wouldn’t give for a strong drink to wash out the awful flavor. If he had to choose, a nice glass of whiskey would do the trick. Yeah, a drink would do him just fine right about now. Too bad. If he’d known this was how it was all going to end, he’d have snuck a bottle into his bag for the trip.
Noise nearby. He moved his head as best he could towards the source. Henry. Although he couldn’t see him very clearly, he could tell. Henry was talking, moving him, pressing on his wounds. It hurt. He knew Henry was talking, but he could barely hear him. Everything sounded muffled and far away. His eyes kept threatening to roll back as he did his best to focus on Henry’s face. Probably not good, he thought to himself wryly. He tried to speak, but only a weak cough followed where he wanted there to be words. That was pretty fucked. He couldn’t even have some badass last words or nothin’.
Well, whatever. Didn’t matter.
He wondered how his parents would react. If they’d watch. He hoped they didn’t. He didn’t want them to see this. Him so pathetic. Dying like a fucking weakling. His father didn’t need the stress. He was so weak already. He hoped this wouldn’t make him give up. And his mom… He wanted her to find a way to get through this. She was a good person, but life always had a way of beating her down. He hoped one day she could find some happiness. Some joy. Something good, instead of all the bad and sadness that their family had gone through for so long. He wished he’d called home one last time before he got on that bus. Told them how much he loved them. Even though life with them was hard, and they fought and hurt each other with words and bitterness. Told them that he would do anything to be back with them.
He thought about Luca. He wished he could hear her voice again. See her smile as she came to visit him at work with coffee in hand. Smell her perfume one last time. He’d been such a coward. He never did tell her how much he cared. How she was his everything. How the sun rose and set with her smile in his eyes. He thought about prom night. How he missed his opportunity.
*~*~*~*~*~*
The night had been long. Full of dancing and smiles and laughter. The class of 2018 knew their way around a party, and prom had been no exception. But now, it was almost over. The time flew by, and people began to clear out bit by bit. Jackson and Luca were still there. They weren’t in a rush to leave just yet. The two had decided to step outside the ballroom for some air. There was a small garden connected to the ballroom’s outer door. Jackson held the door open as Luca gracefully stepped out. He watched her as she elegantly moved across the floor. She walked over to a small table and leaned forward on it, looking out over the beautiful flowers that surrounded them.
But Jackson had no care for flowers and scenery.
The only thing he could look at was her. Stunningly beautiful even now, at the end of the night. His eyes were locked on her as he moved closer, but he stopped just short of reaching her. He.. he wanted to say something. Something desperately wanted to burst forth, but he didn't know how. He didn’t know what the right words would be. How to force them past his lips. Luca turned, and just like every time before, his breath left him as he gazed into her eyes. She smiled awkwardly at him. His favorite smile.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight, I… I really appreciate it.” She said as she reached over and intertwined her hand with his.
Jackson’s face softened, and a shy smile spread across his face, a blush coming soon after. How had he gotten so lucky to have someone like this in his life. He was just some loser who came from nothing. It didn’t make sense.
“I wouldn’t want to be anyplace else.” He took her hand and covered it with his free hand, cradling it between both hands gently.
“Luca, I…” He hesitated. Why couldn’t he just say what he wanted. Why wouldn’t the words come out?
“You’re so important to me.” She looked down at her feet almost embarrassed as he said it, but before he could quickly apologize, she squeezed his hand and stopped him.
“You mean-” She was stumbling over her words a bit, and for a second, Jackson’s heart leapt out of his chest and into his throat.
“I feel the same about you.” Her words baffled him. How she could say that so casually, but he couldn’t bring himself to agree.
Jackson’s eyes widened and he began to feel himself start to sweat as he stood there in front of her. Her hand in his. It was the perfect moment. But… she was everything and he was nobody. She had a future that was as bright as a star, and his was unclear. This wasn’t meant to be. She deserved so much more than he could ever offer.
“You really are-” The love of my life. “-my best friend.”
He hated himself. He couldn’t say it after all. He started sadly at her for a moment. She looked confused. As if she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what. A look of concern passed over her beautiful features and it broke his heart for a moment. She peered down at him and smiled.
“Thank you, I - I’m glad.” He looked away in shame. She moved into his field of vision and held out her arms. “... Hug?”
He nodded, and moved into her embrace. The sweet smell of her perfume invaded his senses and he sighed with a small weak smile on his face. Maybe this could be enough. Maybe he could live knowing she was better off this way. He would just be a constant burden on her life. She was worth more than he could ever afford.
So this was enough.
*~*~*~*~*~*
He smiled as the memory faded away.
Luca was kind, and good, and everything anyone could ask for. He was glad. Glad for his cowardice. Glad she’d never know. It would only cause her pain now. It would only make this worse. One day, he was sure, she’d find someone who made her feel as good as she made him every time she turned to smile at him. Her life would be full of happiness. One day, he’d be nothing but a distant memory of a boy she once knew, and that was okay. She deserved every ounce of joy the world could give her.
Jackson’s thoughts began to trip over one another. He couldn’t think straight at all. His vision was growing dark. His body losing feeling as he slipped away. The muffled sounds around him grew quieter and quieter as he felt himself slipping. Soon, he could hear nothing at all. See nothing.
Just darkness.
And he let it take him away.
BOY #36 JACKSON SULLIVAN - DECEASED
ONLY 84 STUDENTS REMAIN
He thought he had died at first.
He lay there, drifting through the void, unaware of any sensation surrounding him but the pain coursing through his body. He’d died, and now he was floating, waiting in purgatory, stuck in suspended animation, caught in this infinite loop of agony. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t smell or hear or feel anything outside of his own body.
His aimless mind briefly flashed to images of rosaries, golden crosses, clutched by nervous hands in the warm amber light of a car at night. Something pulled at him from deep inside, and he started to feel again. Hard flooring beneath his broken body. Hair plastered to his sweat slicked forehead. Bruises patterned across his ribs. Oh, he was still alive, alright. Maybe he’d briefly gone beyond the veil. But he was clawing himself back now, back to life, inch by inch.
He thought, then, that he must be blind instead.
