((Marco Hart Continued From It Don’t Matter If I’m Coming Home To You))
Marco's clothes hadn't dried by the time he couldn't hold off on sleep anymore. Scavenging through the master bedroom of the manor told him whoever had lived here before was larger than he was, which wasn't all that difficult a task but it limited his options. He needed something; the master bedroom was more well lit than the cave and he didn't have Nick's eyes to draw his own off of his body. Without him Marco didn't trust himself alone with his thoughts and so much to trigger them down the path to self loathing. When Katelynne came to call his turn on watch he had wrapped himself in the best option he could find: a robe that seemed strangely familiar, like he'd seen someone in one like it here before, but the one he saw in his memory was white. The yellow cloth in his hands had faded from bright to sickly with time and the material along the body was a plush fabric he could not identify. Holes had been gnawed in patches down to rougher material underneath or all the way through but it was still in one piece, including the hood wreathed in orange streaks that made it look something like a sun rising over a trail of light. It was...Marco didn't pretend to know much about fashion, but he knew it would be charitable to describe its appearance as unique. It was warm though, and soft, and it covered his whole body. The night passed without having to look at himself again.
Attempting his make-up over the drone of the announcements, whose only surprise was how quickly Justin met the end he and Katelynne had promised Garnet, confirmed that he could not operate from within the mass of fabric though. Marco preferred baggy clothing but the robe and so much else of what he found suffered from having sleeves way too long for him to control. There was more product on the robe than his face by half before he was finished. It wasn’t going to work as more than pajamas. The other option was to return to his now mostly dry outfit but it smelled like rotting nearly as badly as it looked it. His eyes drifted between his clothes draped over the windowsill and the most intact options he'd found among the room's belongings. Right along the path his eyes took lay his weapons.
He had an idea.
The best outfit he selected had been wrapped in plastic that itself was untouched under a heavy layer of dust below many other belongings. Under the film was a powder blue two piece leisure suit paired with a Hawaiian shirt in swirling patterns of white, navy, and green that struck Marco as an abstraft take on a sea at storm. It was less threadbare than the robe, almost whole in fact save for small evidence of wear. Given how carefully it was packed it was probably a special possession once, which left Marco with vaguely defined guilt after he shrugged the jacket and shirt off to the bed and drew Marceline's sword against the pants at his knees. He started with two small cuts as a marker, then stripped them off to lay beside the rest of the suit. Guilt refined to regret with recollection of how frequently his mother had attempted to teach him to alter his clothes.
The results were messy. Frayed hems marked where everything below his knees and everything beyond his shoulders had been before his uneven cuts dropped the excess to the floor. The bed did not survive the experience without a few gashes of its own. Despite these mistakes Marco couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride slipping back into the clothes, his clothes, and surveying them in the dim reflection of the window. Marceline’s sword slung over his back while her pistol was tucked into his coat. The shotgun could stay in his hands after Marco finished adding the last two accessories he’d taken an interest in. Around his waist he cinched a black leather belt turning grey in patches where the outer layers had been eaten away in a way that sort of complemented the silver buckle at its center. On his face went a pair of copper framed sunglasses turning green from exposure wrapped around a pair of pale orange heart-shaped lenses. There was a crack rising diagonally from the leftmost curve of the left lens that almost reached its center.
The reflection in the mirror hanging across from the bed was imperfect. Plenty of room for improvement. A half dozen iterations away from struggling to find flaws. It made him smile.
Marco was still smiling keeping watch down in the front room. His shotgun lay across his chest pointed in the direction of the front door, hands resting beside the barrel and trigger, eyes shut with his sunglasses cutting down the glare; with as creaky as the boards along the porch were he would hear someone coming before they could open it, so he could afford to relax a few notches. Other than residual tension in the air it had been peaceful since he’d returned last night. He felt calm enough that when he heard a wood whine down the hallway, he leaned forward to call over his shoulder with the assumption that Katelynne had found something.
Before he spoke he heard the squeaking of footsteps overhead and remembered Katelynne saying she was off to check the view from the balcony.
He was out of the chair fast. His sunglasses slid down over the bridge of his nose to inspect the corridor ahead of him. There were doors along either side but his eyes were drawn to one down the left wall. When he and Katelynne had swept the house they had made note of it. There had been a body inside, they could tell from the smell alone before they cracked it open.. Garren had been dead for at least a couple days already and he was a long way down on the list of dead either of them had encountered so discovering him didn’t shock them. There hadn’t been much else to notice about the room at the time. Bullet holes. Blood. A body. A couch. There had been nowhere to hide that they could spot from the threshold, so they hadn’t explored further.
Now there was a noise. The door was ajar.
The only advantage he might have over what or whoever made the sound was the knowledge it was heard. He didn’t dare shout for Katelynne when he didn’t know what they were up against. So he crept in as much silence as he could across the living room with his shotgun leveled at the doorway. The path through the corridor was quieter than the porch or the second floor, with care he did not strain the wood on his approach. That was only half comforting. Someone sneaking away might only alert him with the squeak of the door he'd heard earlier; going past would expose him if they were inside or had already escaped, while scanning the room only put him directly at threat if they were inside. Clearing the room before he moved on would be a gamble that would give his position away entirely but he felt the odds were better than trying to sweep the house again alone. The door opened out away from the main room, perfect cover for someone to hide behind for an ambush. Just ahead of its opening. he took as quiet a deep breath as he could manage.
His foot smacked the bottom of its frame to slam it shut. He hopped backwards in the same movement to put his back flush with the wall and leveled the shotgun. One shot splintered a hole in the center of the door; his aim was jerked up and to the right for the second shot above the door's handle. The third required him to slow down and shift his position to bore a hole left in the direction of the couch, and he planted himself too hastily. Kick from the stock sent him stumbling off balance to catch himself against the opposite wall next to the doorway. Marco was torn between catching his breath and staring at the light streaming out of the holes. A shadow interrupting their path would tell him everything he needed to know.
None came.
He let his breath out and ducked low so his own profile would not cross the streams on the other side. From a kneeling position he wrapped his hand around the knob, then quickly threw it open to barrel through with the gun up. Ringing in his ears might make him deaf to the subtleties of footsteps inside so he had to rely on his eyes to find movement, or fresh blood, or the glint of the sun off a raised weapon, so as he knelt in the doorway it would have been logical to have felt relief when he found the room looking almost exactly as it had been when they checked last night. Garren's body had not moved. It was hard to tell if the couch had any neholes from memory. The window was just as shattered as it had been, except he found the glint he'd been searching for; when Katelynne and Marco found the window before, it had been busted outwards. Now there were shards of glass sparkling in front of the windowsill.
Marco felt something press into the back of his head.
Down In My Beast Hart I Build An Empire
Day 13, Morning, Private
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Emprexx Plush
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“Nothing personal, bro. Also, like, don’t move, unless you wanna be moving downwards if you catch my drift, haha.”
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((The bastards had gone and done it, huh.))
Abe was honestly shocked it’d taken that long for their lovely hosts to scribble out the woods with a sharpie and also collar explosions, ‘cause, like, boom, there went like an entire third of the livable space on the island.
