It. Was. SUPPOSED. TO. WORK.
She wasn't supposed to be here thrashing under another girl no she was smarter than this, she was better than this, this couldn't be happening IT WAS SUPPOSED TO WORK SHE'D THOUGHT IT THROUGH and if she screamed loud enough and thought big enough and fought hard enough there was nothing, nothing nothing NOTHING that could stop her ever she was destined for bigger better things? Right? She'd put in all the work?? She'd been a good person?? What had been the point??? Why was it going to fucking end like this, why was she going to die, to an idiot, why her, why here, WHY-?
She was going to scream. She was going to cry. She was already doing those things. She couldn't tell the tears apart from the blood still pouring too fast out of her shredded forehead. A tiny little flap of her fucked up cheek wilted a little, curled open.
The table rocked with each hit of the shell against it. Kelly did not give up. She never gave up. She'd find a way, she'd...
It was supposed to work... please, just- it was supposed to-
In an instant... nothing happened, somehow. The knife didn't come down, Kelly's hand from the knuckle down was consumed in burning pitch, loud noises echoed in both ears in a slight delay off one another as they bounced around between skull and eardrum.
Carlson was suddenly gone. Kelly tumbled over, fell to the floor side first. Gagged, puked, gagged again, eyes wide open the whole time.
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Now Day 9 Morning (Before Announcements), Still Open
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VoltTurtle
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All of a sudden, Marceline's ears were split with agony as a thundering crash ripped right through them, before a silence and a distinctive ringing overtook it.
She instinctively jumped back from the source of the noise, tumbling to the ground and landing on her rear. Panic overtook her limbs as she backpedaled across the floor, paired gunshots echoing through her mind, once again. What had even happened? What could have caused that noise? Did Roxanne fire a shot? Did someone else arrive and intervene? Was it Kelly's shell? Did Kelly actually manage to get it to go off?
Sound was beginning to return, muffled as if she was underwater. Her chest heaved as panicked, rapid breaths escaped her lips, her widened eyes staring at the smaller girl collapsed a few feet in front of her. Kelly's hand appeared to be in poor shape, and what looked to be an empty shell casing rolled along the ground not too far from her, so that had to be it, then. That didn't make any sense, though, shells weren't supposed to go off like that. Not unless Kelly had hit it just right against something that could prod the primer, like a nail, or the corner of a table-
Oh.
Wait, had she been hurt? She didn't feel any new pain, and surely she would have felt something if she had gotten hit by the pellets. The shell casing was still intact, so that meant that the pellets had presumably gotten ejected forward, which meant that they had probably impacted somewhere behind her...
Wait, Roxanne had been behind her.
Wait, no.
No, no, not again.
"ROXY!"
She instinctively jumped back from the source of the noise, tumbling to the ground and landing on her rear. Panic overtook her limbs as she backpedaled across the floor, paired gunshots echoing through her mind, once again. What had even happened? What could have caused that noise? Did Roxanne fire a shot? Did someone else arrive and intervene? Was it Kelly's shell? Did Kelly actually manage to get it to go off?
Sound was beginning to return, muffled as if she was underwater. Her chest heaved as panicked, rapid breaths escaped her lips, her widened eyes staring at the smaller girl collapsed a few feet in front of her. Kelly's hand appeared to be in poor shape, and what looked to be an empty shell casing rolled along the ground not too far from her, so that had to be it, then. That didn't make any sense, though, shells weren't supposed to go off like that. Not unless Kelly had hit it just right against something that could prod the primer, like a nail, or the corner of a table-
Oh.
Wait, had she been hurt? She didn't feel any new pain, and surely she would have felt something if she had gotten hit by the pellets. The shell casing was still intact, so that meant that the pellets had presumably gotten ejected forward, which meant that they had probably impacted somewhere behind her...
Wait, Roxanne had been behind her.
Wait, no.
No, no, not again.
"ROXY!"
Funny. All this time, Roxanne had been questioning Marcy’s resolve. She should’ve given a lot more thought how ironclad her own willpower was.
Screaming - desperation - crying - misery - crimson - how could anyone stand this? How could anyone want this? For the two struggling on the ground this was their entire world, at least, nothing else existed, they didn’t have to think about what they were doing, but Roxanne stood vigil, and though she didn’t feel their pain she could do nothing but see, and so she saw everything, and stood, transfixed, even as Kelly banged her shotgun shell against the edge of the table, she saw but she did not understand, did not grasp the meaning, the implication, believing them to be mundane death throes.
The explosion succinctly corrected her.
Ears ringing, everything stinging. There was blood dripping down her face. She didn’t feel like she was dying, but maybe she usually felt like she was dying, metaphorically, and did people who were dying, literally, feel like they were dying? By the time you knew what dying actually felt like, it was too late, because dying implied dead, no passing down that knowledge for future generations, because even a near-death experience wasn’t dying, because you didn’t actually die, by definition.
Marcy was calling for her. Roxanne opened her eyes, not even knowing she had squeezed them shut.
“I’m here.”
Screaming - desperation - crying - misery - crimson - how could anyone stand this? How could anyone want this? For the two struggling on the ground this was their entire world, at least, nothing else existed, they didn’t have to think about what they were doing, but Roxanne stood vigil, and though she didn’t feel their pain she could do nothing but see, and so she saw everything, and stood, transfixed, even as Kelly banged her shotgun shell against the edge of the table, she saw but she did not understand, did not grasp the meaning, the implication, believing them to be mundane death throes.
The explosion succinctly corrected her.
Ears ringing, everything stinging. There was blood dripping down her face. She didn’t feel like she was dying, but maybe she usually felt like she was dying, metaphorically, and did people who were dying, literally, feel like they were dying? By the time you knew what dying actually felt like, it was too late, because dying implied dead, no passing down that knowledge for future generations, because even a near-death experience wasn’t dying, because you didn’t actually die, by definition.
Marcy was calling for her. Roxanne opened her eyes, not even knowing she had squeezed them shut.
“I’m here.”
It was supposed to work.
The gross slimy sting of the vomit still ran watery like floss through her teeth. Down her chin, little chunks. A bit out the hole in her cheeks. It puddled with fresh blood on the floor. Her blood.
It was all so wrong.
She couldn't feel her hand. It was supposed to be there, at the end of her wrist. If she tried to move it- if she tried to look at it, no, she didn't like what she saw, she didn't want to see it, it was all so wrong
She still had her bag, at least. It had fallen with the rest of her. Onto this floor where she wasn't supposed to be. Her mind buzzed dully. Betrayed by circumstance, by time and space, by all the things and people she suddenly wanted to, longed to blame like a thirsty man out at sea longed to see the littlest speck of something pure and clean and liquid and...
She stood up, somehow. Off the fingers whose skin had been stripped to the red like steak served raw, that she'd never actually had before in her life, just some inkling of the squishy bits of fat like polka dots, the burnt and charred and crispy things hanging off bones. Something oozed out. It looked all wrong. The wrong picture of herself, taken when she wasn't ready, a rude intrusion from a rude world that callously watched her suffer and burn and fall and then
She got away. Hobbling, stumbling. She could escape the idiots, but not the people who mattered. Wherever they were watching from, judging, laughing. Never understanding what she'd been through... not like herself. Herself was an upstanding and fine young woman. What a poor soul, to be mangled like this, made so unpretty.
((Kelly Nguyen continued elsewhereIt was supposed to work.))
The gross slimy sting of the vomit still ran watery like floss through her teeth. Down her chin, little chunks. A bit out the hole in her cheeks. It puddled with fresh blood on the floor. Her blood.
It was all so wrong.
She couldn't feel her hand. It was supposed to be there, at the end of her wrist. If she tried to move it- if she tried to look at it, no, she didn't like what she saw, she didn't want to see it, it was all so wrong
She still had her bag, at least. It had fallen with the rest of her. Onto this floor where she wasn't supposed to be. Her mind buzzed dully. Betrayed by circumstance, by time and space, by all the things and people she suddenly wanted to, longed to blame like a thirsty man out at sea longed to see the littlest speck of something pure and clean and liquid and...
She stood up, somehow. Off the fingers whose skin had been stripped to the red like steak served raw, that she'd never actually had before in her life, just some inkling of the squishy bits of fat like polka dots, the burnt and charred and crispy things hanging off bones. Something oozed out. It looked all wrong. The wrong picture of herself, taken when she wasn't ready, a rude intrusion from a rude world that callously watched her suffer and burn and fall and then
She got away. Hobbling, stumbling. She could escape the idiots, but not the people who mattered. Wherever they were watching from, judging, laughing. Never understanding what she'd been through... not like herself. Herself was an upstanding and fine young woman. What a poor soul, to be mangled like this, made so unpretty.
((Kelly Nguyen continued elsewhereIt was supposed to work.))
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VoltTurtle
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Thoughts of Kelly completely disappeared from Marceline's mind, overtaken by a mix of panic, worry, and guilt. Roxanne's demonstration of her continued consciousness relieved some of Marceline's worries, but Dolly had also still been conscious when Marceline arrived by her side, only to die less than a minute later, so she couldn't afford to take any chances.
With the metallic stench of fresh blood filling her nostrils, Marceline hoisted herself off the ground and rushed to Roxanne's side in a flurry of movement. Upon cursory examination, Roxanne's wounds thankfully didn't look to be that bad, with what looked to be grazing injuries to the side of her face and her right arm. Her bleeding and wounds were a lot worse than a minor scrape or cut for sure, but they still hardly compared to how bloody and broken Dolly was when Marceline had found her. The disturbing part of it wasn't Roxanne's actual injuries, but rather just how close she had been to death. Gawking at the locations of her friend's wounds, Marceline realized to her immense horror that If Roxanne had been just an inch or two to the right, then...
No, she couldn't continue to think about that. She couldn't even consider the idea of losing Roxanne too.
The whole time this was happening, she was babbling incoherently in a panic, saying something to the effect of how she was there, how she could fix it, and how it was all her fault. She wasn't entirely sure what she was saying exactly, as her conscious mind was elsewhere, laser focused on pulling out her medical supplies and getting to work. Roxanne seemed to permit it, despite Marceline's shaking hands and the tears forming in her eyes, not struggling or resisting her efforts as she applied salves to and tightly bandaged Roxanne's arm.