After all, he couldn’t see anything. His eyelids felt welded shut. Or perhaps there was some hideous death mask covering his face, blocking out all vision. It covered his mouth and nose, too, hiding all of his features from view. And now, it was starting to melt, seeping into his mouth, flooding his nostrils, blocking his airways and choking him and-
Aurelien sat up, far quicker than he should have with his body in tatters, grabbing his blood-soaked bandana and pulling it down to his neck, taking in a deep, shuddering lungful of air, even as his body rioted and did everything in its power to grab that breath and steal it from him. He coughed, blood splattering onto his jeans, and he wiped his face with the back of his hand, clearing the sanguine mask from his eyes. He could feel the cuts and soon-to-be-scars flare up again instantly, but he ignored them for the moment. He was alive.
Who else was?
He had to assume Marco wasn’t. There was no movement within the rapidly thinning fog, no more sounds of violence. There was a shattered window - obliterated might have been a better word, honestly - framed by curtains, aflame and burning fast. He could feel the heat from where he was sitting, but it didn’t look like anything else was catching; they’d burn themselves up and disappear into soot and ash.
He supposed it was as good a tribute as any to Marco, not that he deserved anything. Burn bright, burn fast, then crumble into nothingness. Disappear and be forgotten about. Die, and don’t ever have a chance to hurt anyone else. They were halfway there to having won this battle.
But it wouldn’t feel like a victory unless they were all still here.
Instinctively, Aurelien pressed down with his shattered hand to lever himself out, gasping with pain as his broken, dismembered fingers sent a shockwave through his body, almost making him collapse back down again. Somehow he stayed seated. And somehow he managed to use his other hand to push himself up, getting to his feet and staying standing, even as his legs shook. Even as he felt like he was about to spill his guts and keel over onto the floor once more.
Even as he looked over at Henry and Jackson and realised that they hadn’t won.
He stumbled over to Henry, moving like the zombie they’d just killed. He wiped his face again, this time on his sleeve, thick maroon lines smeared across olive green fabric. His throat was dry. His voice was coaxed out of hiding.
“Henry.”
He lay there, drifting through the void, unaware of any sensation surrounding him but the pain coursing through his body. He’d died, and now he was floating, waiting in purgatory, stuck in suspended animation, caught in this infinite loop of agony. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t smell or hear or feel anything outside of his own body.
His aimless mind briefly flashed to images of rosaries, golden crosses, clutched by nervous hands in the warm amber light of a car at night. Something pulled at him from deep inside, and he started to feel again. Hard flooring beneath his broken body. Hair plastered to his sweat slicked forehead. Bruises patterned across his ribs. Oh, he was still alive, alright. Maybe he’d briefly gone beyond the veil. But he was clawing himself back now, back to life, inch by inch.
He thought, then, that he must be blind instead.
After all, he couldn’t see anything. His eyelids felt welded shut. Or perhaps there was some hideous death mask covering his face, blocking out all vision. It covered his mouth and nose, too, hiding all of his features from view. And now, it was starting to melt, seeping into his mouth, flooding his nostrils, blocking his airways and choking him and-
Aurelien sat up, far quicker than he should have with his body in tatters, grabbing his blood-soaked bandana and pulling it down to his neck, taking in a deep, shuddering lungful of air, even as his body rioted and did everything in its power to grab that breath and steal it from him. He coughed, blood splattering onto his jeans, and he wiped his face with the back of his hand, clearing the sanguine mask from his eyes. He could feel the cuts and soon-to-be-scars flare up again instantly, but he ignored them for the moment. He was alive.
Who else was?
He had to assume Marco wasn’t. There was no movement within the rapidly thinning fog, no more sounds of violence. There was a shattered window - obliterated might have been a better word, honestly - framed by curtains, aflame and burning fast. He could feel the heat from where he was sitting, but it didn’t look like anything else was catching; they’d burn themselves up and disappear into soot and ash.
He supposed it was as good a tribute as any to Marco, not that he deserved anything. Burn bright, burn fast, then crumble into nothingness. Disappear and be forgotten about. Die, and don’t ever have a chance to hurt anyone else. They were halfway there to having won this battle.
But it wouldn’t feel like a victory unless they were all still here.
Instinctively, Aurelien pressed down with his shattered hand to lever himself out, gasping with pain as his broken, dismembered fingers sent a shockwave through his body, almost making him collapse back down again. Somehow he stayed seated. And somehow he managed to use his other hand to push himself up, getting to his feet and staying standing, even as his legs shook. Even as he felt like he was about to spill his guts and keel over onto the floor once more.
Even as he looked over at Henry and Jackson and realised that they hadn’t won.
He stumbled over to Henry, moving like the zombie they’d just killed. He wiped his face again, this time on his sleeve, thick maroon lines smeared across olive green fabric. His throat was dry. His voice was coaxed out of hiding.
“Henry.”
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
Not again. He promised. He wasn’t making the same mistake twice. Wasn’t going to let someone mercy-kill Jackson just because it was supposedly hopeless. Like it was normal to just let someone die when things got too difficult, too absurd and horrible and well beyond explaining.
Too much blood. More than he thought he’d ever see in person.
Jackson passed out, barely conscious when Henry had arrived at his side in the first place. Henry hoped he had been aware enough to know there were people here for him. That the fight was over, for now. Jackson didn’t need to do any more. Just hang on. If people felt comfortable, if they were calm, that increased their odds of survival. Even if they were slim. Even if gunshot wounds weren’t his only obstacle. Maybe just feeling like he mattered, that would add a slim percentage point in his favour.
If he even helped a little. Just to keep him here. There was so much more to it than this. There had to be. They weren’t even friends, not really; they didn’t know much about one another. Henry didn’t need to be told to know that there were people hoping and praying that Jackson made it home. Wishing desperately that they could be here instead of him. That was enough to know he couldn’t leave him here, like this. Even as he stopped feeling Jackson’s chest rise and fall.
The bleeding slowed, but didn’t stop, through his fingers. A voice above gave him the slightest glimmer of hope.
“Aurelien?”