He’d been ready for it, of course, he’d been ready for it since that first fuckin’ night where he bolted awake at the northernmost edge of the island and realized he’d be fucked if the woods became a danger zone. Sure, he’d been like an entire two weeks too early, but his instincts were razor-keen, and ever since that day he’d made sure not to sleep more than a couple minutes deep into the woods, and all that paranoia had finally paid off, haha, and boy was he glad he didn’t sleep through the announcements now that he didn’t have Axel or Hel or Forrest or Darlene to watch his sleeping ass, but he was gonna win so it’s not like he needed crutches like them anymore.
But the issue was, the big issue was, now that he was out of the woods, and not in a good way, where the fuck was he gonna go next? He’d lived his island vacation up to that point by avoiding the hottest tourist destinations, like literally any building, so this was a real nasty exodus from his comfort zone. But, well, it was gonna have to happen eventually, he just had to suck it up. If he was gonna move, he might as well make a big move, somewhere nice and comfortable and defensible.
Now, the issue with that was, every spot left in the island that fit those general criteria was probably gonna have one or two brain geniuses who’d already staked out a claim, what a shame, they only had themselves to blame for whatever happened next.
What was gonna happen next? Breaking and entering, obviously, because Abe wanted what they had, and even crooks had to pay the rent (to quote his theme song for a second), and no one had any fucking money, and he was the landlord, and he was serving eviction notices in the form of bullets, or maybe just like vaguely waving a gun around, he’d decide when he got there.
And also, really, he was just entering, not breaking, because someone had already broken the window of the manor house for him, which was real nice of them even if he’d have preferred that they cleaned up the dead incel, but he wasn’t picky, it was a house with many rooms, he could just, leave it the room.
If anyone else was still alive in the house, well, opening a door was basically the same as knocking in the sense that it’d get him plenty of unfriendly attention, so. Steps light, gun raised, safety off, checking his corners like a twitchy lil’ SWAT boy, heading down the hallway, rounding the corner-
Rounding the corner just in time, ‘cause a couple seconds later someone slammed the door he’d just came through and shot the absolute hell outta it. Joke’s on them, now Abe knew where they were, that they were armed, and that they were jumpy as hell. That was all fine. He could be even jumpier.
He peeked around the corner, and saw a figure in an incredibly tacky shirt, but more importantly, they weren’t looking at him. Abe creeped around the corner, slowly, holding his breath, ready to blast at the first sign of alarm, but the alarm never came, and boom, he’d made it all the way around.
Abe couldn’t really tell who the poor sucker was from behind, just that it was some absolute psychopath with a shotgun and a sword strapped to their back, and no, he wasn’t just jealous that strapping a sword to your back was a respectable life choice now.
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“I’m not here to wreck your shit so like, if you wanna just put that gun down, we can have a nice lil’ talk, right? I mean, you’d be dead if I wanted you to be.”
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((The bastards had gone and done it, huh.))
Abe was honestly shocked it’d taken that long for their lovely hosts to scribble out the woods with a sharpie and also collar explosions, ‘cause, like, boom, there went like an entire third of the livable space on the island.
He’d been ready for it, of course, he’d been ready for it since that first fuckin’ night where he bolted awake at the northernmost edge of the island and realized he’d be fucked if the woods became a danger zone. Sure, he’d been like an entire two weeks too early, but his instincts were razor-keen, and ever since that day he’d made sure not to sleep more than a couple minutes deep into the woods, and all that paranoia had finally paid off, haha, and boy was he glad he didn’t sleep through the announcements now that he didn’t have Axel or Hel or Forrest or Darlene to watch his sleeping ass, but he was gonna win so it’s not like he needed crutches like them anymore.
But the issue was, the big issue was, now that he was out of the woods, and not in a good way, where the fuck was he gonna go next? He’d lived his island vacation up to that point by avoiding the hottest tourist destinations, like literally any building, so this was a real nasty exodus from his comfort zone. But, well, it was gonna have to happen eventually, he just had to suck it up. If he was gonna move, he might as well make a big move, somewhere nice and comfortable and defensible.
Now, the issue with that was, every spot left in the island that fit those general criteria was probably gonna have one or two brain geniuses who’d already staked out a claim, what a shame, they only had themselves to blame for whatever happened next.
What was gonna happen next? Breaking and entering, obviously, because Abe wanted what they had, and even crooks had to pay the rent (to quote his theme song for a second), and no one had any fucking money, and he was the landlord, and he was serving eviction notices in the form of bullets, or maybe just like vaguely waving a gun around, he’d decide when he got there.
And also, really, he was just entering, not breaking, because someone had already broken the window of the manor house for him, which was real nice of them even if he’d have preferred that they cleaned up the dead incel, but he wasn’t picky, it was a house with many rooms, he could just, leave it the room.
If anyone else was still alive in the house, well, opening a door was basically the same as knocking in the sense that it’d get him plenty of unfriendly attention, so. Steps light, gun raised, safety off, checking his corners like a twitchy lil’ SWAT boy, heading down the hallway, rounding the corner-
Rounding the corner just in time, ‘cause a couple seconds later someone slammed the door he’d just came through and shot the absolute hell outta it. Joke’s on them, now Abe knew where they were, that they were armed, and that they were jumpy as hell. That was all fine. He could be even jumpier.
He peeked around the corner, and saw a figure in an incredibly tacky shirt, but more importantly, they weren’t looking at him. Abe creeped around the corner, slowly, holding his breath, ready to blast at the first sign of alarm, but the alarm never came, and boom, he’d made it all the way around.
Abe couldn’t really tell who the poor sucker was from behind, just that it was some absolute psychopath with a shotgun and a sword strapped to their back, and no, he wasn’t just jealous that strapping a sword to your back was a respectable life choice now.
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“I’m not here to wreck your shit so like, if you wanna just put that gun down, we can have a nice lil’ talk, right? I mean, you’d be dead if I wanted you to be.”
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Emprexx Plush
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Blood pouring out of a bolt in Marceline's chest was the only memory he needed to let the shotgun go. Slow and easy, he didn't drop it, just eased it down to the floor where they wouldn't have any accidental misfires. Marco knew well where any sudden moves would lead them, so when the shotgun made contact with the floor he didn't sit back up. As much as he wanted to glance over his shoulder he kept his eyes on the floor, and when he let the tension fall from his shoulders he did so with a nervous laugh. "Well. This is a relief."
His best bet was to keep him talking.
"You wouldn't believe the rats around here."
Could you call a non-sequitur a lie? It couldn't hurt that his assailant couldn't see the tight smile pulled on his face but Marco didn't need him to believe him, not fully. He wanted to talk. Joke, lie, misdirection, babble, every interpretation mixed better with his demands than Marco coming at him like a hostage. He couldn't imagine a trigger pull wasn't in the plan somewhere down the line. All alone he wouldn't be near so certain about playing along but if he could stall the gunman out long enough, maybe maneuver him somewhere more vulnerable...Katelynne would have heard the gunshots. It was a matter of time before she caught up to them. He could run down that clock.
"So what are we talking about?"
His best bet was to keep him talking.
"You wouldn't believe the rats around here."
Could you call a non-sequitur a lie? It couldn't hurt that his assailant couldn't see the tight smile pulled on his face but Marco didn't need him to believe him, not fully. He wanted to talk. Joke, lie, misdirection, babble, every interpretation mixed better with his demands than Marco coming at him like a hostage. He couldn't imagine a trigger pull wasn't in the plan somewhere down the line. All alone he wouldn't be near so certain about playing along but if he could stall the gunman out long enough, maybe maneuver him somewhere more vulnerable...Katelynne would have heard the gunshots. It was a matter of time before she caught up to them. He could run down that clock.