Kelly was definitely already gone at this point, leaving Marceline to reflect on her mistakes. She shouldn't have hesitated, for one. Kelly had been hopelessly outmatched and overpowered, killing her should've been easy, but Marceline instead let her empathy get the better of her. If she was serious about this, she would need to be even more ruthless in the future, and truly ready her mind for the grim task at hand. For two, she also shouldn't have underestimated Kelly. While her one and only defense had been laughable, she had still gotten lucky enough to make it work, leaving Marceline and Roxanne in the current predicament they were in now. Marceline should have taken the threat of the shell seriously, and been even more aggressive in taking Kelly down. Instead, she allowed someone who was basically defenseless but still obviously unhinged get away, all while her friend got injured and nearly killed for her mistakes.
Thoughts of shame and regret filled her head as she continued to work, still babbling nonstop the whole time. Kelly had been nothing but a warm up, a trivial challenge that should have been an easy test of her merit, and yet she still failed. Was she well and truly cut out for something like this? If this was how she handled someone who could barely fight back, what would happen when she finally ran into somebody who could actually defend themselves? Perhaps she could bolster her support for the next go around, but were there even any allies besides the ever aloof Roxanne that would be willing to join her cause, especially after this?
Should she just give up?
No, no. She couldn't just give up so soon after reaching her epiphany, because after all, what else did she have left? It wasn't like she had the time to spend several more days hunting for yet another meaning to her short, sad existence. Besides, she thought, how could she possibly live with herself if she just let so many innocent people continue to die?
...
She had been okay with it before, though, she realized. Back when she had been with Dolly, she had been willing to disregard all the death, if it only meant keeping Dolly alive. She had barely given any thought to the deaths of both Meka and Rhonda, two of her peers that she had not known well, but she had last seen less than a day or two before their deaths. If she really couldn't live with herself if she just allowed more people to die, then why didn't their deaths give her any noticeable pause?
...
This was stupid, she thought, dismissing her previous observations. She knew that now wasn't the time to do yet more soul searching, she had more important matters to focus on. Perhaps later she could come back to these thoughts and get a more concrete idea of what she was doing and why, but for now she felt that they were best left overlooked.
Finishing her care of Roxanne's injuries with a few applications of closure strips to her friend's face alongside adhesive bandages to secure them, Marceline finally stopped babbling away, silently returning her rapidly dwindling supplies to her bag before turning back to her friend, holding back tears.
She inhaled, and finally spoke coherently again, her words choked out through her ever tightening throat. "F-for a second there. I... I thought I lost you too."
In a surge of movement, she pulled Roxanne into a hug presumably against her friend's will, but she didn't care. All of this was far too reminiscent of how Dolly had died, except this time Roxanne had survived, and now Marceline needed to calm herself down, somehow.
When she spoke again, arms still wrapped around her friend, the sound of her voice was naught but a whispered whimper, full of guilt and sorrow.
"I'm sorry."
With the metallic stench of fresh blood filling her nostrils, Marceline hoisted herself off the ground and rushed to Roxanne's side in a flurry of movement. Upon cursory examination, Roxanne's wounds thankfully didn't look to be that bad, with what looked to be grazing injuries to the side of her face and her right arm. Her bleeding and wounds were a lot worse than a minor scrape or cut for sure, but they still hardly compared to how bloody and broken Dolly was when Marceline had found her. The disturbing part of it wasn't Roxanne's actual injuries, but rather just how close she had been to death. Gawking at the locations of her friend's wounds, Marceline realized to her immense horror that If Roxanne had been just an inch or two to the right, then...
No, she couldn't continue to think about that. She couldn't even consider the idea of losing Roxanne too.
The whole time this was happening, she was babbling incoherently in a panic, saying something to the effect of how she was there, how she could fix it, and how it was all her fault. She wasn't entirely sure what she was saying exactly, as her conscious mind was elsewhere, laser focused on pulling out her medical supplies and getting to work. Roxanne seemed to permit it, despite Marceline's shaking hands and the tears forming in her eyes, not struggling or resisting her efforts as she applied salves to and tightly bandaged Roxanne's arm.
Kelly was definitely already gone at this point, leaving Marceline to reflect on her mistakes. She shouldn't have hesitated, for one. Kelly had been hopelessly outmatched and overpowered, killing her should've been easy, but Marceline instead let her empathy get the better of her. If she was serious about this, she would need to be even more ruthless in the future, and truly ready her mind for the grim task at hand. For two, she also shouldn't have underestimated Kelly. While her one and only defense had been laughable, she had still gotten lucky enough to make it work, leaving Marceline and Roxanne in the current predicament they were in now. Marceline should have taken the threat of the shell seriously, and been even more aggressive in taking Kelly down. Instead, she allowed someone who was basically defenseless but still obviously unhinged get away, all while her friend got injured and nearly killed for her mistakes.
Thoughts of shame and regret filled her head as she continued to work, still babbling nonstop the whole time. Kelly had been nothing but a warm up, a trivial challenge that should have been an easy test of her merit, and yet she still failed. Was she well and truly cut out for something like this? If this was how she handled someone who could barely fight back, what would happen when she finally ran into somebody who could actually defend themselves? Perhaps she could bolster her support for the next go around, but were there even any allies besides the ever aloof Roxanne that would be willing to join her cause, especially after this?
Should she just give up?
No, no. She couldn't just give up so soon after reaching her epiphany, because after all, what else did she have left? It wasn't like she had the time to spend several more days hunting for yet another meaning to her short, sad existence. Besides, she thought, how could she possibly live with herself if she just let so many innocent people continue to die?
...
She had been okay with it before, though, she realized. Back when she had been with Dolly, she had been willing to disregard all the death, if it only meant keeping Dolly alive. She had barely given any thought to the deaths of both Meka and Rhonda, two of her peers that she had not known well, but she had last seen less than a day or two before their deaths. If she really couldn't live with herself if she just allowed more people to die, then why didn't their deaths give her any noticeable pause?
...
This was stupid, she thought, dismissing her previous observations. She knew that now wasn't the time to do yet more soul searching, she had more important matters to focus on. Perhaps later she could come back to these thoughts and get a more concrete idea of what she was doing and why, but for now she felt that they were best left overlooked.
Finishing her care of Roxanne's injuries with a few applications of closure strips to her friend's face alongside adhesive bandages to secure them, Marceline finally stopped babbling away, silently returning her rapidly dwindling supplies to her bag before turning back to her friend, holding back tears.
She inhaled, and finally spoke coherently again, her words choked out through her ever tightening throat. "F-for a second there. I... I thought I lost you too."
In a surge of movement, she pulled Roxanne into a hug presumably against her friend's will, but she didn't care. All of this was far too reminiscent of how Dolly had died, except this time Roxanne had survived, and now Marceline needed to calm herself down, somehow.
When she spoke again, arms still wrapped around her friend, the sound of her voice was naught but a whispered whimper, full of guilt and sorrow.
"I'm sorry."
Roxanne’s first look at Marcy’s tear-stained face didn’t reassure her that she wasn’t dying. Still, she felt strangely calm. Maybe it really wasn’t that bad, maybe it was just shock, maybe she was just subconsciously trying to go out with some dignity. She didn’t feel like she was dying.
Marcy babbled and fussed, and Roxanne quietly allowed it, attention too drawn to the sensation of blood running down her cheek and her arm, soaking the torn fabric of her sleeve. Marcy was still talking, only truly silent when she was struggling to stab someone to death. Roxanne’s responses were automatic, unimportant. Enough to reassure her friend that she hadn’t faded away yet.
She didn’t feel like she was fading. If anything, the growing pain was bringing her even greater awareness of the fragile physical form she currently inhabited, her muscles involuntarily wincing when Marcy cleaned and disinfected her wounds.
Finally, the bleeding was stopped, the slow killer of infection hopefully banished. The bandage felt wrong on her cheek, alien and bulky. Another part of her stripped away, identity and bits of flesh. Roxanne’s face couldn’t even be her own, anymore. At least scars were pretty rock and roll, right?
The absurd thought drove home the dull reality of the situation, how easily and mundanely everything could have ended for her right there. Roxanne wasn’t seeking Valhalla, but she had still almost died doing nothing. A bystander, a statue. The same way it felt like she’d been living out the past few days, her last few days.
She saw Marcy, crying, apologizing, desperately happy that Roxanne was alive, and wondered if she could have sparked up enough life to do the same for her, if things had been different, if the shell had exploded in her face instead. Or would she have simply taken in the scene, accepted it, and decided that was that, without even a cursory retaliatory shot fired in Kelly's direction?
It felt like the last time she had felt something had been when Beryl died, echoes of those emotions resurfacing just in time during their confrontation with Nick. Didn’t Marcy’s life carry just as much weight?
“It's okay, I’m here,” Roxanne repeated, one more time with feeling, gingerly patting her friend’s back as she was hugged. “I’m still here.”
Marcy babbled and fussed, and Roxanne quietly allowed it, attention too drawn to the sensation of blood running down her cheek and her arm, soaking the torn fabric of her sleeve. Marcy was still talking, only truly silent when she was struggling to stab someone to death. Roxanne’s responses were automatic, unimportant. Enough to reassure her friend that she hadn’t faded away yet.
She didn’t feel like she was fading. If anything, the growing pain was bringing her even greater awareness of the fragile physical form she currently inhabited, her muscles involuntarily wincing when Marcy cleaned and disinfected her wounds.
Finally, the bleeding was stopped, the slow killer of infection hopefully banished. The bandage felt wrong on her cheek, alien and bulky. Another part of her stripped away, identity and bits of flesh. Roxanne’s face couldn’t even be her own, anymore. At least scars were pretty rock and roll, right?
The absurd thought drove home the dull reality of the situation, how easily and mundanely everything could have ended for her right there. Roxanne wasn’t seeking Valhalla, but she had still almost died doing nothing. A bystander, a statue. The same way it felt like she’d been living out the past few days, her last few days.