Looking up, it quickly went out. Henry made a double-take after seeing Aurelien’s mangled hand, and his bloodied and battered face. No doubt it was worse than his own, though he still smelled and tasted blood. It was in his mouth, from the spot where one of his teeth used to be. It was in his nose. It was in the air.
“It’s not stopping. If you can just - we have to help him. We get him stable then - then maybe I can look at your hand. He’s passed out. Maybe there’s like an epipen in one of the bags. I don’t know if that’s what you’re supposed to do, but I know we can’t let him pass out, I, I can’t let him pass out. We just need to figure it out. Our bags - that’s where all the supplies are. You have to get them, Aurelien. I can’t let go, it won’t - it’s not stopping.”
Tears cut little paths through the blood on Henry’s face.
Too much blood. More than he thought he’d ever see in person.
Jackson passed out, barely conscious when Henry had arrived at his side in the first place. Henry hoped he had been aware enough to know there were people here for him. That the fight was over, for now. Jackson didn’t need to do any more. Just hang on. If people felt comfortable, if they were calm, that increased their odds of survival. Even if they were slim. Even if gunshot wounds weren’t his only obstacle. Maybe just feeling like he mattered, that would add a slim percentage point in his favour.
If he even helped a little. Just to keep him here. There was so much more to it than this. There had to be. They weren’t even friends, not really; they didn’t know much about one another. Henry didn’t need to be told to know that there were people hoping and praying that Jackson made it home. Wishing desperately that they could be here instead of him. That was enough to know he couldn’t leave him here, like this. Even as he stopped feeling Jackson’s chest rise and fall.
The bleeding slowed, but didn’t stop, through his fingers. A voice above gave him the slightest glimmer of hope.
“Aurelien?”
Looking up, it quickly went out. Henry made a double-take after seeing Aurelien’s mangled hand, and his bloodied and battered face. No doubt it was worse than his own, though he still smelled and tasted blood. It was in his mouth, from the spot where one of his teeth used to be. It was in his nose. It was in the air.
“It’s not stopping. If you can just - we have to help him. We get him stable then - then maybe I can look at your hand. He’s passed out. Maybe there’s like an epipen in one of the bags. I don’t know if that’s what you’re supposed to do, but I know we can’t let him pass out, I, I can’t let him pass out. We just need to figure it out. Our bags - that’s where all the supplies are. You have to get them, Aurelien. I can’t let go, it won’t - it’s not stopping.”
Tears cut little paths through the blood on Henry’s face.
For a moment, Henry’s words made Aurelien pause. Gave him hope. Made him think that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance that things could be okay, and that Jackson was just passed out again, and all they needed was some more bandages and some more first aid and that so long as they steadied his breathing again, they’d all be able to walk out of the infirmary in a couple of days.
Then he blinked, and he saw that it was all just wishful thinking, a willing delusion. Jackson wasn’t passed out, he was dead. He wasn’t breathing. Aurelien could see it from where he was standing. They hadn’t won. They hadn’t won, but they had to carry on anyway. They had to carry on, because they hadn’t come close yet to reaching their goal, and to carry on, they had to accept the losses they’d been dealt.
He needed, more than anything, for Henry to accept this as well.
“Henry,” he said again, a harder edge to his words this time. “Come on.”
He took a shaky step forwards.
“You need to let go. Take your hands away from him. Stand up.”
He wiped his face again with the back of his good hand, fresh smears of blood coating it. He could hear the fire crackling behind him as it ate up the remnants of the curtains. His head was aching, like it was about to explode.
“He’s gone, dude.”
Then he blinked, and he saw that it was all just wishful thinking, a willing delusion. Jackson wasn’t passed out, he was dead. He wasn’t breathing. Aurelien could see it from where he was standing. They hadn’t won. They hadn’t won, but they had to carry on anyway. They had to carry on, because they hadn’t come close yet to reaching their goal, and to carry on, they had to accept the losses they’d been dealt.
He needed, more than anything, for Henry to accept this as well.
“Henry,” he said again, a harder edge to his words this time. “Come on.”
He took a shaky step forwards.
“You need to let go. Take your hands away from him. Stand up.”
He wiped his face again with the back of his good hand, fresh smears of blood coating it. He could hear the fire crackling behind him as it ate up the remnants of the curtains. His head was aching, like it was about to explode.
“He’s gone, dude.”
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
-
Primrosette
- Posts: 1033
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 9:58 am
- Location: In the Dark Abyss
How long had he been sitting there in a confused daze? How long had he been giggling to himself in a broken state of mind? How long was he going to stare at the boy that he had loved? How much longer was he going to do nothing? How much longer was it going to take for him to have fun and revenge?
Adonis glanced over at the building that had some fire crackling near the window and he had a feeling that people were still alive in there. He was sure that he had seen about three people or so from behind the tree and he was going to make sure to keep up with the announcement to find out who was the one who brought an end to Marco's life. But right now, he had to get a move on and he had to do a quick goodbye to the remains of Marco.
"I love you, Marco. You really have shown me that it's more fun to just go down fighting like a true..." Adonis paused on his words and he found himself mulling over what to say to Marco's corpse. He leaned over and he kissed Marco's forehead gently, chuckling softly. He wasn't going to cry, even if he wanted to. He had to be a better person. "Like a true villain. Hah, ha, ha, ha!"
Adonis' mind was more shattered than he realized and he honestly didn't care about that anymore. He picked up Marco's bag to get out all of the supplies that were in there and he put them into his dufflebag for safe keeping. He had been puzzled over what to do with the ammo that was still in the bag and then he got a quick, scheming idea about it. He was going to leave it for whomever was still inside as he was sure that he was hearing voices that were quiet. Until he was really losing his mind more quickly than he thought.
He wanted them to question why there was only ammo left.
He wanted them to know that they were going to get their karma sooner or later.
He wanted them to fear the unknown person that had been watching the whole them.
He then disappeared into the darkness with the chainsaw dragging a bit by his side.
A wide smile was still plastered on his twisted face.