"So what are we talking about?"
“Real estate. What else? I want a piece of this nice lil’ homestead you’ve got going on here, and all’s fair in love and gunpoint negotiation, right?”
Abe really, really should have just shot the dude without any preamble, but the problem was, Abe was a lot of things, but ‘very comfortable with shooting someone he didn’t have a grudge against in the back of a head’ wasn’t one of them. Considering how fuckin’ low a moral bar that was, it’s not like he was gaining much by stepping over it, but still.
It’d be one thing if the dude gave him literally any excuse, or any feeling that his life was in danger, but nope, he just did what he was told, moving real slow, like someone with brains he didn’t want blown out, so what the fuck was Abe supposed to do with that, huh? It’s not like he was sparing a life out of principle or some stupid shit like that, he just, didn’t really wanna have to kill someone if he didn’t have a reason to. It was a pain.
Now, see, the issue was, if everything went to plan and the guy fucked off into the sunset, leaving his gun behind, even then Abe wouldn’t have the cool new house he wanted, because that’d just mean there was an asshole with a grudge out there who knew exactly who he was, as opposed to some chucklefuck rando that just wandered into the house without knowing exactly what to expect, but it was hard to kill someone because of reasons that stretched that far into the future, y’know?
Besides, a more interesting thought just came to mind, because the voice had been swimming around in his brain as someone he knew a little better than just an anonymous hallway passer, and, there was a specific name he’d heard on the announcements that was jogging his memory, a check that was way overdue for cashing, and. Oh shit.
“Oh, wow, is this Marco? Of all the fuckin’ people to run into, am I right? Thanks for the gun, by the way, got a whole lot of mileage out of it.”
Abe was tempted to ask if he’d drank all the dew, but that was a little too inane even for him.
Abe really, really should have just shot the dude without any preamble, but the problem was, Abe was a lot of things, but ‘very comfortable with shooting someone he didn’t have a grudge against in the back of a head’ wasn’t one of them. Considering how fuckin’ low a moral bar that was, it’s not like he was gaining much by stepping over it, but still.
It’d be one thing if the dude gave him literally any excuse, or any feeling that his life was in danger, but nope, he just did what he was told, moving real slow, like someone with brains he didn’t want blown out, so what the fuck was Abe supposed to do with that, huh? It’s not like he was sparing a life out of principle or some stupid shit like that, he just, didn’t really wanna have to kill someone if he didn’t have a reason to. It was a pain.
Now, see, the issue was, if everything went to plan and the guy fucked off into the sunset, leaving his gun behind, even then Abe wouldn’t have the cool new house he wanted, because that’d just mean there was an asshole with a grudge out there who knew exactly who he was, as opposed to some chucklefuck rando that just wandered into the house without knowing exactly what to expect, but it was hard to kill someone because of reasons that stretched that far into the future, y’know?
Besides, a more interesting thought just came to mind, because the voice had been swimming around in his brain as someone he knew a little better than just an anonymous hallway passer, and, there was a specific name he’d heard on the announcements that was jogging his memory, a check that was way overdue for cashing, and. Oh shit.
“Oh, wow, is this Marco? Of all the fuckin’ people to run into, am I right? Thanks for the gun, by the way, got a whole lot of mileage out of it.”
Abe was tempted to ask if he’d drank all the dew, but that was a little too inane even for him.
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Emprexx Plush
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Taken neutrally it wasn't as lopsided a deal as could have been demanded. I went without saying that he wasn't going to let Marco pick the shotgun back up but he wasn't trying to search him and he hadn't demanded his supplies yet. Leaving the manor behind would be a setback but one that was preferable to getting shot in the back of the head. His supplies wouldn’t be a massive loss if Abe insisted on those either, the biggest loss would be ammo and if he was down to just the pistol and sword he could sneak out a lot of it would be irrelevant. At the rate the game was progressing there couldn’t be more than a couple days left; he could improvise water and go without food without it being a death sentence. So if all that was desired was his “homestead” with the understanding he’d be exiting the window ahead of him at gunpoint, Marco could take that as an acceptable alternative.
He wasn’t going to, but a reasonable offer made playing along a lot easier. Gambling his head on an outright lie was suicide, but he could sell that he was okay with abandoning the house long enough to keep busy. There was the added comfort that when Katelynne came to corner the intruder he would likely be reasonable about his reversal of fortune. Katelynne would pull attention off of him, Marco would draw the pistol, and they could renegotiate their terms so the man in the middle left without his arms or supplies. There didn’t need to be a shot fired as long as they kept playing by the tacitly agreed upon rules.
So Marco was ready to comply with his demands right up until recognition jumped into his voice. One sentence and the stranger with a gun to his head wasn’t so strange. Though they hadn’t met in person since well before the trip, his name had been on Marco’s mind longer than anybody else.
B076 - Watanabe, Abraham
“Huh. So that’s what you took from me.”
Abraham’s face was reflected dimly in the unshattered upper portion of the window. This whole thing seemed to amuse him, and Marco kept smiling along because he didn’t have a choice but the implications of his joke made his stomach turn. He’d gotten a lot of mileage out of it. There was no way to know exactly what Abraham had been up to since he’d left Marco sleeping in the woods. How many shots he’d taken, what other students he’d gotten the drop on like this, what he’d hunted, who he’d protected. Similarly there was no way of knowing how differently Marco’s time would have gone if Abraham stolen from someone else.? Would he have been able to answer Marceline’s approach with gunfire before she made her demands? Would Kayla be alive or at least have died less horrifically? Would a twitchy trigger finger have been more destructive when he met Garnet, Axel, Yuka, Michael, Nick, any number of threats perceived or real? Would Abraham even know to call him Marco?
Years down the line Marco might return to these questions without satisfaction if given the opportunity. In the present though he found all his focus boiled down to the only conclusion he could draw based on the facts reported to them every morning.
Abraham Watanabe had shot his girlfriend in cold blood, and as he stood with Marco at his mercy he was proud of it.
Marco kept his hands hovering in front of him and his eyes on Abraham’s reflection. “I’m not going to give you any trouble over it. Or the house. Honestly…” He bit his lip and made the slightest of shrugs. “I mean, you should know. It’s moving day anyway. That,” and he pointed a finger towards the broken window, “is one of at least a dozen reasons I’m happy to get out of here before everybody scurrying out of the woods shows up.”
He wasn’t going to, but a reasonable offer made playing along a lot easier. Gambling his head on an outright lie was suicide, but he could sell that he was okay with abandoning the house long enough to keep busy. There was the added comfort that when Katelynne came to corner the intruder he would likely be reasonable about his reversal of fortune. Katelynne would pull attention off of him, Marco would draw the pistol, and they could renegotiate their terms so the man in the middle left without his arms or supplies. There didn’t need to be a shot fired as long as they kept playing by the tacitly agreed upon rules.
So Marco was ready to comply with his demands right up until recognition jumped into his voice. One sentence and the stranger with a gun to his head wasn’t so strange. Though they hadn’t met in person since well before the trip, his name had been on Marco’s mind longer than anybody else.