She saw Marcy, crying, apologizing, desperately happy that Roxanne was alive, and wondered if she could have sparked up enough life to do the same for her, if things had been different, if the shell had exploded in her face instead. Or would she have simply taken in the scene, accepted it, and decided that was that, without even a cursory retaliatory shot fired in Kelly's direction?
It felt like the last time she had felt something had been when Beryl died, echoes of those emotions resurfacing just in time during their confrontation with Nick. Didn’t Marcy’s life carry just as much weight?
“It's okay, I’m here,” Roxanne repeated, one more time with feeling, gingerly patting her friend’s back as she was hugged. “I’m still here.”
-
VoltTurtle
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Marceline sat in silence, holding the hug with Roxanne for some amount of time—she didn't know how long—the feeling of her friend's continued heartbeat and the gentle patting on her back serving as the best possible comfort for her in this situation, serving as a reminder that they were both alive.
Finally, Marceline began to calm down, gently letting go of Roxanne, her arms slumping onto her lap, her gaze transfixed on the wooden floor below them. She needed to be better next time, to make sure all of this wouldn't happen again. Maybe it was inevitable that the both of them were going to die, but she was going to keep that from happening as long as possible. That was what her goal was, right? Buy all of the innocent people more time?
Her hand drifted up towards her chest, yanking out the key necklace, clutching it tightly in her hand. She still had a promise she needed to keep too, one that she would never let go of.
"Well..." She began, halfheartedly interrupting the silence. "I think we should probably just try to rest now that she's gone. No point in going anywhere else, I guess."
She was still looking for allies to recruit to her cause, right? That's why she had her shirt hanging up out front as a sign to anyone passing by. Just because the first person that happened to pass by was awful less-than-human garbage didn't mean that they needed to go anywhere. It was best to avoid moving for Roxanne's sake too- her injuries were far from being severe, but she needed to rest to let herself heal as much as she could.
--
The rest of day seven passed by uneventfully for the two of them. Marceline did her best to make the conditions within the commissary more tolerable, namely by helping to further reduce the smell via opening the commissary's windows and leaving the door ajar. As she worked, she quietly retrieved the now-bloodied rock that she had bludgeoned Kelly with earlier, slipping it back into her pocket. Not long after, her list and the broken pencil were removed from her daypack and pressed against a wall, before she underlined Kelly's name, vowing to make her pay for almost killing Roxanne.
Eventually, with her preparations done, the two talked for some time, and then went to sleep.
Day eight was similarly uneventful for the both of them.
Marceline performed her usual routine of listening to the morning announcements, quietly adding tally marks, crossing out names, and wincing as each of the dead were listed off in their usual, callous fashion. Staying in the commissary for the rest of the day only proved to make her antsy, preoccupied with thoughts of how many lives were being lost due to her inaction, hoping that anyone would come along to finally join her in her struggle. Despite this, Marceline elected to remain in place, just in case someone happened along. Roxanne, at least, benefited from the extra rest and the lack of significant movement from area to area, especially given how exhaustive they had been in crossing the island the days before.
Time continued to pass, the two girls exchanging much more mild conversation than before, mostly talking about subjects unrelated to their current predicament. Marceline took the opportunity to reposition the commissary's tables in such a way that entering would be more of a hassle—the tables would not serve as very good cover in the event of a gun fight since they were very unlikely to stop a bullet, but they could still be useful as inconvenient blockades to give the girls more time to react to intruders, and hinder any interlopers attempts to avoid gunfire.
Eventually, the sun began to set on yet another day, and Marceline, bored out of her mind by the lack of stimulation inherent to what they were doing, eventually fell asleep.
Marceline laid on the soft grasses of Mountain Foothills Park, stars dotting the midnight sky above her, a waxing crescent moon hanging in the air and illuminating the Earth. Dolly laid in the grass to her left, Marceline's hand clutched tightly around Dolly's own. George Hunter's prom had just finished a few hours ago, and now under the light of the moon and stars, Dolly looked even more gorgeous than ever. Her violet, lace-covered dress was even fancier and more elaborate than usual, and her pigtails were cutely curled top to bottom. Marceline's outfit was by comparison rather plain, being nothing but a pink suit and pencil skirt, but at least the makeup adorning her face was much higher quality than usual—her mom had done it just for the occasion. It was a pity, then, that Marceline couldn't appreciate her girlfriend's own face as they both stared upwards at the stars, as unknown and unsourced shadows were obscuring it.
The wind gently whispered through the flat, broad leaves of the jungle trees in their surroundings, the usual canopy parted in a wide area around them. The area in front of them was flat park ground, dotted with a metal park bench alongside a concrete path that ran in front of it, that disappeared back into the trees in either direction.
"So, Dolly, you know how we were talking about the future earlier?" Marceline asked, breaking the silence. "I'm still not sure what I want to do."
The stars twinkled as she spoke, her eyes transfixed upon them, drawing shapes and patterns where none truly existed. "Honestly, I really think Beyond Human has places it could go. I think Beryl, Alex, and Roxy are all good at what they do, and I think all of us can only get better. I know it's a pipe dream to think we could wind up like Metallica or something and make it big, but maybe we could just be a cool indie band that makes enough to live even if we aren't super famous, you know?"
"I'm sure you'll do great," Dolly responded, her voice as gentle as ever. "Maybe you could consider going to college too, to major in musical theory?"
"Maybe," Marceline muttered, after some contemplation. "It would probably help with making sure the band's music doesn't suck, haha, but that's still a lot of debt to worry about..."
She began to sit up, gazing out into the view in front of her. They were on the side of a cliff, forest canopy behind them, water pouring out of the side of the cliff and pounding the rocks below with a roar. In the far distance, a lighthouse was visible, towering over everything else to an almost impossible degree, standing vigil over the wide open bay below it. Plain, repetitive houses of the same style and design, formed in neat little rows across streets, were visible not too far from the lighthouse. Marceline felt a deep discomfort in the pit of her stomach taking all of it in, so she elected to lay back down, turning her attention to her girlfriend.
"I know you've definitely told me before several times, but frankly I just like hearing your voice. What do you want?"
Dolly was silent for quite some time, the roar of the waterfall being the only sound filling Marceline's ears. When she finally did say something, however, her normally gentle, soft voice somehow drowned out even that, making it seem so small in comparison.
"I want you to stop lying to yourself, Marceline."
"Wh-what?" Marceline stammered out, her eyes widening. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She suddenly felt a crushing weight on her lap, looking up to see a Benelli M3 shotgun sitting plainly on top of her, barrel pointed directly at her face. She hurriedly turned it away, knocking the shotgun off of her chest and onto the ground next to her, a soft thump being heard despite all the other noise.
"I mean this, all of it. Why you're doing what you're doing. I want you to tell yourself the truth."
Marceline felt her heart flutter as the roar of the waterfall grew even louder, so she scrambled to stand up, only to find her girlfriend standing up along with her, looking directly at Marceline even as her face remained framed by shadow.
"You've been lying to yourself ever since it happened. You're angry, you're suicidal, and you need to quit pretending that you're anything else, before it's too late."
Marceline's breathing became faster and faster, her heart pounding in her ears.
"Stop, please. Just stop. I-" She muttered, clutching the sides of her head, her mind unable to cope with what was happening around her. "This is all wrong, this isn't real, it can't be. You're dead, and you're not really here, and I'm not really talking to you..."
She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, all of this would be over, but when she did, she found herself back in the Commissary, the stench of death filling the air even now, in her dream. Dolly was in front of her, wrapping her arms around her, the gentle pressure of her girlfriend's embrace comforting her even now.
"It's okay, Marceline, you don't need to worry. Whatever you decide to do with your life, I'll support you every step of the way."
Just as Dolly finished speaking, Marceline heard a gentle click sound out from behind her.
She screamed, knowing what was about to come, tackling Dolly to the ground in a vain attempt to prevent the inevitable from happening yet again.
This time, when the thunderous boom came, it was her own skull that was scattered in pieces on the ground below.
Limbs flailing, heart racing, Marceline sprang to life out of her slumber as the sun began to rise on a new day. Breaths came out ragged and fast, Marceline fighting the urge to hyperventilate as tears began to fill her eyes. She was unsure how to process what she had just dreamed, sitting there in stunned silence. What was all of that supposed to mean? Did it actually mean anything to begin with, or was it just her mind trying to cope with the situation it was in? All she knew was, she didn't want to be here anymore. All of this has been a big waste of time.
"Roxy," she wheezed. "Do you want to get out of here?"
Finally, Marceline began to calm down, gently letting go of Roxanne, her arms slumping onto her lap, her gaze transfixed on the wooden floor below them. She needed to be better next time, to make sure all of this wouldn't happen again. Maybe it was inevitable that the both of them were going to die, but she was going to keep that from happening as long as possible. That was what her goal was, right? Buy all of the innocent people more time?
Her hand drifted up towards her chest, yanking out the key necklace, clutching it tightly in her hand. She still had a promise she needed to keep too, one that she would never let go of.
"Well..." She began, halfheartedly interrupting the silence. "I think we should probably just try to rest now that she's gone. No point in going anywhere else, I guess."
She was still looking for allies to recruit to her cause, right? That's why she had her shirt hanging up out front as a sign to anyone passing by. Just because the first person that happened to pass by was awful less-than-human garbage didn't mean that they needed to go anywhere. It was best to avoid moving for Roxanne's sake too- her injuries were far from being severe, but she needed to rest to let herself heal as much as she could.
--
The rest of day seven passed by uneventfully for the two of them. Marceline did her best to make the conditions within the commissary more tolerable, namely by helping to further reduce the smell via opening the commissary's windows and leaving the door ajar. As she worked, she quietly retrieved the now-bloodied rock that she had bludgeoned Kelly with earlier, slipping it back into her pocket. Not long after, her list and the broken pencil were removed from her daypack and pressed against a wall, before she underlined Kelly's name, vowing to make her pay for almost killing Roxanne.