((Adonis Cohen continued in I Don't Wanna Be Myself))
Adonis glanced over at the building that had some fire crackling near the window and he had a feeling that people were still alive in there. He was sure that he had seen about three people or so from behind the tree and he was going to make sure to keep up with the announcement to find out who was the one who brought an end to Marco's life. But right now, he had to get a move on and he had to do a quick goodbye to the remains of Marco.
"I love you, Marco. You really have shown me that it's more fun to just go down fighting like a true..." Adonis paused on his words and he found himself mulling over what to say to Marco's corpse. He leaned over and he kissed Marco's forehead gently, chuckling softly. He wasn't going to cry, even if he wanted to. He had to be a better person. "Like a true villain. Hah, ha, ha, ha!"
Adonis' mind was more shattered than he realized and he honestly didn't care about that anymore. He picked up Marco's bag to get out all of the supplies that were in there and he put them into his dufflebag for safe keeping. He had been puzzled over what to do with the ammo that was still in the bag and then he got a quick, scheming idea about it. He was going to leave it for whomever was still inside as he was sure that he was hearing voices that were quiet. Until he was really losing his mind more quickly than he thought.
He wanted them to question why there was only ammo left.
He wanted them to know that they were going to get their karma sooner or later.
He wanted them to fear the unknown person that had been watching the whole them.
He then disappeared into the darkness with the chainsaw dragging a bit by his side.
A wide smile was still plastered on his twisted face.
((Adonis Cohen continued in I Don't Wanna Be Myself))
Henry shook his head.
“He’s not gone. Aurelien, he’s not gone. He’s right here. Jackson’s right here.”
His hands moved up to Jackson’s chest. Pausing, realizing that chest compressions were usually something someone did before trained personnel showed up with better life-saving tools, better skills, better states of mind. It wasn’t right, stopping at this point. There must’ve still been something he could do for Jackson. The guy was still right there. Still hurting.
Slowly, he drew his hands back from Jackson’s chest. Henry’s hands weren’t just stained with blood, they were slick with it. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his hands together, as if that would somehow help it come off. As if it was something else. There was still flecks of Beryl’s blood in the creases of his fingernails, he was sure of it. It didn’t come out easily, not when the best washbasin he could find was the sea.
Blood was all the same. There were different types, sure. Marginally different composition. Differences in genes, obviously. On a sensory level though, it didn’t look any different, one person to the next.
It seemed like it should.
For some it ought to be bright and shining and precious, a treasure difficult to find and worse still to replace. A tragedy to see it lost or wasted.
For others it could’ve just been sand, or ash, or lint. Stuffing for a poorly woven-together facsimile of a human. Tearing out the stitches, digging through and ripping it out, all of that only confirmed they weren’t really human to begin with. Just something they all mistook for a person once, before they got a good enough look. Before that thing had to be tested, before it had to meet some kind of standard and inevitably failed spectacularly. Those creatures with sawdust where a heart and a mind should’ve been didn’t even have a choice but to fail at any test of humanity. They existed as a mockery of personhood, of mortality. Invariably they’d fall apart and die. Piecemeal creatures never healed their wounds. They only made hasty patch-jobs out of the pieces of things that actually mattered. Images more fleeting than the short lives they were imitating.
But it was all the same. The blood pooled on the floor, soaking into Henry’s pant leg. The blood on his hands, or around the window frame. The dried trails on the floor, or the spatters near the door to the storeroom. The thick, congealing, blackened fluid that lay still in the veins of the corpses piled near the front door. The blood that stopped pumping through Jackson’s veins and spilling from the puncture in his chest that Henry desperately tried to seal.
All precious dust. Worn, lost, ragged creatures of blood and cotton wool. No different from their heinous crimes to acts of heroism.
Before him wasn’t just Jackson’s corpse. In that faded image of a person, he saw multitudes. Henry saw them all.
He screamed, until his lungs were empty and his throat was raw. Taking hold of his few possessions, he tore out of the Infirmary, stopping only once he was on open ground.
“He’s not gone. Aurelien, he’s not gone. He’s right here. Jackson’s right here.”
His hands moved up to Jackson’s chest. Pausing, realizing that chest compressions were usually something someone did before trained personnel showed up with better life-saving tools, better skills, better states of mind. It wasn’t right, stopping at this point. There must’ve still been something he could do for Jackson. The guy was still right there. Still hurting.
Slowly, he drew his hands back from Jackson’s chest. Henry’s hands weren’t just stained with blood, they were slick with it. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his hands together, as if that would somehow help it come off. As if it was something else. There was still flecks of Beryl’s blood in the creases of his fingernails, he was sure of it. It didn’t come out easily, not when the best washbasin he could find was the sea.
Blood was all the same. There were different types, sure. Marginally different composition. Differences in genes, obviously. On a sensory level though, it didn’t look any different, one person to the next.
It seemed like it should.
For some it ought to be bright and shining and precious, a treasure difficult to find and worse still to replace. A tragedy to see it lost or wasted.
For others it could’ve just been sand, or ash, or lint. Stuffing for a poorly woven-together facsimile of a human. Tearing out the stitches, digging through and ripping it out, all of that only confirmed they weren’t really human to begin with. Just something they all mistook for a person once, before they got a good enough look. Before that thing had to be tested, before it had to meet some kind of standard and inevitably failed spectacularly. Those creatures with sawdust where a heart and a mind should’ve been didn’t even have a choice but to fail at any test of humanity. They existed as a mockery of personhood, of mortality. Invariably they’d fall apart and die. Piecemeal creatures never healed their wounds. They only made hasty patch-jobs out of the pieces of things that actually mattered. Images more fleeting than the short lives they were imitating.
But it was all the same. The blood pooled on the floor, soaking into Henry’s pant leg. The blood on his hands, or around the window frame. The dried trails on the floor, or the spatters near the door to the storeroom. The thick, congealing, blackened fluid that lay still in the veins of the corpses piled near the front door. The blood that stopped pumping through Jackson’s veins and spilling from the puncture in his chest that Henry desperately tried to seal.
All precious dust. Worn, lost, ragged creatures of blood and cotton wool. No different from their heinous crimes to acts of heroism.
Before him wasn’t just Jackson’s corpse. In that faded image of a person, he saw multitudes. Henry saw them all.