B076 - Watanabe, Abraham
“Huh. So that’s what you took from me.”
Abraham’s face was reflected dimly in the unshattered upper portion of the window. This whole thing seemed to amuse him, and Marco kept smiling along because he didn’t have a choice but the implications of his joke made his stomach turn. He’d gotten a lot of mileage out of it. There was no way to know exactly what Abraham had been up to since he’d left Marco sleeping in the woods. How many shots he’d taken, what other students he’d gotten the drop on like this, what he’d hunted, who he’d protected. Similarly there was no way of knowing how differently Marco’s time would have gone if Abraham stolen from someone else.? Would he have been able to answer Marceline’s approach with gunfire before she made her demands? Would Kayla be alive or at least have died less horrifically? Would a twitchy trigger finger have been more destructive when he met Garnet, Axel, Yuka, Michael, Nick, any number of threats perceived or real? Would Abraham even know to call him Marco?
Years down the line Marco might return to these questions without satisfaction if given the opportunity. In the present though he found all his focus boiled down to the only conclusion he could draw based on the facts reported to them every morning.
Abraham Watanabe had shot his girlfriend in cold blood, and as he stood with Marco at his mercy he was proud of it.
Marco kept his hands hovering in front of him and his eyes on Abraham’s reflection. “I’m not going to give you any trouble over it. Or the house. Honestly…” He bit his lip and made the slightest of shrugs. “I mean, you should know. It’s moving day anyway. That,” and he pointed a finger towards the broken window, “is one of at least a dozen reasons I’m happy to get out of here before everybody scurrying out of the woods shows up.”
“Yeah. Like rats swarming out of a sinking ship. Real annoying, right? Lucky for you that I was the fastest. I just wanna find a nice cozy corner and barricade myself in it for a couple days.”
Having nowhere to run was much less of a concern when you had a gun and supplies for days well, maybe two, three if he stretched it, his bags were no longer overflowing with rations, but honestly at that point he could go completely without food and wind up fine, if uncomfortable, but like, nothing about life right then was comfortable, so he could just suck it up.
There was a noise, and it was hard to tell if it was the house settling or an innocent creak from Abe shifting his weight a little bit or something he had to be worried about, so he glanced over his shoulder, but just for a second, ‘cause there was a whole world of vengeful ghosts that could theoretically be chilling right in his shadow, but there was definitely one spectre of his past sins that was sitting in front of him, and if the tables had been turned, Abe didn’t know if Marco’d be half as merciful. He didn’t intend to ever find out.
“Hey, you alone in here, bud? If you got any friends, I don’t give a fuck who they are, but if I get startled, I’m gonna shoot you, and then they’re gonna shoot me, and then nobody’s gonna be happy, right? Better just come clean now.”
Once he got an answer he could start expediting the verbal property transferral contract. Their reunion may have been fated or some dumb shit like that from the moment Abe had left his calling card in Marco’s bag, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try and get it over with as soon as possible, right?
Having nowhere to run was much less of a concern when you had a gun and supplies for days well, maybe two, three if he stretched it, his bags were no longer overflowing with rations, but honestly at that point he could go completely without food and wind up fine, if uncomfortable, but like, nothing about life right then was comfortable, so he could just suck it up.
There was a noise, and it was hard to tell if it was the house settling or an innocent creak from Abe shifting his weight a little bit or something he had to be worried about, so he glanced over his shoulder, but just for a second, ‘cause there was a whole world of vengeful ghosts that could theoretically be chilling right in his shadow, but there was definitely one spectre of his past sins that was sitting in front of him, and if the tables had been turned, Abe didn’t know if Marco’d be half as merciful. He didn’t intend to ever find out.
“Hey, you alone in here, bud? If you got any friends, I don’t give a fuck who they are, but if I get startled, I’m gonna shoot you, and then they’re gonna shoot me, and then nobody’s gonna be happy, right? Better just come clean now.”
Once he got an answer he could start expediting the verbal property transferral contract. Their reunion may have been fated or some dumb shit like that from the moment Abe had left his calling card in Marco’s bag, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try and get it over with as soon as possible, right?
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Emprexx Plush
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"I already told you."
The sound had come from the kitchen. Three broad possibilities: First that it was nothing relevant beyond adding to the risk that he would get shot. Leaning into that would make him appear suspicious. Abraham believed that there was someone else here already and had no reason to take the risk that it was just the wind and return to regularly scheduled programming as if he'd heard nothing. Marco would not speak it aloud.
Coming second was the notion of Katelynne trying to maneuver around them for a better position, one he didn't have time to consider spatially between the stairway into the front room, the kitchen, and the hall. It was the story Abraham wanted to hear, but Marco didn't trust him to act reasonably on the information. It would be best for him to leverage Marco as a hostage to make sure any threats left the house, true, but it was also a largely irrational pattern to shoot your girlfriend and brag about it later. Abraham wanted the appearance of a rational negotiation but he wasn't Nick holding a stone to Yuka's head to end the threat of her violence. He wasn't even Marceline holding them at gunpoint in the name of vaguely defined revenge. Abraham was playing a game with motivations Marco could not begin to wrap his head around, but he had to assume for his own safety that they involved no intent to let anyone leave this building alive. Not if Forrest had set his baseline for irrational violence.
Marco saw no other choice but to offer him the third option. "You wouldn't believe the rats around here. Lots of holes in the walls and windows for them to squeeze through. The balcony wouldn't be too hard for them to climb up on. I mean, the front door doesn't latch so tight. Wouldn't be hard for some to walk right in while we've been talking." He didn't move his hands or his head, but his eyes went to Abraham's between their reflections. "So I think what we have to ask is...are you absolutely certain you were the fastest one off the boat?" He didn't need to lie. Redirecting this way allowed him to avoid the question while hopefully playing towards Abraham's paranoia in a way that positioned him as an asset rather than a threat. "I know this house, Abraham. If someone is in here with us, I'm your best shot at finding them before they find you."
The sound had come from the kitchen. Three broad possibilities: First that it was nothing relevant beyond adding to the risk that he would get shot. Leaning into that would make him appear suspicious. Abraham believed that there was someone else here already and had no reason to take the risk that it was just the wind and return to regularly scheduled programming as if he'd heard nothing. Marco would not speak it aloud.
Coming second was the notion of Katelynne trying to maneuver around them for a better position, one he didn't have time to consider spatially between the stairway into the front room, the kitchen, and the hall. It was the story Abraham wanted to hear, but Marco didn't trust him to act reasonably on the information. It would be best for him to leverage Marco as a hostage to make sure any threats left the house, true, but it was also a largely irrational pattern to shoot your girlfriend and brag about it later. Abraham wanted the appearance of a rational negotiation but he wasn't Nick holding a stone to Yuka's head to end the threat of her violence. He wasn't even Marceline holding them at gunpoint in the name of vaguely defined revenge. Abraham was playing a game with motivations Marco could not begin to wrap his head around, but he had to assume for his own safety that they involved no intent to let anyone leave this building alive. Not if Forrest had set his baseline for irrational violence.