Eventually, with her preparations done, the two talked for some time, and then went to sleep.
DAY EIGHT
Day eight was similarly uneventful for the both of them.
Marceline performed her usual routine of listening to the morning announcements, quietly adding tally marks, crossing out names, and wincing as each of the dead were listed off in their usual, callous fashion. Staying in the commissary for the rest of the day only proved to make her antsy, preoccupied with thoughts of how many lives were being lost due to her inaction, hoping that anyone would come along to finally join her in her struggle. Despite this, Marceline elected to remain in place, just in case someone happened along. Roxanne, at least, benefited from the extra rest and the lack of significant movement from area to area, especially given how exhaustive they had been in crossing the island the days before.
Time continued to pass, the two girls exchanging much more mild conversation than before, mostly talking about subjects unrelated to their current predicament. Marceline took the opportunity to reposition the commissary's tables in such a way that entering would be more of a hassle—the tables would not serve as very good cover in the event of a gun fight since they were very unlikely to stop a bullet, but they could still be useful as inconvenient blockades to give the girls more time to react to intruders, and hinder any interlopers attempts to avoid gunfire.
Eventually, the sun began to set on yet another day, and Marceline, bored out of her mind by the lack of stimulation inherent to what they were doing, eventually fell asleep.
???
Marceline laid on the soft grasses of Mountain Foothills Park, stars dotting the midnight sky above her, a waxing crescent moon hanging in the air and illuminating the Earth. Dolly laid in the grass to her left, Marceline's hand clutched tightly around Dolly's own. George Hunter's prom had just finished a few hours ago, and now under the light of the moon and stars, Dolly looked even more gorgeous than ever. Her violet, lace-covered dress was even fancier and more elaborate than usual, and her pigtails were cutely curled top to bottom. Marceline's outfit was by comparison rather plain, being nothing but a pink suit and pencil skirt, but at least the makeup adorning her face was much higher quality than usual—her mom had done it just for the occasion. It was a pity, then, that Marceline couldn't appreciate her girlfriend's own face as they both stared upwards at the stars, as unknown and unsourced shadows were obscuring it.
The wind gently whispered through the flat, broad leaves of the jungle trees in their surroundings, the usual canopy parted in a wide area around them. The area in front of them was flat park ground, dotted with a metal park bench alongside a concrete path that ran in front of it, that disappeared back into the trees in either direction.
"So, Dolly, you know how we were talking about the future earlier?" Marceline asked, breaking the silence. "I'm still not sure what I want to do."
The stars twinkled as she spoke, her eyes transfixed upon them, drawing shapes and patterns where none truly existed. "Honestly, I really think Beyond Human has places it could go. I think Beryl, Alex, and Roxy are all good at what they do, and I think all of us can only get better. I know it's a pipe dream to think we could wind up like Metallica or something and make it big, but maybe we could just be a cool indie band that makes enough to live even if we aren't super famous, you know?"
"I'm sure you'll do great," Dolly responded, her voice as gentle as ever. "Maybe you could consider going to college too, to major in musical theory?"
"Maybe," Marceline muttered, after some contemplation. "It would probably help with making sure the band's music doesn't suck, haha, but that's still a lot of debt to worry about..."
She began to sit up, gazing out into the view in front of her. They were on the side of a cliff, forest canopy behind them, water pouring out of the side of the cliff and pounding the rocks below with a roar. In the far distance, a lighthouse was visible, towering over everything else to an almost impossible degree, standing vigil over the wide open bay below it. Plain, repetitive houses of the same style and design, formed in neat little rows across streets, were visible not too far from the lighthouse. Marceline felt a deep discomfort in the pit of her stomach taking all of it in, so she elected to lay back down, turning her attention to her girlfriend.
"I know you've definitely told me before several times, but frankly I just like hearing your voice. What do you want?"
Dolly was silent for quite some time, the roar of the waterfall being the only sound filling Marceline's ears. When she finally did say something, however, her normally gentle, soft voice somehow drowned out even that, making it seem so small in comparison.
"I want you to stop lying to yourself, Marceline."
"Wh-what?" Marceline stammered out, her eyes widening. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She suddenly felt a crushing weight on her lap, looking up to see a Benelli M3 shotgun sitting plainly on top of her, barrel pointed directly at her face. She hurriedly turned it away, knocking the shotgun off of her chest and onto the ground next to her, a soft thump being heard despite all the other noise.
"I mean this, all of it. Why you're doing what you're doing. I want you to tell yourself the truth."
Marceline felt her heart flutter as the roar of the waterfall grew even louder, so she scrambled to stand up, only to find her girlfriend standing up along with her, looking directly at Marceline even as her face remained framed by shadow.
"You've been lying to yourself ever since it happened. You're angry, you're suicidal, and you need to quit pretending that you're anything else, before it's too late."
Marceline's breathing became faster and faster, her heart pounding in her ears.
"Stop, please. Just stop. I-" She muttered, clutching the sides of her head, her mind unable to cope with what was happening around her. "This is all wrong, this isn't real, it can't be. You're dead, and you're not really here, and I'm not really talking to you..."
She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, all of this would be over, but when she did, she found herself back in the Commissary, the stench of death filling the air even now, in her dream. Dolly was in front of her, wrapping her arms around her, the gentle pressure of her girlfriend's embrace comforting her even now.
"It's okay, Marceline, you don't need to worry. Whatever you decide to do with your life, I'll support you every step of the way."
Just as Dolly finished speaking, Marceline heard a gentle click sound out from behind her.
She screamed, knowing what was about to come, tackling Dolly to the ground in a vain attempt to prevent the inevitable from happening yet again.
This time, when the thunderous boom came, it was her own skull that was scattered in pieces on the ground below.
DAY NINE
Limbs flailing, heart racing, Marceline sprang to life out of her slumber as the sun began to rise on a new day. Breaths came out ragged and fast, Marceline fighting the urge to hyperventilate as tears began to fill her eyes. She was unsure how to process what she had just dreamed, sitting there in stunned silence. What was all of that supposed to mean? Did it actually mean anything to begin with, or was it just her mind trying to cope with the situation it was in? All she knew was, she didn't want to be here anymore. All of this has been a big waste of time.
"Roxy," she wheezed. "Do you want to get out of here?"
Blood and shrapnel. It felt like all anyone ever left behind was blood and shrapnel, and they’d already paid their dues, Roxanne’s superficial blood joining the more dire stain on the floor, on the walls, near the door, labeling the table. Kelley’s shotgun shell had made its own mark in their surroundings, and it hadn’t been the first.
It made her dread what she’d find, when they caught their breath and went through the rest of the building, but miraculously Jeremiah’s body was the only one they found. She couldn’t bring herself to drag his body out of the building, unceremoniously dump it somewhere it wouldn’t bother her. She wouldn’t have thought twice if it wasn’t for the note - naming him. Telling a story. Pleading.
Nia was dead, but her love for Jeremiah lived on through a humble note. Love that had already been desecrated by someone with an awful sense of humor but enough shreds of conscience left to leave the note where it was. Still, that was more than most got.
When Roxanne died, would her body be left where it fell, lying in an unmarked undug grave? Would there be anyone left to notice her absence? If she died first, it would obviously destroy Marcy, and some twisted part of her relished having that much significance to someone, but Marcy was just one girl. A girl she cherished, but that wasn’t enough. After the closed-casket ceremonial funeral, all she'd be was a forgettable name on a memorial somewhere.
'Roxanne' sounded like a rock star, but she had never been hungry for fame. Even if her band had lasted long enough for them to live to drinking age and make it big, she was the bassist. No one ever remembered the bassist. That had never really bothered her - she wanted people to remember what she made, not who she was.
The same went for her dreams of being a professional photographer. The masses remembered striking imagery, never the one behind the camera. Maybe if she had an award-winning decades-spanning career someone would shoot a documentary or at least a half-hour TV short about her, but even those humble heights had never been what she wanted.
Roxanne’d never had time to figure out what she really wanted to do with her life, but her vague idea of her future had never changed. She wanted to be free to create. To be able to put works out into the world that existed separately from her, that people could judge on their own merits. Songs and pictures lived longer than the people who had made them, and she’d just wanted to make something worth remembering.
At least she couldn’t be mad at herself for failing to make the slightest attempt to follow her dreams before the dragon had stolen her away. Maybe it would actually have been worse if she’d come clean to her family, if everything had gone right after that - she’d still be there, on the island, with a gun in her hand and a new scar on her face.
The only meaningful things you could do on the island needed a steady supply of fresh blood. Thus, failing creation, Roxanne just had to be in order to be remembered. She faintly remembered making that resolution so long ago, before she’d become glued to Marcy. What did she have to show for it? Who would remember her?
Forrest spent an awkward night with her, then left without saying goodbye, and that had been the best of her encounters. She had barely even spoken to Marco before he passed out. Nick had been cordial, but the threat of Marcy going ballistic had tainted the whole interaction. Kelly would only remember her as the girl that stood by and let her come within an inch of dying. No one who’d leave a note for her.
Was Marcy the only hope she had of being mourned? If she outlived Marcy, which seemed increasingly likely now that Roxanne knew what a fight to the death looked like, what hope was there for her? Or would she have a better chance at making a connection alone, without someone with morals who was looking to start a fight? What would Kelley have done, if she met Roxanne alone? Would they have spoken like human beings? Normal, scared teenagers?
Her thoughts ran in similar circles for the rest of the day. They slept fitfully on blankets they salvaged from the barricaded supply room. Other people had sheltered there, slept there - where were they now? Had it been Nia and Jeremiah, sleeping there, or someone else? There was an unimaginable amount of possibilities, and she’d never know.
The eighth day passed. Nothing was created. Nothing was resolved. No one came. They stalled for time while death crept unknowably closer.
Day nine came. She was already awake when Marcy’s demons violently clawed her dreams away. She simply looked at her friend, not unsympathetic, but not yet alive enough to offer any comfort. It was hard to fight off the previous day’s stupor of inactivity.
“Yeah. After the announcement?”