He screamed, until his lungs were empty and his throat was raw. Taking hold of his few possessions, he tore out of the Infirmary, stopping only once he was on open ground.
Oh, no. No, no no no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be going.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way around. Aurelien needed somebody to tether him down, because otherwise he was just going to break free from his bonds sooner or later and hurt someone. Henry had always been that ‘somebody’, the leader of their ragtag little band ever since they’d run into each other at the shoe tree, the ideas man, the guy with the walkie-talkie connection to Camilla. He had set out the framework, letting Aurelien fill it in.
But now, in the wake of Jackson’s passing, he was untethered himself, trying desperately, so clearly desperately, to believe that everything had gone without a hitch, that Jackson had just passed out again. There was every chance that Aurelien would be able to grab hold of him and root him to the ground again, and he would have to do that, have to try and do that. But if this sort of thing happened again, this extreme denial, in a situation as bad or worse than this, when the threat wasn’t neutralised, when that version’s Marco was still alive and rampaging in front of them…
Ugh. No. He couldn’t think like that. Not when the future was the only thing pushing him forwards. Not when he needed it to work.
Aurelien opened his mouth, trying to find the middle ground between gentleness and firmness, but any words he might have said were drowned out in the ear-splitting, tortured scream erupting from Henry. For a few moments, Aurelien was too stunned to move, just long enough for Henry to scoop up his things and flee the building. The air was still, for just a second.
“Hey! Hey, Henry!”
Aurelien briefly glanced behind him, watching the last few tatters of curtain disappear into ash, before following Henry, moving as fast as his body could go. It was barely even a jogging pace, but his body roared at him to stop the moment he started moving, flecks of blood falling from his face and hand, lending a new pattern to the hallway leading outside. His head felt like it was about to burst as he stepped into the open air, pressing his hand against the doorframe as darkness tinged the edges of his vision. It was a small mercy that Henry had only gone so far as the Infirmary’s entrance. The smallest of mercies indeed.
“Henry… dude… fucking hell… you need… to stop…”
It wasn’t supposed to be this way around. Aurelien needed somebody to tether him down, because otherwise he was just going to break free from his bonds sooner or later and hurt someone. Henry had always been that ‘somebody’, the leader of their ragtag little band ever since they’d run into each other at the shoe tree, the ideas man, the guy with the walkie-talkie connection to Camilla. He had set out the framework, letting Aurelien fill it in.
But now, in the wake of Jackson’s passing, he was untethered himself, trying desperately, so clearly desperately, to believe that everything had gone without a hitch, that Jackson had just passed out again. There was every chance that Aurelien would be able to grab hold of him and root him to the ground again, and he would have to do that, have to try and do that. But if this sort of thing happened again, this extreme denial, in a situation as bad or worse than this, when the threat wasn’t neutralised, when that version’s Marco was still alive and rampaging in front of them…
Ugh. No. He couldn’t think like that. Not when the future was the only thing pushing him forwards. Not when he needed it to work.
Aurelien opened his mouth, trying to find the middle ground between gentleness and firmness, but any words he might have said were drowned out in the ear-splitting, tortured scream erupting from Henry. For a few moments, Aurelien was too stunned to move, just long enough for Henry to scoop up his things and flee the building. The air was still, for just a second.
“Hey! Hey, Henry!”
Aurelien briefly glanced behind him, watching the last few tatters of curtain disappear into ash, before following Henry, moving as fast as his body could go. It was barely even a jogging pace, but his body roared at him to stop the moment he started moving, flecks of blood falling from his face and hand, lending a new pattern to the hallway leading outside. His head felt like it was about to burst as he stepped into the open air, pressing his hand against the doorframe as darkness tinged the edges of his vision. It was a small mercy that Henry had only gone so far as the Infirmary’s entrance. The smallest of mercies indeed.
“Henry… dude… fucking hell… you need… to stop…”
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
Henry staggered out in front of the Infirmary, the vain hope that the sun on his shoulders would somehow burn away the rage seething within. It did nothing of the sort. Aurelien’s words passed him by, as he continued staring out at the island before them. In a way, seeing it for the first time.
For a few moments, he stood extremely still. Processing not just the context of his thoughts, but their intensity. Something he felt so strongly couldn’t be anything other than true. A sudden jolt drew him back to Aurelien, and he closed the distance with a fire in his gut that swiftly extinguished the pain in his arm and the stinging wave of revulsion he felt on seeing Aurelien’s injuries.
“Stop for what? What - what’s the point, huh?! Marco, that piece of shit didn’t want anything other than to kill us! He didn’t care, he just - we - we went to school with that fucking guy! Walked past him every day, he came from the same place we did, and that’s how he ended up. We - we fucking killed him! He didn’t even want to survive! That son of a bitch just wanted to watch people suffer, and he’s not the only one! Not just Blaise and Justin and the rest, everyone!”
He drew back from Aurelien, pointing to a nearby camera and shooting an accusatory glance at all of those behind it.
“People - watch - this! Arthro Taskforce made it happen ‘cause - hell, I don’t know! They never said, but I really want to know. I have to fucking know what this is for. What is it? WHAT IS IT?! What explanation even makes sense, huh? Is it a study, is there some Stanley Milgram motherfucker behind all of this? They gave us numbers. Twenty eight, thirty, thirty six. Maybe that’s it. Maybe we’re just a data set to them. Great! So what the fuck are they learning from this? What could POSSIBLY be worth all of this? That human beings, goddamn kids are way worse than we tell ourselves we are?”
Henry dug his hands into his scruffy, matted hair. For a moment it seemed as if he would tear it out, but he looked back up to Aurelien again, to the camera, to the world around him; desperate rage that he could only point outwards.
“Man, what the hell is wrong with us?! Not just our class. People. All of us. What kind of a fucked up world lets this happen?! Doesn’t anyone want to be better than this, aren’t we even going to try? Why not?”
They wanted this. They wanted to break him, to break all of them. They succeeded, but the terrorists were owed no congratulations. Their targets were all teenagers.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?! DON’T YOU HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO?!”