Marco saw no other choice but to offer him the third option. "You wouldn't believe the rats around here. Lots of holes in the walls and windows for them to squeeze through. The balcony wouldn't be too hard for them to climb up on. I mean, the front door doesn't latch so tight. Wouldn't be hard for some to walk right in while we've been talking." He didn't move his hands or his head, but his eyes went to Abraham's between their reflections. "So I think what we have to ask is...are you absolutely certain you were the fastest one off the boat?" He didn't need to lie. Redirecting this way allowed him to avoid the question while hopefully playing towards Abraham's paranoia in a way that positioned him as an asset rather than a threat. "I know this house, Abraham. If someone is in here with us, I'm your best shot at finding them before they find you."
“Clever guy, huh? Trying to keep me on edge? Don’t think you’ll like me when I’m jumpy,” Abe said, wildly glancing around despite himself. Standing right in the hallway wasn’t the best idea for his health, especially since no matter how he stood his back was going to be turned on some awesome angle for him to be shot from.
But Marco, man was he acting way calmer than he had any right to, and that made Abe less calm than he’d prefer. Like, maybe that’s just how he was, making small talk with someone while you served them a cup of joe wasn’t really a great way to get a barometer of their personality, and really, all he knew about him on the island was seeing him snoozing away from the knockout gas special.
Well, he knew a couple of things, but they were announcement things, so those barely counted, but then again, the sort of person who deliberately sharpened the piece of shit Freddy replica claw they got was a person with some pretty fucking serious killing intent, right? And that was like, early, like, maybe a couple days in, early, and that might be more premeditated malice than even Abe had fucked around with so far? Like, appropriately enough, it was some horror movie shit. Cool new gender, though.
But circling around to the main point, Marco was, as far as the guy knew, seconds away from dying, disarmed and about to be evicted in the best case scenario, and he had the composure to try and manipulate slash bargain with Abe. He could respect the spirit of the grift if it wasn’t gonna end with him hustling all the way to the afterlife.
“But sure, sure, I’ll trust you for about five seconds, let’s go on a little walkabout, right? I wasn’t gonna make you climb through that window, but like. Stand up. Nudge the shotgun away with your foot or something if you need to. We’re going to do a fun little loop around this room so I can stay behind you the whole time, then you’re gonna lead me to the front door, right? Then you can go live the rest of your life somewhere else, and I’ll turn around and probably do some pest control or something, haha,” he said, and he could catch himself getting rambler and rambler, which was generally a bad sign regarding his mental state, but things were going to be okay, he had a plan and a gun, and Marco only had one of those things, so by simple calculus Abe was gonna come up on top.
But Marco, man was he acting way calmer than he had any right to, and that made Abe less calm than he’d prefer. Like, maybe that’s just how he was, making small talk with someone while you served them a cup of joe wasn’t really a great way to get a barometer of their personality, and really, all he knew about him on the island was seeing him snoozing away from the knockout gas special.
Well, he knew a couple of things, but they were announcement things, so those barely counted, but then again, the sort of person who deliberately sharpened the piece of shit Freddy replica claw they got was a person with some pretty fucking serious killing intent, right? And that was like, early, like, maybe a couple days in, early, and that might be more premeditated malice than even Abe had fucked around with so far? Like, appropriately enough, it was some horror movie shit. Cool new gender, though.
But circling around to the main point, Marco was, as far as the guy knew, seconds away from dying, disarmed and about to be evicted in the best case scenario, and he had the composure to try and manipulate slash bargain with Abe. He could respect the spirit of the grift if it wasn’t gonna end with him hustling all the way to the afterlife.
“But sure, sure, I’ll trust you for about five seconds, let’s go on a little walkabout, right? I wasn’t gonna make you climb through that window, but like. Stand up. Nudge the shotgun away with your foot or something if you need to. We’re going to do a fun little loop around this room so I can stay behind you the whole time, then you’re gonna lead me to the front door, right? Then you can go live the rest of your life somewhere else, and I’ll turn around and probably do some pest control or something, haha,” he said, and he could catch himself getting rambler and rambler, which was generally a bad sign regarding his mental state, but things were going to be okay, he had a plan and a gun, and Marco only had one of those things, so by simple calculus Abe was gonna come up on top.
From behind the wall Katelynne listened in, the rifle clutched in her bosom like her life depended on it.
...No, not hers. Marco's. She could leave any time she wanted. The door was right there. If she ran now, bet Abraham couldn't even keep up. She was good at running from her problems, after all.
It was happening all over again, like with Liberty, like with Nicholas. But it didn't have to... not anymore.
It was a blessing Abraham didn't shoot him right there, let alone when she was careless grabbing her gun and might as well've banged a few pots and pans together. But this was her second chance, and she was running out of second chances. She won't fuck this up.
She stayed pressed against the decaying wood, following with her ears and listening with her heart as Abraham paraded Marco round and round like a show horse.
She checked the safety, made sure it was off. She checked the clip, made sure it was still the new one she remembered checking twenty times already because you never knew about the twenty-first time. The cold metal singed her fingers.
She was gonna throw up any minute. Her heart drummed on in her head.
But she stood still. And, she waited
And waited
And waited
And waited.
Now.
She revealed herself, heralded by a few bullets that bored through the air and sailed straight for Abraham.
...No, not hers. Marco's. She could leave any time she wanted. The door was right there. If she ran now, bet Abraham couldn't even keep up. She was good at running from her problems, after all.
It was happening all over again, like with Liberty, like with Nicholas. But it didn't have to... not anymore.
It was a blessing Abraham didn't shoot him right there, let alone when she was careless grabbing her gun and might as well've banged a few pots and pans together. But this was her second chance, and she was running out of second chances. She won't fuck this up.
She stayed pressed against the decaying wood, following with her ears and listening with her heart as Abraham paraded Marco round and round like a show horse.
She checked the safety, made sure it was off. She checked the clip, made sure it was still the new one she remembered checking twenty times already because you never knew about the twenty-first time. The cold metal singed her fingers.
She was gonna throw up any minute. Her heart drummed on in her head.
But she stood still. And, she waited
And waited
And waited
And waited.
Now.
She revealed herself, heralded by a few bullets that bored through the air and sailed straight for Abraham.
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Emprexx Plush
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Marco was waiting for the shots before they'd finished parading around Garren's body. It was the only way this could end. Abraham wasn't going to just let him leave no matter what he said, Marco couldn't trust that, he wouldn't allow himself to trust it. If it came to pass that they made their way all the way to the front and Abraham let him open and shut the door without anymore trouble it would be a welcome shock but that was the layer of probability it had to stay on. An upset. Something almost like a miracle. When the end came he didn't want to have hope in his heart or his last thoughts to be of how close he was to walking away before Abraham decided to share another punchline via trigger pull. Marco didn't want to cry. He didn't want to scream. If the steps between the corridor and the front door be the last ones he took Marco wanted to face them like Nick, with his head up and certainty he'd done all that he could to make sure his death wasn't a pointless act of violence.
If.
Because the outcome that could give his death purpose just as likely could prevent it. Somewhere in this front room Katelynne was waiting, he had to believe that, and when she revealed herself Abraham would not be ready for her. She would have the first shot and however many more her gun was capable before he could respond assuming the noise in the kitchen had been her getting into position. He had to make that assumption. Abraham was walking right by without trying to explore the room further with that gun still firmly in the back of his head so Marco had to assume she was there.
The door was fifteen feet away. He waited for the spray of blood across his back that could be his or Abraham's after one shot or the other. Until it came he kept walking.