Two whole days and no one came, Marcy’s signal flare sputtering out before it even reached the sky. Would she leave her shirt still hanging by the signpost, as a marker that she had been there? Roxanne wished she had a spray can so she could do the same in a slightly more permanent fashion.
It made her dread what she’d find, when they caught their breath and went through the rest of the building, but miraculously Jeremiah’s body was the only one they found. She couldn’t bring herself to drag his body out of the building, unceremoniously dump it somewhere it wouldn’t bother her. She wouldn’t have thought twice if it wasn’t for the note - naming him. Telling a story. Pleading.
Nia was dead, but her love for Jeremiah lived on through a humble note. Love that had already been desecrated by someone with an awful sense of humor but enough shreds of conscience left to leave the note where it was. Still, that was more than most got.
When Roxanne died, would her body be left where it fell, lying in an unmarked undug grave? Would there be anyone left to notice her absence? If she died first, it would obviously destroy Marcy, and some twisted part of her relished having that much significance to someone, but Marcy was just one girl. A girl she cherished, but that wasn’t enough. After the closed-casket ceremonial funeral, all she'd be was a forgettable name on a memorial somewhere.
'Roxanne' sounded like a rock star, but she had never been hungry for fame. Even if her band had lasted long enough for them to live to drinking age and make it big, she was the bassist. No one ever remembered the bassist. That had never really bothered her - she wanted people to remember what she made, not who she was.
The same went for her dreams of being a professional photographer. The masses remembered striking imagery, never the one behind the camera. Maybe if she had an award-winning decades-spanning career someone would shoot a documentary or at least a half-hour TV short about her, but even those humble heights had never been what she wanted.
Roxanne’d never had time to figure out what she really wanted to do with her life, but her vague idea of her future had never changed. She wanted to be free to create. To be able to put works out into the world that existed separately from her, that people could judge on their own merits. Songs and pictures lived longer than the people who had made them, and she’d just wanted to make something worth remembering.
At least she couldn’t be mad at herself for failing to make the slightest attempt to follow her dreams before the dragon had stolen her away. Maybe it would actually have been worse if she’d come clean to her family, if everything had gone right after that - she’d still be there, on the island, with a gun in her hand and a new scar on her face.
The only meaningful things you could do on the island needed a steady supply of fresh blood. Thus, failing creation, Roxanne just had to be in order to be remembered. She faintly remembered making that resolution so long ago, before she’d become glued to Marcy. What did she have to show for it? Who would remember her?
Forrest spent an awkward night with her, then left without saying goodbye, and that had been the best of her encounters. She had barely even spoken to Marco before he passed out. Nick had been cordial, but the threat of Marcy going ballistic had tainted the whole interaction. Kelly would only remember her as the girl that stood by and let her come within an inch of dying. No one who’d leave a note for her.
Was Marcy the only hope she had of being mourned? If she outlived Marcy, which seemed increasingly likely now that Roxanne knew what a fight to the death looked like, what hope was there for her? Or would she have a better chance at making a connection alone, without someone with morals who was looking to start a fight? What would Kelley have done, if she met Roxanne alone? Would they have spoken like human beings? Normal, scared teenagers?
Her thoughts ran in similar circles for the rest of the day. They slept fitfully on blankets they salvaged from the barricaded supply room. Other people had sheltered there, slept there - where were they now? Had it been Nia and Jeremiah, sleeping there, or someone else? There was an unimaginable amount of possibilities, and she’d never know.
The eighth day passed. Nothing was created. Nothing was resolved. No one came. They stalled for time while death crept unknowably closer.
Day nine came. She was already awake when Marcy’s demons violently clawed her dreams away. She simply looked at her friend, not unsympathetic, but not yet alive enough to offer any comfort. It was hard to fight off the previous day’s stupor of inactivity.
“Yeah. After the announcement?”
Two whole days and no one came, Marcy’s signal flare sputtering out before it even reached the sky. Would she leave her shirt still hanging by the signpost, as a marker that she had been there? Roxanne wished she had a spray can so she could do the same in a slightly more permanent fashion.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
((Juliette Sargent continued from "That's all there is to it."))
The taste of anything besides ration bar and pungent, humid air now felt like a distant memory. The morning smelled like opportunity. Juliette had finally made her way back to the town.
The announcements would be coming soon, and she was strongly considering waiting for them to play before she began knocking on doors and peeping through windows. There was advantage to be had in a more accurate picture of recent events, and also in proof of intentions. Juliette knew that she would not be named as a killer. She could point to this—to her total lack of appearance on the morning news thus far—as evidence of pure intentions and a steady mental state. It didn't matter if such insinuations amounted to deception, didn't matter if they stemmed more from a lack of proper opportunity than some grand moral statement. Her secrets were her own, and nobody could pry them from between her ears.
The angle Juliette came into the built-up area from brought her right past the largest building, splashed in gaudy colors and tacky mural. Her map suggested that this was the commissary. This meant it was likely the most picked-over spot in the area, maybe on the entire island. Furthermore, with a distinct name and identity, it would be an appealing meeting place for groups to lay out in case they became separated. Surely there would be bodies inside, and just as surely it would've been occupied for much or all of the game to date. There was nothing here, nothing to be had, nothing to find but risk, and so Juliette planned to skirt along past it and move towards the more anonymous buildings to begin her scavenging in earnest.
Somewhat surprisingly, most of the deaths announced had sounded fairly direct and speedy, so the odds of stumbling upon someone who'd bled out scared and alone and with a convenient bag still partially full of useful goods lying right next to them were low. Declyn, maybe. They'd said Declyn had taken a while, but also that Myles had hung around and watched. Juliette thought Myles was too smart to leave worthwhile plunder behind. Then again, she'd also assumed Myles was too smart to do something like murder Declyn. It had to have been an emotional thing. They'd gone to Prom together, but Declyn had also been dating, oh, she'd known all of this just a week and a half ago but what did it matter now when they were all dying or dead? Declyn was well-known and almost universally beloved and killing him would mark Myles as a target. This was out of step with the collected, savvy pragmatist who'd been so interested in her motivations for running for office. That was what was important.
Was it more unsettling to think of Declyn gone, or of Myles as a killer?
This was what was rolling around in Juliette's head, along with a dozen other strands that had been tugging her in various directions for the past few days of almost total solitude. She was running through the discussion with Valerija again, the good old esprit de l'escalier kicking in strong with the many cheerful observations and potshots she could've made had she known the armed girl was guaranteed not to fire. She was trying to play back Stravinsky's Rite of Spring from memory in her mind, but could never quite conjure the orchestra in a way that let her forget it was just her imagination. She was thinking ahead to the end of all of this, laying out a possibility for exactly how it would go, the boat trip, the interview and negotiations, her introductions to those who were for now still her captors, her first day on the job; she'd read pieces of an account from one of the winners long ago mostly from a curiosity regarding the political implications but it allowed her to populate a scene in her mind when combined with what she had experienced and observed directly.
She still kept most of her attention on the here and now, of course. The gravel crunched beneath her feet. The buildings stood still and silent, the whole world silent enough bar the ambiance of bugs and far-off birds and monkeys and the sounds Juliette herself made. She felt pretty good, pretty clean. Her legs were still smooth enough, band-aids now gone. She wasn't too sweaty, was on her second outfit in the rotation with two more in the bag and a trip to the lake a possibility. It was slightly cooler today. No real clouds. The leaves fluttered in the breeze, and so did the impromptu banner outside the commissary.
Juliette froze.
She squinted at it. The shirt was immediately familiar, and it brought a mixed reaction indeed, exasperation and jealousy and shame and irritation and a burning desire to be somewhere, anywhere else. But that was all long ago in some other life, and all that was left of it now was prophetic words, a prescient promise of self-destruction.
Maybe it had already come to pass. Maybe the former owner was as dead as the cartoon cat head. Juliette hoped that was the case. That was the merciful option, but she couldn't quite bring herself to believe it. It would be too convenient, too quick and painless—she almost laughed to herself at that, like a week of agony would be quick and painless just because it didn't involve her personally.
She'd thought about Marceline a few times here. Most directly, it had been in the context of who she could kill. It would be mercy, wouldn't it? The girl had told Juliette in as many words, uncoerced. But that was assuming. Maybe things had changed, somehow. Maybe Juliette had been right all along, in those rebuttals she'd never let slip from her lips. High school romance didn't mean a thing compared to the lives sprawling ahead for years and years, except now that wasn't true and they were everything.
She stepped quiet and quick towards the door, wishing the announcements would just hurry up. She wouldn't have to go in if they listed Marceline among the dead. But she might not be brave enough to do so if they didn't.
Juliette took and held a deep breath. The razor was tucked away in her skirt, hidden by the hem of her blouse. But she was just taking a look. Just seeing what the state of affairs was, what had to—what could—be done.
She rapped on the wood, standing a bit to the side of the door and out of the direct line of fire if anybody felt like giving her an explosive welcome.
"Marceline?"
The taste of anything besides ration bar and pungent, humid air now felt like a distant memory. The morning smelled like opportunity. Juliette had finally made her way back to the town.
The announcements would be coming soon, and she was strongly considering waiting for them to play before she began knocking on doors and peeping through windows. There was advantage to be had in a more accurate picture of recent events, and also in proof of intentions. Juliette knew that she would not be named as a killer. She could point to this—to her total lack of appearance on the morning news thus far—as evidence of pure intentions and a steady mental state. It didn't matter if such insinuations amounted to deception, didn't matter if they stemmed more from a lack of proper opportunity than some grand moral statement. Her secrets were her own, and nobody could pry them from between her ears.
The angle Juliette came into the built-up area from brought her right past the largest building, splashed in gaudy colors and tacky mural. Her map suggested that this was the commissary. This meant it was likely the most picked-over spot in the area, maybe on the entire island. Furthermore, with a distinct name and identity, it would be an appealing meeting place for groups to lay out in case they became separated. Surely there would be bodies inside, and just as surely it would've been occupied for much or all of the game to date. There was nothing here, nothing to be had, nothing to find but risk, and so Juliette planned to skirt along past it and move towards the more anonymous buildings to begin her scavenging in earnest.