There wasn’t anything else left to lose. Henry looked at Aurelien, a map of pain, loss, and confusion drawn over him, over anything else he had to give. His hand trembled, a shaky finger pointed towards his own chest. To the place it seemed everything had been torn from.
“I’m - I feel worse than I ever have in my whole life, man. I HATE THIS! I hate - I think I hate being alive right now, I never thought I would say something like that, but watching people die, people who-”
He choked back tears.
“You - you think Beryl and Jackson and Ari were like, close to me?! I didn’t know them! I don’t know you! I shouldn’t have to give a shit, not in any way that matters! We weren’t supposed to! I didn’t want to leave everyone behind this year, my friends, but it was okay because we were all going to go live our lives. Dreams to reach for and fall short, maybe a few different people we’d try and be.
We weren’t supposed to have this shit figured out. I thought maybe I did, that what I wanted was important enough I’d live it and breathe it and die for it. It would’ve hurt but I’d have gotten over it, if that didn’t work out. This though, I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know how to fix this.
The people I never thought I’d talk to again are the only thing I think about now. The only thing I can care about. Not my dreams, not my future. I just think about scared kids with people worrying about them and plans they made and who they wanted to be and whether or not there’s a chance to save any of that. I thought yeah, maybe, maybe I’ll try my best. Make that my dream. Save someone, or something, because - because what else?
We’re not even adults, not one of us has half an idea who the hell we are, but at the very least couldn’t we even try to be decent human beings?”
Rage flickered away, without much fuel left to burn. All Henry knew he was supposed to be seemed to be buried, choked with ash. He shook his head, his voice cracked and broken.
“We - we barely got to live, and nobody seems to want to make something of whatever we have left. We’re all dying for nothing.”
For a few moments, he stood extremely still. Processing not just the context of his thoughts, but their intensity. Something he felt so strongly couldn’t be anything other than true. A sudden jolt drew him back to Aurelien, and he closed the distance with a fire in his gut that swiftly extinguished the pain in his arm and the stinging wave of revulsion he felt on seeing Aurelien’s injuries.
“Stop for what? What - what’s the point, huh?! Marco, that piece of shit didn’t want anything other than to kill us! He didn’t care, he just - we - we went to school with that fucking guy! Walked past him every day, he came from the same place we did, and that’s how he ended up. We - we fucking killed him! He didn’t even want to survive! That son of a bitch just wanted to watch people suffer, and he’s not the only one! Not just Blaise and Justin and the rest, everyone!”
He drew back from Aurelien, pointing to a nearby camera and shooting an accusatory glance at all of those behind it.
“People - watch - this! Arthro Taskforce made it happen ‘cause - hell, I don’t know! They never said, but I really want to know. I have to fucking know what this is for. What is it? WHAT IS IT?! What explanation even makes sense, huh? Is it a study, is there some Stanley Milgram motherfucker behind all of this? They gave us numbers. Twenty eight, thirty, thirty six. Maybe that’s it. Maybe we’re just a data set to them. Great! So what the fuck are they learning from this? What could POSSIBLY be worth all of this? That human beings, goddamn kids are way worse than we tell ourselves we are?”
Henry dug his hands into his scruffy, matted hair. For a moment it seemed as if he would tear it out, but he looked back up to Aurelien again, to the camera, to the world around him; desperate rage that he could only point outwards.
“Man, what the hell is wrong with us?! Not just our class. People. All of us. What kind of a fucked up world lets this happen?! Doesn’t anyone want to be better than this, aren’t we even going to try? Why not?”
They wanted this. They wanted to break him, to break all of them. They succeeded, but the terrorists were owed no congratulations. Their targets were all teenagers.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?! DON’T YOU HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO?!”
There wasn’t anything else left to lose. Henry looked at Aurelien, a map of pain, loss, and confusion drawn over him, over anything else he had to give. His hand trembled, a shaky finger pointed towards his own chest. To the place it seemed everything had been torn from.
“I’m - I feel worse than I ever have in my whole life, man. I HATE THIS! I hate - I think I hate being alive right now, I never thought I would say something like that, but watching people die, people who-”
He choked back tears.
“You - you think Beryl and Jackson and Ari were like, close to me?! I didn’t know them! I don’t know you! I shouldn’t have to give a shit, not in any way that matters! We weren’t supposed to! I didn’t want to leave everyone behind this year, my friends, but it was okay because we were all going to go live our lives. Dreams to reach for and fall short, maybe a few different people we’d try and be.
We weren’t supposed to have this shit figured out. I thought maybe I did, that what I wanted was important enough I’d live it and breathe it and die for it. It would’ve hurt but I’d have gotten over it, if that didn’t work out. This though, I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know how to fix this.
The people I never thought I’d talk to again are the only thing I think about now. The only thing I can care about. Not my dreams, not my future. I just think about scared kids with people worrying about them and plans they made and who they wanted to be and whether or not there’s a chance to save any of that. I thought yeah, maybe, maybe I’ll try my best. Make that my dream. Save someone, or something, because - because what else?
We’re not even adults, not one of us has half an idea who the hell we are, but at the very least couldn’t we even try to be decent human beings?”
Rage flickered away, without much fuel left to burn. All Henry knew he was supposed to be seemed to be buried, choked with ash. He shook his head, his voice cracked and broken.
“We - we barely got to live, and nobody seems to want to make something of whatever we have left. We’re all dying for nothing.”
This needed to end. Right now. Hell, it needed to have ended before they’d even arrived at the Infirmary, before the build-up to what Aurelien was witnessing in front of him had ever had a chance to sprout. But he couldn’t turn back time - and if he could, he would have used that power a lot, lot earlier than this - so he needed to stop Henry in his tracks before things got ugly.
But physically halting him wasn’t an option; even if his battered, broken body was able to do so, Aurelien had no intention of raising a fist to a friend. And as for verbally stopping him? He tried. He tried to raise his hoarse, rasping voice above a pained growl, and interrupt Henry as he built up a head of steam, but he never got further than a ‘Henry’ or a ‘Listen’ before the other boy ploughed forwards, seeping further and further into blind despair.