The door was ten feet away. He waited for the crack in the air, how could he tell where or how close at this distance, would he even hear it if he was shot, if he heard one from the kitchen or the stairs or behind the chair would there be time to move before a second entered the base of his skull before the sound reached his ears? A shot could mean anything. A shot told him nothing. Until it came he kept walking.
The door was five feet away. He waited for Abraham to pause behind him, to shift because he'd seen something or to stop so he could think of a line before he squeezed down. How could he be so certain? Didn't the alternatives crowd his brain? Staying the course in a situation where any single mistake could branch off into countless hypotheticals felt like willful ignorance. It could not be done without choosing to ignore a host of possibilities for a host of unexplainable reasons. How could he just walk to the door without exploring them all? How could his eyes stay straight, his breath even, how weren't his hands shaking with anticipation? Somewhere in those brief steps Marco lost the line between questioning Abraham's motivations and questioning his own. He could not find it again. Until it came he kept walking.
Marco remembered the next few moments more as impression than as a clear memory.
The sound of gunfire behind him.
The feeling of a barrel jerking away from the back of his head.
The sight of bright light filtered through orange lenses.
The smell of smoke and old wood.
The taste of blood in his mouth.
What exactly happened between his hand touching the doorknob and his back coming flush with the wall outside was hard for him to pin down. There was no plan once it started. The sound of gunfire dropped him into a sprint. The feeling of a barrel jerking away from the back of his head sent him around the corner before it could find its place again. The sight of bright light through orange lenses made the world ahead of him seem alien. The smell of smoke and old wood kept his shaking breaths from drawing too deep or he would choke on him. The taste of blood in his mouth sent him spiraling on feelings of shock over whether he had already been shot, if he was dying, if he was dead, if any second Abraham would round the doorway he was only vaguely aware he'd passed through and he had to be ready he had to move he had to find cover he had to get his heart to stop beating so-
In reaching for his chest like he could reign in the pounding beat with a squeeze of his fist, Marco found the grip of Marceline's pistol instead.
There were no more shots from inside.
He waited there by the doorway resisting the urge to look inside until several seconds passed without a sound. When Marco poked his head through the doorway there was movement to his left, mirrored flinches and guns pointing between him and Katelynne from her position in the kitchen. His face softened with the obvious question forming on his lips, but he was cut off by a noise deeper down one of the corridors. Marco couldn't see movement at this distance. His eyes were drawn to a trail of blood shining in the light that led from the hallway to just before where he was leaning. On the ground in front of him was the gun Abraham had aimed at his head.
Marco looked at Katelynne and nodded, first to her and then to the hallway, before exchanging the pistol for what should have been his from the start and walking towards the hall.
If.
Because the outcome that could give his death purpose just as likely could prevent it. Somewhere in this front room Katelynne was waiting, he had to believe that, and when she revealed herself Abraham would not be ready for her. She would have the first shot and however many more her gun was capable before he could respond assuming the noise in the kitchen had been her getting into position. He had to make that assumption. Abraham was walking right by without trying to explore the room further with that gun still firmly in the back of his head so Marco had to assume she was there.
The door was fifteen feet away. He waited for the spray of blood across his back that could be his or Abraham's after one shot or the other. Until it came he kept walking.
The door was ten feet away. He waited for the crack in the air, how could he tell where or how close at this distance, would he even hear it if he was shot, if he heard one from the kitchen or the stairs or behind the chair would there be time to move before a second entered the base of his skull before the sound reached his ears? A shot could mean anything. A shot told him nothing. Until it came he kept walking.
The door was five feet away. He waited for Abraham to pause behind him, to shift because he'd seen something or to stop so he could think of a line before he squeezed down. How could he be so certain? Didn't the alternatives crowd his brain? Staying the course in a situation where any single mistake could branch off into countless hypotheticals felt like willful ignorance. It could not be done without choosing to ignore a host of possibilities for a host of unexplainable reasons. How could he just walk to the door without exploring them all? How could his eyes stay straight, his breath even, how weren't his hands shaking with anticipation? Somewhere in those brief steps Marco lost the line between questioning Abraham's motivations and questioning his own. He could not find it again. Until it came he kept walking.
Marco remembered the next few moments more as impression than as a clear memory.
The sound of gunfire behind him.
The feeling of a barrel jerking away from the back of his head.
The sight of bright light filtered through orange lenses.
The smell of smoke and old wood.
The taste of blood in his mouth.
What exactly happened between his hand touching the doorknob and his back coming flush with the wall outside was hard for him to pin down. There was no plan once it started. The sound of gunfire dropped him into a sprint. The feeling of a barrel jerking away from the back of his head sent him around the corner before it could find its place again. The sight of bright light through orange lenses made the world ahead of him seem alien. The smell of smoke and old wood kept his shaking breaths from drawing too deep or he would choke on him. The taste of blood in his mouth sent him spiraling on feelings of shock over whether he had already been shot, if he was dying, if he was dead, if any second Abraham would round the doorway he was only vaguely aware he'd passed through and he had to be ready he had to move he had to find cover he had to get his heart to stop beating so-
In reaching for his chest like he could reign in the pounding beat with a squeeze of his fist, Marco found the grip of Marceline's pistol instead.
There were no more shots from inside.
He waited there by the doorway resisting the urge to look inside until several seconds passed without a sound. When Marco poked his head through the doorway there was movement to his left, mirrored flinches and guns pointing between him and Katelynne from her position in the kitchen. His face softened with the obvious question forming on his lips, but he was cut off by a noise deeper down one of the corridors. Marco couldn't see movement at this distance. His eyes were drawn to a trail of blood shining in the light that led from the hallway to just before where he was leaning. On the ground in front of him was the gun Abraham had aimed at his head.
Marco looked at Katelynne and nodded, first to her and then to the hallway, before exchanging the pistol for what should have been his from the start and walking towards the hall.
Y’know, Abe woulda pulled the trigger the instant he processed the gunfire if he hadn’t been shot in the fucking arm, which was definitely not listed on his award-winning clickbait ‘top ten places i’d like to get shot’ listicle, for a lot of reasons that were so obvious he didn’t even need to make a numbered list out of them, but he was digressing, you know why he didn’t pull the trigger?
No hands on the gun. Zero. (0). He’d fucking dropped it, which was an understandable consequence of being shot in the fucking arm, it’s not like he had failed in any real way by dropping the gun, his gun, after all who the hell would be able to keep holding onto anything after being shot in the fucking arm they were holding it with, but that really wasn’t the problem, was it, the problem was that he’d put himself in a position where he could get shot in the fucking arm in the first place! Amateur hour!
Maybe he was being too harsh on himself, right, it wasn’t easy, there was a strategic balance to keep, right, between looking at Marco and looking at things that weren’t Marco, but it turned out it was all happening on the scales of judgement that were on fire and also being dropped directly on his head so it’s not like he could give a shit which way they were tipping, right, ‘cause he was tipping straight towards hell by way of kissing the floorboards.
Metaphorically. He wasn’t falling, he was just scrambling, but oh look, the fucking parallels, what had he been doing just before he tripped over a sleeping pinata, day one? Running for no real reason in no real direction. Well, maybe it wasn’t the tightest bookend, because he was running for a very good reason now, but it was still instinctual get me the hell out of here flight simulator 2018, no real thought about anything other than ‘i would rather not be shot again by a gun’, so he kind of just skittered down the hallway and slipped into a room, get it, slipped, because the ground was slick with his blood, well, not really, there weren’t pools, it wasn’t a lot, but there was a non-zero amount of his blood outside of his body now.