Somewhat surprisingly, most of the deaths announced had sounded fairly direct and speedy, so the odds of stumbling upon someone who'd bled out scared and alone and with a convenient bag still partially full of useful goods lying right next to them were low. Declyn, maybe. They'd said Declyn had taken a while, but also that Myles had hung around and watched. Juliette thought Myles was too smart to leave worthwhile plunder behind. Then again, she'd also assumed Myles was too smart to do something like murder Declyn. It had to have been an emotional thing. They'd gone to Prom together, but Declyn had also been dating, oh, she'd known all of this just a week and a half ago but what did it matter now when they were all dying or dead? Declyn was well-known and almost universally beloved and killing him would mark Myles as a target. This was out of step with the collected, savvy pragmatist who'd been so interested in her motivations for running for office. That was what was important.
Was it more unsettling to think of Declyn gone, or of Myles as a killer?
This was what was rolling around in Juliette's head, along with a dozen other strands that had been tugging her in various directions for the past few days of almost total solitude. She was running through the discussion with Valerija again, the good old esprit de l'escalier kicking in strong with the many cheerful observations and potshots she could've made had she known the armed girl was guaranteed not to fire. She was trying to play back Stravinsky's Rite of Spring from memory in her mind, but could never quite conjure the orchestra in a way that let her forget it was just her imagination. She was thinking ahead to the end of all of this, laying out a possibility for exactly how it would go, the boat trip, the interview and negotiations, her introductions to those who were for now still her captors, her first day on the job; she'd read pieces of an account from one of the winners long ago mostly from a curiosity regarding the political implications but it allowed her to populate a scene in her mind when combined with what she had experienced and observed directly.
She still kept most of her attention on the here and now, of course. The gravel crunched beneath her feet. The buildings stood still and silent, the whole world silent enough bar the ambiance of bugs and far-off birds and monkeys and the sounds Juliette herself made. She felt pretty good, pretty clean. Her legs were still smooth enough, band-aids now gone. She wasn't too sweaty, was on her second outfit in the rotation with two more in the bag and a trip to the lake a possibility. It was slightly cooler today. No real clouds. The leaves fluttered in the breeze, and so did the impromptu banner outside the commissary.
Juliette froze.
She squinted at it. The shirt was immediately familiar, and it brought a mixed reaction indeed, exasperation and jealousy and shame and irritation and a burning desire to be somewhere, anywhere else. But that was all long ago in some other life, and all that was left of it now was prophetic words, a prescient promise of self-destruction.
Maybe it had already come to pass. Maybe the former owner was as dead as the cartoon cat head. Juliette hoped that was the case. That was the merciful option, but she couldn't quite bring herself to believe it. It would be too convenient, too quick and painless—she almost laughed to herself at that, like a week of agony would be quick and painless just because it didn't involve her personally.
She'd thought about Marceline a few times here. Most directly, it had been in the context of who she could kill. It would be mercy, wouldn't it? The girl had told Juliette in as many words, uncoerced. But that was assuming. Maybe things had changed, somehow. Maybe Juliette had been right all along, in those rebuttals she'd never let slip from her lips. High school romance didn't mean a thing compared to the lives sprawling ahead for years and years, except now that wasn't true and they were everything.
She stepped quiet and quick towards the door, wishing the announcements would just hurry up. She wouldn't have to go in if they listed Marceline among the dead. But she might not be brave enough to do so if they didn't.
Juliette took and held a deep breath. The razor was tucked away in her skirt, hidden by the hem of her blouse. But she was just taking a look. Just seeing what the state of affairs was, what had to—what could—be done.
She rapped on the wood, standing a bit to the side of the door and out of the direct line of fire if anybody felt like giving her an explosive welcome.
"Marceline?"
-
VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
Marceline nodded in response to Roxanne's suggestion, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, warm, wet tears still running down her cheeks. The nightmares hadn't gotten better since that first night after Dolly was murdered. She'd had a new one every single night, all of them squeezing the life out of her, crushing her under the weight of her guilt. Torturing her with repeats of her girlfriend's death every single night, as if the images of the gore and violence had not already been filling her head when she was awake, reminding her over and over that she had failed and it was all her fault. Every single night since then, until this one.
She wiped away her tears with her fingers, her hands feeling cold on her face. Her gaze shifted from the rotted ceiling, briefly resting on the morning sun beaming through one of the windows, before finally stopping on the bloodied floorboards. Her mind was still roaming its own landscape, not quite letting her pay attention to the reality around her. She would have some time to think before the announcements came and she would have to shift back into travel mode, and she wanted to use it.
Why had this dream been different? Did it actually mean anything when the nightmare told her that she needed to stop lying to herself? Why did her head even call up that idea to begin with? What could she be lying to herself about? It wasn't like anything she had done up to this point was inauthentic, she had believed every word she said, both to herself and to Roxanne. So why was she starting to subconsciously doubt herself? Was it because of the fight with Kelly, and how it had gone so poorly?
She thought back to the fight, all of it still feeling so fresh in her mind, even though it was almost two days prior. She knew where she had gone wrong, how she had hesitated when it came time for the killing blow, but why was that? Did it mean that she had empathized with Kelly too much? She had felt a twang of sympathy for the girl and her situation, even if Kelly had ultimately brought it upon herself with her actions.
Maybe that wasn't really it, though, or maybe it was and it just wasn't the full picture. Marceline had spent so much time interrogating Kelly prior to attacking, even though she had already made up her mind that Kelly deserved what was coming as soon as she saw her. She thought that she was doing it to get Roxanne on her side, but it wasn't as if Roxanne's opinion had actually factored into what happened, in the end.
Had she really been asking for her own sake? Even after she had made Kelly dig her own grave, she still had needed to psyche herself up further by specifically thinking of Blaise and how much she had wanted to tear them apart, to finally have the courage needed to go for it. Despite the inherent cruelty of Mercy's death, it simply hadn't been enough on its own to summon up that same fury and hatred. So what did that mean for her? Did it show that her heart wasn't really in it, and that was why she was starting to doubt herself?
She didn't know, and she wasn't sure.
She glanced around the room, dust still flitting visibly in the beams of sunlight. It was almost overwhelmingly quiet with Marceline sitting here, thinking to herself, neither her nor Roxanne talking to one another. That was until she heard a knock at the door and a voice echoing through the commissary, the surprise of which almost made her jump out of her skin.
"J-Julie Coo-" Marceline called out almost instinctively, as if they were suddenly all back at George Hunter High, before she remembered where exactly she was, and everything that had happened. "J-Juliette?"
She wiped away her tears with her fingers, her hands feeling cold on her face. Her gaze shifted from the rotted ceiling, briefly resting on the morning sun beaming through one of the windows, before finally stopping on the bloodied floorboards. Her mind was still roaming its own landscape, not quite letting her pay attention to the reality around her. She would have some time to think before the announcements came and she would have to shift back into travel mode, and she wanted to use it.
Why had this dream been different? Did it actually mean anything when the nightmare told her that she needed to stop lying to herself? Why did her head even call up that idea to begin with? What could she be lying to herself about? It wasn't like anything she had done up to this point was inauthentic, she had believed every word she said, both to herself and to Roxanne. So why was she starting to subconsciously doubt herself? Was it because of the fight with Kelly, and how it had gone so poorly?
She thought back to the fight, all of it still feeling so fresh in her mind, even though it was almost two days prior. She knew where she had gone wrong, how she had hesitated when it came time for the killing blow, but why was that? Did it mean that she had empathized with Kelly too much? She had felt a twang of sympathy for the girl and her situation, even if Kelly had ultimately brought it upon herself with her actions.
Maybe that wasn't really it, though, or maybe it was and it just wasn't the full picture. Marceline had spent so much time interrogating Kelly prior to attacking, even though she had already made up her mind that Kelly deserved what was coming as soon as she saw her. She thought that she was doing it to get Roxanne on her side, but it wasn't as if Roxanne's opinion had actually factored into what happened, in the end.
Had she really been asking for her own sake? Even after she had made Kelly dig her own grave, she still had needed to psyche herself up further by specifically thinking of Blaise and how much she had wanted to tear them apart, to finally have the courage needed to go for it. Despite the inherent cruelty of Mercy's death, it simply hadn't been enough on its own to summon up that same fury and hatred. So what did that mean for her? Did it show that her heart wasn't really in it, and that was why she was starting to doubt herself?
She didn't know, and she wasn't sure.
She glanced around the room, dust still flitting visibly in the beams of sunlight. It was almost overwhelmingly quiet with Marceline sitting here, thinking to herself, neither her nor Roxanne talking to one another. That was until she heard a knock at the door and a voice echoing through the commissary, the surprise of which almost made her jump out of her skin.
"J-Julie Coo-" Marceline called out almost instinctively, as if they were suddenly all back at George Hunter High, before she remembered where exactly she was, and everything that had happened. "J-Juliette?"
Roxanne hated that her first reaction to hearing the knock on the door was to shriek and scramble for her gun. Prey animals survived by being skittish, sure, but she liked to think that she had more composure. wielded more power than that.
She relaxed a little once she heard Marcy use a pet name, meaning there probably wouldn’t be any knives in the near future. She obviously knew of Juliette, though their days of campaign posters and slogans seemed laughably insignificant now.
Her parents had wanted her to run for student government. She’d had to argue for a long while, but they eventually allowed her to disappoint them. Once.
Roxanne didn’t know Juliette personally, and wasn’t even sure what Marcy’s relationship was to her, but none of that mattered. For the first time in days, maybe she would have someone to talk to without Marcy exploding with righteousness. The thought was exceptionally uncharitable, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. She was so tired. People weren’t meant to spend this much time together, even in the best of circumstances.
“It’s safe in here. Just us,” Roxanne called out, not particularly compelled to name herself. She doubted Juliette would recognize her from voice alone. No harm in making her a little off-balance.
She relaxed a little once she heard Marcy use a pet name, meaning there probably wouldn’t be any knives in the near future. She obviously knew of Juliette, though their days of campaign posters and slogans seemed laughably insignificant now.