He understood. He understood everything that Henry was saying and feeling, of course he fucking did. There wasn’t a single goddamn thing about any of this that wasn’t hideously fucked up. He couldn’t imagine a world, outside of this little tiny island universe, where people like Quinn and Lorenzo and Marco and Justin made the executive decision to stalk and kill their former classmates. But here they were, on this island, and here they were, doing just that, and here they were, Aurelien and Henry, hunting and punishing the people who should have been nothing more than vague memories and a name after a couple weeks of graduation.
Now Marco was dead. So too was the boy Aurelien had totally fallen in love with, the person more than anyone else he hoped stayed with him long after their time at school came to an end. Nothing, nothing at all, about any of this was ‘right’ any more.
But. Again. Nobody here could turn back time, or change what had already happened. The only thing they could do anymore was use the tools they’d been given and… well…
Do whatever it was they thought was the right thing to do.
Aurelien waited, his breathing laboured and raspy, the scars and bruises coating his body rough and raw and dripping blood, as Henry finally burned himself out. He waited for a moment, before using the doorframe to push himself up to his full height, wobbling for a moment on uncertain legs.
“I-”
His throat was full of sawdust, his voice clogged up and muffled. He coughed, a splatter of blood coating the ground, and tried again, his voice louder this time.
“I know, dude! I know! Do you think I don’t? Do you not think I hate this too? Do you not think I hate that the only thing I have to keep me going is… is the hopes of revenge, of stopping as many people as we can so that more people don’t end up like my fucking boyfriend? None of this should have happened! None of this should be happening!”
He paused, another spasm of coughing ripping its way through his body, making him double over as he spat out blood again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, locking eyes with Henry, making sure the other boy was listening to his every word.
“But there’s no way these motherfuckers could keep getting away with this without having every angle covered. They fucked up once, they’re gonna make sure everything’s airtight. You really think the people out there, back there, back home, they’re just gonna sit on their hands and let this happen? I guarantee there’s people scrambling, right now, desperately trying to find a way to get to us.”
Another pause, so Aurelien could get some air back into his lungs, each breath and each word feeling like his insides were scorched.
“So until then, we can’t… we can’t just break down and give up. We need to keep doing this. We need to keep following this fucking path, what other choice do we have? We can either just stop, right here, wait for the terrorists to press the button that blows our necks up, or we can do something, take out the people who’ve embraced everything they’ve been told to do by the terrorists, save some lives, give some people a few more days, maybe longer, of peace.”
It had never been his number one driving force, and it wouldn’t until Blaise was dead. But it was something, he hoped, that could rejuvenate Henry, and maybe something that could keep him going as well, once he’d finally gotten Dante his revenge.
“And I’m telling you now, there’s only one option we can do. Otherwise Ariana and Jackson will have died for us to leave a job unfinished, and nothing will fucking change.”
But physically halting him wasn’t an option; even if his battered, broken body was able to do so, Aurelien had no intention of raising a fist to a friend. And as for verbally stopping him? He tried. He tried to raise his hoarse, rasping voice above a pained growl, and interrupt Henry as he built up a head of steam, but he never got further than a ‘Henry’ or a ‘Listen’ before the other boy ploughed forwards, seeping further and further into blind despair.
He understood. He understood everything that Henry was saying and feeling, of course he fucking did. There wasn’t a single goddamn thing about any of this that wasn’t hideously fucked up. He couldn’t imagine a world, outside of this little tiny island universe, where people like Quinn and Lorenzo and Marco and Justin made the executive decision to stalk and kill their former classmates. But here they were, on this island, and here they were, doing just that, and here they were, Aurelien and Henry, hunting and punishing the people who should have been nothing more than vague memories and a name after a couple weeks of graduation.
Now Marco was dead. So too was the boy Aurelien had totally fallen in love with, the person more than anyone else he hoped stayed with him long after their time at school came to an end. Nothing, nothing at all, about any of this was ‘right’ any more.
But. Again. Nobody here could turn back time, or change what had already happened. The only thing they could do anymore was use the tools they’d been given and… well…
Do whatever it was they thought was the right thing to do.
Aurelien waited, his breathing laboured and raspy, the scars and bruises coating his body rough and raw and dripping blood, as Henry finally burned himself out. He waited for a moment, before using the doorframe to push himself up to his full height, wobbling for a moment on uncertain legs.
“I-”
His throat was full of sawdust, his voice clogged up and muffled. He coughed, a splatter of blood coating the ground, and tried again, his voice louder this time.
“I know, dude! I know! Do you think I don’t? Do you not think I hate this too? Do you not think I hate that the only thing I have to keep me going is… is the hopes of revenge, of stopping as many people as we can so that more people don’t end up like my fucking boyfriend? None of this should have happened! None of this should be happening!”
He paused, another spasm of coughing ripping its way through his body, making him double over as he spat out blood again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, locking eyes with Henry, making sure the other boy was listening to his every word.
“But there’s no way these motherfuckers could keep getting away with this without having every angle covered. They fucked up once, they’re gonna make sure everything’s airtight. You really think the people out there, back there, back home, they’re just gonna sit on their hands and let this happen? I guarantee there’s people scrambling, right now, desperately trying to find a way to get to us.”
Another pause, so Aurelien could get some air back into his lungs, each breath and each word feeling like his insides were scorched.
“So until then, we can’t… we can’t just break down and give up. We need to keep doing this. We need to keep following this fucking path, what other choice do we have? We can either just stop, right here, wait for the terrorists to press the button that blows our necks up, or we can do something, take out the people who’ve embraced everything they’ve been told to do by the terrorists, save some lives, give some people a few more days, maybe longer, of peace.”
It had never been his number one driving force, and it wouldn’t until Blaise was dead. But it was something, he hoped, that could rejuvenate Henry, and maybe something that could keep him going as well, once he’d finally gotten Dante his revenge.
“And I’m telling you now, there’s only one option we can do. Otherwise Ariana and Jackson will have died for us to leave a job unfinished, and nothing will fucking change.”
"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
There were half a dozen points when Aurelien was speaking where Henry nearly cut him off. The urge to shoot down any sort of hope or optimism was strong, like a sickness that just wouldn’t go away. Like it was taking hold of Henry’s faculties, forcing him to drag Aurelien down with him. An infection that wanted to spread.