Oh, yeah, it hurt a lot. That kind of went without saying, right? Haha.
He took in the scene around him, breathing hard, hand clutched to the brand new hole in his arm, which wasn’t really helping but what the fuck ever he had bigger problems.
Nothing to barricade the door with. They could probably just shoot through it, anyways, the only window was small and high and maybe he could reach and swooce right out but it’d take time, and there were only so many places he could’ve run so the exterminators were gonna find him sooner or later, and if they found him he didn’t want it to be with his back turned and his ass in the air, stuck in the middle like a fat bear strung out on honey, that’d be a pretty humiliating position to die in, right?
So what was left? Hiding? Where? Fighting? Oh yeah, he was the fucking middleweight champion over here with one arm and no gun (he hadn’t climbed through the fucking window with his bags on, which meant his other gun was sitting pretty outside, probably sending him some spirit bomb energy but definitely not any death), he was totally gonna take out two armed (four-armed even, haha) people, no sweat.
So. He resorted to his last, best plan: shameless begging.
“Hey, hey, hey, it’s a fair cop, alright, it’s a fair fuckin’ cop! Let me walk outta here with one of my first aid kits, you can have the rest of the shit, alright? I wasn’t gonna fucking kill you, pinky-swear, so how about returning the favor, huh,” he yelled, his voice taking on a pathetic desperation that was definitely on purpose as a gambit so they’d let their guard down, 100%.
No hands on the gun. Zero. (0). He’d fucking dropped it, which was an understandable consequence of being shot in the fucking arm, it’s not like he had failed in any real way by dropping the gun, his gun, after all who the hell would be able to keep holding onto anything after being shot in the fucking arm they were holding it with, but that really wasn’t the problem, was it, the problem was that he’d put himself in a position where he could get shot in the fucking arm in the first place! Amateur hour!
Maybe he was being too harsh on himself, right, it wasn’t easy, there was a strategic balance to keep, right, between looking at Marco and looking at things that weren’t Marco, but it turned out it was all happening on the scales of judgement that were on fire and also being dropped directly on his head so it’s not like he could give a shit which way they were tipping, right, ‘cause he was tipping straight towards hell by way of kissing the floorboards.
Metaphorically. He wasn’t falling, he was just scrambling, but oh look, the fucking parallels, what had he been doing just before he tripped over a sleeping pinata, day one? Running for no real reason in no real direction. Well, maybe it wasn’t the tightest bookend, because he was running for a very good reason now, but it was still instinctual get me the hell out of here flight simulator 2018, no real thought about anything other than ‘i would rather not be shot again by a gun’, so he kind of just skittered down the hallway and slipped into a room, get it, slipped, because the ground was slick with his blood, well, not really, there weren’t pools, it wasn’t a lot, but there was a non-zero amount of his blood outside of his body now.
Oh, yeah, it hurt a lot. That kind of went without saying, right? Haha.
He took in the scene around him, breathing hard, hand clutched to the brand new hole in his arm, which wasn’t really helping but what the fuck ever he had bigger problems.
Nothing to barricade the door with. They could probably just shoot through it, anyways, the only window was small and high and maybe he could reach and swooce right out but it’d take time, and there were only so many places he could’ve run so the exterminators were gonna find him sooner or later, and if they found him he didn’t want it to be with his back turned and his ass in the air, stuck in the middle like a fat bear strung out on honey, that’d be a pretty humiliating position to die in, right?
So what was left? Hiding? Where? Fighting? Oh yeah, he was the fucking middleweight champion over here with one arm and no gun (he hadn’t climbed through the fucking window with his bags on, which meant his other gun was sitting pretty outside, probably sending him some spirit bomb energy but definitely not any death), he was totally gonna take out two armed (four-armed even, haha) people, no sweat.
So. He resorted to his last, best plan: shameless begging.
“Hey, hey, hey, it’s a fair cop, alright, it’s a fair fuckin’ cop! Let me walk outta here with one of my first aid kits, you can have the rest of the shit, alright? I wasn’t gonna fucking kill you, pinky-swear, so how about returning the favor, huh,” he yelled, his voice taking on a pathetic desperation that was definitely on purpose as a gambit so they’d let their guard down, 100%.
Katelynne stayed frozen, hands trembling as the chaos unfold around her.
Marco was free. But was Marco safe?
Abraham dropped his gun. Abraham bled. Abraham ran.
Katelynne shot a man. She shot a man.
...She shot a man.
She couldn't breathe. Not until Marco reappeared. Not until he lead them down the ruby red road to the wizard.
And then Abraham spoke. His words reeked of desperation fit for a cornered rat. But was it another trick?
...
Katelynne grabbed Marco by the wrist, a gentle but firm snatch that planted the two of them. "Wait, hold on. Let's-"
Marco was free. But was Marco safe?
Abraham dropped his gun. Abraham bled. Abraham ran.
Katelynne shot a man. She shot a man.
...She shot a man.
She couldn't breathe. Not until Marco reappeared. Not until he lead them down the ruby red road to the wizard.
And then Abraham spoke. His words reeked of desperation fit for a cornered rat. But was it another trick?
...
Katelynne grabbed Marco by the wrist, a gentle but firm snatch that planted the two of them. "Wait, hold on. Let's-"
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Emprexx Plush
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Marco didn't want to need Katelynne's hand on his wrist. He wanted to say that he had already stopped, she was being overly cautious and they were on the same wavelength, Abraham leaving was what was best for all of them for all the myriad reasons he'd come back to over and over again about exposure. Marco wanted to say that Abraham didn't need to die. He wanted to believe he wasn't thinking through that goal when he started following the trail.
"It's fair."
But he hadn't stopped.
"You didn't kill me when you stole this gun. That was fair too."
But he hadn't looked up from the sight.
"Pretty clean. In and out with most of my stuff and I never would have known if you didn't leave your name in my bag."
But he hadn't heard Abraham's words as anything but an indication of direction.
"Did you want me to know? You were proud right? You had to be, you earned it."
But most of all, Marco hadn't, didn't, wouldn't believe him.
"You brag about it to Forrest?"
Marco stopped when Katelynne took him by the wrist, and there were lots of things he wanted that to say about him. If he was brutally honest with himself though, his only hesitance was imagining Abraham's pleasure in how much mileage he could get out of falsifying a surrender.
"Like you bragged about killing her a couple minutes ago?"
"It's fair."
But he hadn't stopped.
"You didn't kill me when you stole this gun. That was fair too."
But he hadn't looked up from the sight.
"Pretty clean. In and out with most of my stuff and I never would have known if you didn't leave your name in my bag."
But he hadn't heard Abraham's words as anything but an indication of direction.
"Did you want me to know? You were proud right? You had to be, you earned it."
But most of all, Marco hadn't, didn't, wouldn't believe him.
"You brag about it to Forrest?"
Marco stopped when Katelynne took him by the wrist, and there were lots of things he wanted that to say about him. If he was brutally honest with himself though, his only hesitance was imagining Abraham's pleasure in how much mileage he could get out of falsifying a surrender.
"Like you bragged about killing her a couple minutes ago?"