Her parents had wanted her to run for student government. She’d had to argue for a long while, but they eventually allowed her to disappoint them. Once.
Roxanne didn’t know Juliette personally, and wasn’t even sure what Marcy’s relationship was to her, but none of that mattered. For the first time in days, maybe she would have someone to talk to without Marcy exploding with righteousness. The thought was exceptionally uncharitable, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. She was so tired. People weren’t meant to spend this much time together, even in the best of circumstances.
“It’s safe in here. Just us,” Roxanne called out, not particularly compelled to name herself. She doubted Juliette would recognize her from voice alone. No harm in making her a little off-balance.
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
When Marceline's voice came back, hesitant, weak, unsteady, Juliette's heart rate spiked so hard she could feel the pounding behind her ribs, and her hand drifted uncertainly towards the hiding place where her razor was stashed. When, moments later, another voice joined, more stable if less recognizable, she choked back a faint giggle and let her hand instead drop smoothly to hang by her side.
That was that, then, at least for an initial plan of action. Marceline couldn't be an immediate target because she wasn't alone. No opportunity for that one kill after all, it was what it was, and there were still other possibilities to explore. It took a second for Juliette to recompose herself, to let her pulse settle and run her tongue across her lips needlessly, before she was able to call out a response.
"Alright," she said, "I'm coming in. I'm alone."
She'd already discounted the possibility of a trap. Oh, Marceline had been exactly the sort to play games and set ambushes back at school, but that had been a girlfriend's lifetime ago. If any of that mischievous spirit remained, Juliette would be shocked, though not unpleasantly. She was expecting to find the ruined wreckage of a girl. The companion, she couldn't say right off the bat, but the character of the response was enough. It had offered welcome and freely-given information. And, moreover, Marceline had responded first, had sounded neither in physical agony nor coerced, and maybe she was flattering herself, maybe this would require some serious introspection afterwards, but Juliette's read on Marceline was that, whatever she was capable of, she would not willingly bait Juliette into a trap at this juncture, she would sooner call out a warning at the cost of her own life. After all, what did she have left to lose?
But confidence was not the opposite of caution, so Juliette's entrance was still slow. She passed an overturned crate sitting in the shadows by the door, one side open. Her eyebrows pulled together a little as her sandals crossed the threshold and she found herself walking on wood floor instead of dirt and grass and gravel for the first time in over a week. That small tactile change was enough to pull her guard up further, but still she walked on, each step painfully audible either from the faint slap of rubber on wood or from the groaning of old boards.
In moments, the scene unfolded before her. The first thing Juliette thought was that, if she was unaware of the circumstances, she would've expected the voices she'd heard to come from the opposite girls. Marceline looked, well, alive. She surpassed the extremely low bar Juliette had laid for her. It was something. Roxanne—Anna when her parents were around, a chameleon act Juliette had never really dug into as much as she should've, maybe, because it felt disrespectful, like prying—had clearly sustained some injuries, though she also had a wicked rifle. Juliette was suddenly just a little more conscious of the fact that she was wearing more or less clean clothes and had done her makeup this morning.
"Hey," she offered, with a wave. "Good to see you're..."
Doing well? Here? Holding it together?
"...alive."
That was that, then, at least for an initial plan of action. Marceline couldn't be an immediate target because she wasn't alone. No opportunity for that one kill after all, it was what it was, and there were still other possibilities to explore. It took a second for Juliette to recompose herself, to let her pulse settle and run her tongue across her lips needlessly, before she was able to call out a response.
"Alright," she said, "I'm coming in. I'm alone."
She'd already discounted the possibility of a trap. Oh, Marceline had been exactly the sort to play games and set ambushes back at school, but that had been a girlfriend's lifetime ago. If any of that mischievous spirit remained, Juliette would be shocked, though not unpleasantly. She was expecting to find the ruined wreckage of a girl. The companion, she couldn't say right off the bat, but the character of the response was enough. It had offered welcome and freely-given information. And, moreover, Marceline had responded first, had sounded neither in physical agony nor coerced, and maybe she was flattering herself, maybe this would require some serious introspection afterwards, but Juliette's read on Marceline was that, whatever she was capable of, she would not willingly bait Juliette into a trap at this juncture, she would sooner call out a warning at the cost of her own life. After all, what did she have left to lose?
But confidence was not the opposite of caution, so Juliette's entrance was still slow. She passed an overturned crate sitting in the shadows by the door, one side open. Her eyebrows pulled together a little as her sandals crossed the threshold and she found herself walking on wood floor instead of dirt and grass and gravel for the first time in over a week. That small tactile change was enough to pull her guard up further, but still she walked on, each step painfully audible either from the faint slap of rubber on wood or from the groaning of old boards.
In moments, the scene unfolded before her. The first thing Juliette thought was that, if she was unaware of the circumstances, she would've expected the voices she'd heard to come from the opposite girls. Marceline looked, well, alive. She surpassed the extremely low bar Juliette had laid for her. It was something. Roxanne—Anna when her parents were around, a chameleon act Juliette had never really dug into as much as she should've, maybe, because it felt disrespectful, like prying—had clearly sustained some injuries, though she also had a wicked rifle. Juliette was suddenly just a little more conscious of the fact that she was wearing more or less clean clothes and had done her makeup this morning.
"Hey," she offered, with a wave. "Good to see you're..."
Doing well? Here? Holding it together?
"...alive."
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 801
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
"Alive is one way to put it," Marceline responded, beginning to stand herself up and dust herself off.
Finally seeing someone that she knew besides Roxanne alive and well was a surprise to be sure, but one that Marceline welcomed, even if the timing of Juliette's arrival had interrupted her train of thought. She couldn't say that they were truly close, they had only really spent gym class together after all, but they had shared enough honest, personal conversations that Marceline would still consider her a friend. Perhaps Juliette thought the same and that was why she had entered the Commissary, the shirt Marceline had displayed outside finally fulfilling its purpose for at least one person.
Except, was Juliette really the type to be willing to join her cause? While Marceline was confident in her ability to pitch her outlook and goals, she couldn't imagine Juliette being the kind of person to be enthusiastic about murdering people, even if it was for a righteous cause. Besides that, even though Juliette appeared to be in surprisingly good shape this many days into the living hell they were all trapped in, she didn't seem to be properly armed. With that in mind, even if Marceline did manage to convince her to take up the cause, her usefulness would likely be doubtful at best. Still, she wouldn't turn Juliette down if she decided to stay with them, and it wasn't like she didn't enjoy the company.
Standing tall but not so triumphantly, Marceline continued from where she had left off, giving Juliette her best attempt a pained smile. "Glad to see you're still roaming the land of the living yourself, Juliette."
Were they back in George Hunter, Marceline saying something like that to Juliette would warrant her giving a flourish or a mischievous wink at the end, but instead they were here, and she simply didn't have the heart for the same mania that had permeated her behavior back when she still had Dolly to lean on. The contrast between now and then showed without a doubt that the Marceline that everyone had known before had died along with Dolly. Now all that remained was a hollow girl, drowning in an ocean of despair, flailing desperately for anything to hold onto to keep her head above water. Roxanne had seen it before, not long after it all happened, and now Juliette was seeing it too, days later.
Juliette's presence recalled all of these thoughts she had been trying to suppress to the forefront of her mind, reminding her of just how much she hated it all. Ever since that awful day she lost almost everything she cared about and returned to how she had been years ago, she had felt like she was sleepwalking while awake, half-dead yet still breathing, trapped in the in-between. Since then, it was only when she had confronted Nick and almost let her rage take control that she finally felt alive again. That anger had brought her life anew, all without her realizing until just now.
She had felt it again when she was tearing into Kelly, letting her fury take control and not holding anything back. She thought she had been using her anger and honing it as a weapon, but was her anger really using her, motivating her to seek out more reasons to express it? Her feelings had become so difficult for her to parse since that day, so perhaps she had been doing that without realizing it, and that was why she was starting to doubt herself now.
There was more to it than that though, there had to be, she thought. Maybe her rage had given her the initial push, but hunting down her murderous classmates and trying to gather like minded allies was the path she had consciously chosen, because she thought it was the right thing to do. But if it was really all her own doing, then why had she needed her anger to go all out against Kelly?
She didn't know, and she wasn't sure.
"Um," she started to say, fumbling over her words, unaware of quite how long she had been lost in thought. She felt obligated to speak, despite the fact that she didn't quite know what to say, especially in light of everything she was thinking. Roxanne and Juliette were possibly unfamiliar with each other, with that in mind, since she was the common thread between them, perhaps it was her duty to handle the introductions.
"So uh, Roxy," she looked over towards her band mate and gestured towards Juliette. "This is Juliette, we had gym class together. Juliette," she continued, returning her gaze to the new arrival and gesturing back towards Roxanne. "This is Roxy, we were in a band together. We're uh... the only two left."
Finally seeing someone that she knew besides Roxanne alive and well was a surprise to be sure, but one that Marceline welcomed, even if the timing of Juliette's arrival had interrupted her train of thought. She couldn't say that they were truly close, they had only really spent gym class together after all, but they had shared enough honest, personal conversations that Marceline would still consider her a friend. Perhaps Juliette thought the same and that was why she had entered the Commissary, the shirt Marceline had displayed outside finally fulfilling its purpose for at least one person.
Except, was Juliette really the type to be willing to join her cause? While Marceline was confident in her ability to pitch her outlook and goals, she couldn't imagine Juliette being the kind of person to be enthusiastic about murdering people, even if it was for a righteous cause. Besides that, even though Juliette appeared to be in surprisingly good shape this many days into the living hell they were all trapped in, she didn't seem to be properly armed. With that in mind, even if Marceline did manage to convince her to take up the cause, her usefulness would likely be doubtful at best. Still, she wouldn't turn Juliette down if she decided to stay with them, and it wasn't like she didn't enjoy the company.
Standing tall but not so triumphantly, Marceline continued from where she had left off, giving Juliette her best attempt a pained smile. "Glad to see you're still roaming the land of the living yourself, Juliette."