Either his better nature won out, or the lack of sleep. He nodded as Aurelien spoke, eyes cast off back towards the Infirmary and the crumpled form of Marco’s corpse lying just outside.
It was so hard to convince him of anything. He desperately wished it wasn’t so. Most people prided themselves on not being swayed by others, but Henry hated it. He always thought so many steps ahead, and his mind always managed to address every detail and possible contingency when it came to problems in his life. It was too easy to believe things were just so, even if he was desperately seeking answers outside of himself.
But he had to try. He just had to. Death wasn’t the definition of failure here, it was practically a foregone conclusion. Giving up, that was what losing really was. It meant they earned that propaganda victory, advancing whatever nihilistic belief system that fuelled the AT’s malice.
Impeding that effort may have been all that was left, and it just didn’t feel like enough. Nothing would ever be enough.
Henry looked up at Aurelien just as he mentioned Jackson and Ari. He was right. More than he knew. Maybe the ground state here was a meaningless, painful death. That was the baseline.
The two of them were still alive, though.
Walking felt weird. There was a sort of hollow feeling in Henry’s chest, it made him feel lighter. Even with the heavy shotgun slung over his shoulder, he almost felt like he might float off from the ground, far away from here. It didn’t feel nice, though. More like free-fall.
Words escaped him, at first. He wanted Aurelien to be right, that there was some value in pressing on. That there was more left to them than hoping for a way to die that wasn’t so painful as it was for the others.
They did have more than that, he supposed. They had one another, minus a few pieces here and there.
After closing the distance between the two of them, Henry reached out. Stopped himself, as he got a clearer approximation of Aurelien’s injuries. The bandana around his neck was a solid, dark red. His nose was clearly broken, though it had at least stopped bleeding. Henry tried to hide his concern for Aurelien’s hand, but it was hard not to make a face. No doubt there were bruises aplenty across his body, too.
He offered a sad smile, and rested a hand on Aurelien’s chest.
“I was gonna give you a hug but I realized that would probably just hurt. I think, umm…”
Aurelien’s chest rose and fell. Not just a walking corpse. Not here for nothing. Alive. Henry pulled his hand away, nodding as things started to fall back into place.
“Yeah, yeah that makes sense.”
There was work to do. Problems to solve. Even if that was all they’d ever have, he’d take whatever they were given and leave nothing left.
“Okay, let’s uhh - let’s get squared away. I think we’ll have to wrap your hand up, like bind it together. Marco’s bag, there’s got to be something else in there.”
Henry strode over to the body. On some level he expected some sort of primal satisfaction in standing over a vanquished enemy. Looking down at the hole he blew in Marco’s chest, he felt only disgust.
The bag was lying on its side, half-open. The only thing inside was ammo for Ari's gun. At least it was something they needed. Hopefully between the two of them they had enough to help Aurelien. Henry gathered the ammo up and stuffed it into his daypack. At some point they’d have to load some magazines, and figure out where Aurelien could keep them if he had to reload.
One thing at a time, Henry reminded himself. One problem at a time, even if that was all they had.
Either his better nature won out, or the lack of sleep. He nodded as Aurelien spoke, eyes cast off back towards the Infirmary and the crumpled form of Marco’s corpse lying just outside.
It was so hard to convince him of anything. He desperately wished it wasn’t so. Most people prided themselves on not being swayed by others, but Henry hated it. He always thought so many steps ahead, and his mind always managed to address every detail and possible contingency when it came to problems in his life. It was too easy to believe things were just so, even if he was desperately seeking answers outside of himself.
But he had to try. He just had to. Death wasn’t the definition of failure here, it was practically a foregone conclusion. Giving up, that was what losing really was. It meant they earned that propaganda victory, advancing whatever nihilistic belief system that fuelled the AT’s malice.
Impeding that effort may have been all that was left, and it just didn’t feel like enough. Nothing would ever be enough.
Henry looked up at Aurelien just as he mentioned Jackson and Ari. He was right. More than he knew. Maybe the ground state here was a meaningless, painful death. That was the baseline.
The two of them were still alive, though.
Walking felt weird. There was a sort of hollow feeling in Henry’s chest, it made him feel lighter. Even with the heavy shotgun slung over his shoulder, he almost felt like he might float off from the ground, far away from here. It didn’t feel nice, though. More like free-fall.
Words escaped him, at first. He wanted Aurelien to be right, that there was some value in pressing on. That there was more left to them than hoping for a way to die that wasn’t so painful as it was for the others.
They did have more than that, he supposed. They had one another, minus a few pieces here and there.
After closing the distance between the two of them, Henry reached out. Stopped himself, as he got a clearer approximation of Aurelien’s injuries. The bandana around his neck was a solid, dark red. His nose was clearly broken, though it had at least stopped bleeding. Henry tried to hide his concern for Aurelien’s hand, but it was hard not to make a face. No doubt there were bruises aplenty across his body, too.
He offered a sad smile, and rested a hand on Aurelien’s chest.
“I was gonna give you a hug but I realized that would probably just hurt. I think, umm…”
Aurelien’s chest rose and fell. Not just a walking corpse. Not here for nothing. Alive. Henry pulled his hand away, nodding as things started to fall back into place.
“Yeah, yeah that makes sense.”
There was work to do. Problems to solve. Even if that was all they’d ever have, he’d take whatever they were given and leave nothing left.
“Okay, let’s uhh - let’s get squared away. I think we’ll have to wrap your hand up, like bind it together. Marco’s bag, there’s got to be something else in there.”
Henry strode over to the body. On some level he expected some sort of primal satisfaction in standing over a vanquished enemy. Looking down at the hole he blew in Marco’s chest, he felt only disgust.
The bag was lying on its side, half-open. The only thing inside was ammo for Ari's gun. At least it was something they needed. Hopefully between the two of them they had enough to help Aurelien. Henry gathered the ammo up and stuffed it into his daypack. At some point they’d have to load some magazines, and figure out where Aurelien could keep them if he had to reload.
One thing at a time, Henry reminded himself. One problem at a time, even if that was all they had.