Were they back in George Hunter, Marceline saying something like that to Juliette would warrant her giving a flourish or a mischievous wink at the end, but instead they were here, and she simply didn't have the heart for the same mania that had permeated her behavior back when she still had Dolly to lean on. The contrast between now and then showed without a doubt that the Marceline that everyone had known before had died along with Dolly. Now all that remained was a hollow girl, drowning in an ocean of despair, flailing desperately for anything to hold onto to keep her head above water. Roxanne had seen it before, not long after it all happened, and now Juliette was seeing it too, days later.
Juliette's presence recalled all of these thoughts she had been trying to suppress to the forefront of her mind, reminding her of just how much she hated it all. Ever since that awful day she lost almost everything she cared about and returned to how she had been years ago, she had felt like she was sleepwalking while awake, half-dead yet still breathing, trapped in the in-between. Since then, it was only when she had confronted Nick and almost let her rage take control that she finally felt alive again. That anger had brought her life anew, all without her realizing until just now.
She had felt it again when she was tearing into Kelly, letting her fury take control and not holding anything back. She thought she had been using her anger and honing it as a weapon, but was her anger really using her, motivating her to seek out more reasons to express it? Her feelings had become so difficult for her to parse since that day, so perhaps she had been doing that without realizing it, and that was why she was starting to doubt herself now.
There was more to it than that though, there had to be, she thought. Maybe her rage had given her the initial push, but hunting down her murderous classmates and trying to gather like minded allies was the path she had consciously chosen, because she thought it was the right thing to do. But if it was really all her own doing, then why had she needed her anger to go all out against Kelly?
She didn't know, and she wasn't sure.
"Um," she started to say, fumbling over her words, unaware of quite how long she had been lost in thought. She felt obligated to speak, despite the fact that she didn't quite know what to say, especially in light of everything she was thinking. Roxanne and Juliette were possibly unfamiliar with each other, with that in mind, since she was the common thread between them, perhaps it was her duty to handle the introductions.
"So uh, Roxy," she looked over towards her band mate and gestured towards Juliette. "This is Juliette, we had gym class together. Juliette," she continued, returning her gaze to the new arrival and gesturing back towards Roxanne. "This is Roxy, we were in a band together. We're uh... the only two left."
Juliette’s appearance disconcerted Roxanne, in every way an appearance could. The careful, deliberate way she entered the building, how at first glance it looked like she’d just stepped off the bus, makeup and all. Not immaculate, as close to it as any of them was gonna get this late in the game.
Was it a power play or just a coping mechanism? The long-forgotten politics made her lean towards the former, but either way, Roxanne was envious. Juliette was clearly controlling her image in a way that she hadn’t had the freedom to, even before the shrapnel.
She couldn’t stand the contrast between them, how Juliette, unarmed and outnumbered as she was, seemed to exert the most control over the room. She projected power by not needing to project power, no need for a gun when having a clean pair of clothes showed how effortlessly she’d been surviving.
The strange atmosphere seemed too subtle for Marcy to notice, but maybe some obscure part of her subconscious took note, making her awkwardly stumble over her words like they were talking for the first time in the hallway by their lockers.
“Hi,” Roxanne said, taking note that Juliette’s only connection with Marcy was a shared class. Not something life-or-death alliances were built from, not that it’d stop Marcy from treating her like a long-lost friend, finally back from the war.
“You look like you’ve been staying out of trouble.” Was it a jab? A compliment? Roxanne wasn’t sure what she meant, really. She was just testing the waters. Quietly letting Juliette know that yes, she had noticed.
Was it a power play or just a coping mechanism? The long-forgotten politics made her lean towards the former, but either way, Roxanne was envious. Juliette was clearly controlling her image in a way that she hadn’t had the freedom to, even before the shrapnel.
She couldn’t stand the contrast between them, how Juliette, unarmed and outnumbered as she was, seemed to exert the most control over the room. She projected power by not needing to project power, no need for a gun when having a clean pair of clothes showed how effortlessly she’d been surviving.
The strange atmosphere seemed too subtle for Marcy to notice, but maybe some obscure part of her subconscious took note, making her awkwardly stumble over her words like they were talking for the first time in the hallway by their lockers.
“Hi,” Roxanne said, taking note that Juliette’s only connection with Marcy was a shared class. Not something life-or-death alliances were built from, not that it’d stop Marcy from treating her like a long-lost friend, finally back from the war.
“You look like you’ve been staying out of trouble.” Was it a jab? A compliment? Roxanne wasn’t sure what she meant, really. She was just testing the waters. Quietly letting Juliette know that yes, she had noticed.
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 2566
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 1:37 am
Juliette didn't actually raise an eyebrow, but it was the thought that counted. Two different things competed for her attention: Marceline's introductions (that was "band" as in the musical sort, right, not just some weird quirky descriptor for their own little post-apocalyptic tribal clique? But then again, Marceline had always phrased things unusually, but also it didn't actually matter) and Roxanne's observation (so many possible interpretations, so little evidence to suggest one above the rest, but there was something besides just the direct words at play). It was a lot, from a relatively restrained and low-threat exchange, but then wasn't it always?
"I've done my best," Juliette replied, giving Roxanne a small smile. "I think trouble often comes from going looking for it."
It was succinct enough. Just about everyone Juliette had met up to this moment had either killed somebody else or had deserted her abruptly. And yet, for that, she was more or less unharmed. Would anyone else have been able to sit down and talk with Quinn? To pass a reasonably pleasant night making camp with Erika? If Juliette rolled out the list of her most recent encounters, would the others blanch?
She kept her gaze light and airy, brushing over the girls before her but not lingering on any one thing for too long—not on the bandages on Roxanne's face, certainly not on Marceline. She took in the room, also, made quick surmises about the best way out if it came to that, and then the second best, and so on. That this place was inhabited was advertised, and obviously. While Juliette had a pretty good track record when it came to rolling with whatever the island threw at her, unfurling a literal banner of invitation certainly qualified as looking for trouble, and someone who wandered in with a machine gun might not be willing to sit down and chat it out, especially at such a numerical disadvantage and in the face of the sort of firepower Roxanne was packing.
On which note, Juliette was of course slightly on edge about that gun. She'd not so long ago seen how much power a dangerous weapon carried, even without any real intent behind it. She was not keen on repeating the experience.
The floorboards creaked and thumped even with Juliette's light yet heavily-sandaled step as she made her way further into the room, still all smiles and loose, easy movements. This wasn't a confrontation, yet. Hopefully it would never be. This wasn't like anything Juliette had seen since Connor... but that was a good touchstone, because it was also no cause to trust too much or too quickly. Especially, always, with a comparatively unknown quantity in play.
"I've had a few close calls," she continued, "but generally I've been lucky, all things considered."
She shrugged, looked around the room again, let her gaze rest on Marceline a little longer this time. She was closer to the girl, now, and if this was still school Juliette would've probably reached out and squeezed her shoulder or hugged her. Physical contact was a hard line to walk, and it was best to err on the side of caution and not get in anybody's space, but Marceline was energetic and touchy, always interjecting herself into everyone else's bubble. She was the sort to breach etiquette first—not intentionally, Juliette imagined; no doubt she'd listen to a request to knock it off unless she found it funny enough to pursue the opposite course of action—and so should appreciate the gesture. But it was hard to say how anyone was doing, or feeling, or would react to something unexpected.
The smile was long gone from Juliette's face by now.
"I heard what happened," she said to Marceline, "and I'm so sorry."
It was just a coincidence that her pacing through the room had brought her to a spot where the others would be more immediately in the line of sight, or fire, if somebody else burst in.
"I've done my best," Juliette replied, giving Roxanne a small smile. "I think trouble often comes from going looking for it."
It was succinct enough. Just about everyone Juliette had met up to this moment had either killed somebody else or had deserted her abruptly. And yet, for that, she was more or less unharmed. Would anyone else have been able to sit down and talk with Quinn? To pass a reasonably pleasant night making camp with Erika? If Juliette rolled out the list of her most recent encounters, would the others blanch?
She kept her gaze light and airy, brushing over the girls before her but not lingering on any one thing for too long—not on the bandages on Roxanne's face, certainly not on Marceline. She took in the room, also, made quick surmises about the best way out if it came to that, and then the second best, and so on. That this place was inhabited was advertised, and obviously. While Juliette had a pretty good track record when it came to rolling with whatever the island threw at her, unfurling a literal banner of invitation certainly qualified as looking for trouble, and someone who wandered in with a machine gun might not be willing to sit down and chat it out, especially at such a numerical disadvantage and in the face of the sort of firepower Roxanne was packing.
On which note, Juliette was of course slightly on edge about that gun. She'd not so long ago seen how much power a dangerous weapon carried, even without any real intent behind it. She was not keen on repeating the experience.
The floorboards creaked and thumped even with Juliette's light yet heavily-sandaled step as she made her way further into the room, still all smiles and loose, easy movements. This wasn't a confrontation, yet. Hopefully it would never be. This wasn't like anything Juliette had seen since Connor... but that was a good touchstone, because it was also no cause to trust too much or too quickly. Especially, always, with a comparatively unknown quantity in play.
"I've had a few close calls," she continued, "but generally I've been lucky, all things considered."
She shrugged, looked around the room again, let her gaze rest on Marceline a little longer this time. She was closer to the girl, now, and if this was still school Juliette would've probably reached out and squeezed her shoulder or hugged her. Physical contact was a hard line to walk, and it was best to err on the side of caution and not get in anybody's space, but Marceline was energetic and touchy, always interjecting herself into everyone else's bubble. She was the sort to breach etiquette first—not intentionally, Juliette imagined; no doubt she'd listen to a request to knock it off unless she found it funny enough to pursue the opposite course of action—and so should appreciate the gesture. But it was hard to say how anyone was doing, or feeling, or would react to something unexpected.
The smile was long gone from Juliette's face by now.
"I heard what happened," she said to Marceline, "and I'm so sorry."
It was just a coincidence that her pacing through the room had brought her to a spot where the others would be more immediately in the line of sight, or fire, if somebody else burst in.