Alright, cool, Abe had been hoping for an answer, not a fucking lecture, but that was still better than a bullet or fifty, he could work with a lecture, because lecturing implied that you were hoping the asshole on the other end learned something, right? He just had to figure out what was stuck up Marco’s ass and make a little crocodile apology even though he was kind of fuming by the end of it, and he could stumble away, hurt and robbed and humiliated but alive.
But, man, it was times like this that made Abe grateful that he didn’t even have half of Axel’s temper. Like Abe obviously wasn’t some sorta fuckin’ zen buddha calm guy, shit could still get under his skin, but it was more annoying than overpowering, maybe making the corners of his mouth tight from irritation instead of slack with apathy, but he wasn’t a fucking idiot, he knew the situation he was in.
Still, like, did Marco even know Forrest or was he just using her name to feel all nice and moral? Like if he wanted to complain about the trade-robbery or the gunpointing that was all perfectly cool, that was a fair cop, but why the hell was this self-righteous prick jabbing him with an honest accident (for all anyone else knew, haha) when he’d killed like at least two more people than Abe had? Maybe three? He’d lost count and it wasn’t really important anyways?
Whatever. Whatever. All he had to do was show the high-ground high-horsers that he was unshakeable, which meant he was willing to just let bygones be bygones, nothing personal kid, genuinely, he’d walk away and they could keep the house and he’d just have to fucking deal.
Abe took a deep breath, swung open the door -
and was immediately blinded by gasps and camera flashes. He blinked, before remembering where he was. The winner’s podium slash press conference, right, he had a nice little stand with a crown and a ‘#1’ printed on it with red paint, and a whole shitload of microphones at the top, like, at least fifty of them jutting out in different directions, he wasn’t sure why there had to be so many, but that’s just show business baby, right? You gotta go with the flow, and maybe the flow was just for dramatic effect, but he deserved a little drama after all that shit, right?
He stepped up to his spot at the top, squinting at the dark, almost cavernous room in front of him. The only source of light was a neon banner hanging on the back wall, saying ‘congratulations on being the one to make it home, i guess, i mean personally i would’ve preferred to have given my daughter one last hug but it is what it is’, kind of ruining the vibe but whatever, Abe wasn’t a sore winner, he wasn’t going to be putting in any complaints to management about it, kudos to the banner-maker for making a banner long enough to write fucking war and peace on it, right?
The crowd below him was indistinct - visible only by the light reflecting off of their glasses and cameras lenses. Fucking paparazzi vultures, man, that’s the price of fame, but also the point of fame, right? You might never be able to just walk outside and get a cuppa joe without being swarmed, but at least someone gave a shit in the first place, someone was hanging off of every word he said, and maybe it was by the neck, and maybe that weight was dragging him down to hell straight through the center of the earth, but he’d already been through hell and back, so that wasn’t the worst problem to have, like, shit man, he had a VIP card with Hell Stan’s name on it, he’d be set for life.
The indistinct rhubarb murmurings of the crowd died down and he could feel the expectation in the air. No need to keep his adoring fans waiting, right? This was the moment he’d slaughtered hundreds of kids for.
“Hey, hey, thanks for making it here, everyone! I just flew out from murder island and boy are my bloody arms tired! Bloody ‘cause I ripped someone’s heart out, y’know, I’m not fuckin British, haha, but you guys are smart, right, you get it,” he said, and the laugh track played along, and he didn’t even glance to see if any of the producers were holding up cue cards.
“Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering what my secret sauce was, right, how I got the sicko mode schmovin’ power to be standing here before you when all my buddies are getting empty closed-casket funerals, well. It’s ‘cause I’m the best and smartest and most ruthless motherfucker around, no one else stood a chance, right? No one else coulda been as uniquely awful from the word go, like, I went from zero to cold-blooded theft in life five seconds, that’s some get-up-and-go initiative.”
The crowd was getting unruly. ‘Rhubarb’, they shouted at him, well, if they wanted rhubarb, he was gonna fucking give them rhubarb, alright? The lights were slowly coming on, and he could see that some of the audience members weren’t holding cameras or notepads or anything at all. Just, framed photographs, held high, tears running down their old, old cheeks.
“Hey, hey, I’m just sayin’, maybe if you wanted your kids to come home they shoulda been a little less shit, right? A little less stupid, a little less trusting? Or like, a lot of less stupid, for some of them. I mean, you saw Christina, right? She stuck her fucking hand into a bear trap! I told her there was a bear trap in that bag! I literally told her! Big kudos to her parents for keeping her for wandering into traffic long enough for me to blow her head off, right?”
The outrage was growing and jesus did it feel good. He’d made a promise to himself, at the beginning, hadn’t he? He had to survive so the whole world could know what an absolute piece of shit he was, just, like, the smelliest garbage man without the dignity and honor of being necessary that actual sanitation workers had.
“They weren’t all bad, though, I mean, Axel? Perfect in every way. Love that guy, but like, not anymore, I’m not a necrophiliac, right? But after you bastards are satisfied I’m gonna go home and make myself some fuckin’ tea and go onto the dark web to find the footage of that night, that song, so I can rip the audio and just play it on loop for the rest of my life, alright? But I’m here and he isn’t, so all I’ve got left to say about him is like, get wrecked, buddy.”
Really, what the fuck was he even doing here? What did he want to do with his life? He’d fought so hard, killed so many people, for a future he couldn't even begin to imagine. So, if he couldn’t ever go outside again without getting shanked by some middle-aged vigilante, well, that solved a lot of problems, didn’t it? He’d never have to do shit again, and it gave people a nice public face to get angry at, and like, a face they can actually doxx and send hate-mail to, not like an abstract terrorist man.
Shame about his folks’ grocery store, they’d be lucky if their customer base just dried up without getting any bricks or cocktails through the window. Tough luck, it wasn’t really their fault their son was shit, but Abe had tumbled down the slippery slope a long, long time ago, and now he was making it everybody else’s problem.
The lights kicked on, illuminating every single angry face in the crowd. They were screaming. They were jumping over the barriers separating them and the podium. Well, that was fine.
One asshole in particular was already right up in front of him, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and holding a microphone to his face, like, woah, c’mon dude, everybody else wanted a piece of him too, learn some personal boundaries or at least get in line first, haha, but like, the fastest way to make him go away was to humor him with a good-humored answer.
The lights cut out. He blinked. Marco stood in front of him, holding his gun - his gun, which was funny to think about, because that emphasis could really go both ways, couldn’t it? Whatever. He just had to stick to the script and then he could figure out where the hell he was going from there.
“I mean it was an accident, bro, really, I never wanted to hurt her, but it got me a nice lunch, so I’m not gonna complain, right? Haha.” Abe halfheartedly shrugged.
But, man, it was times like this that made Abe grateful that he didn’t even have half of Axel’s temper. Like Abe obviously wasn’t some sorta fuckin’ zen buddha calm guy, shit could still get under his skin, but it was more annoying than overpowering, maybe making the corners of his mouth tight from irritation instead of slack with apathy, but he wasn’t a fucking idiot, he knew the situation he was in.
Still, like, did Marco even know Forrest or was he just using her name to feel all nice and moral? Like if he wanted to complain about the trade-robbery or the gunpointing that was all perfectly cool, that was a fair cop, but why the hell was this self-righteous prick jabbing him with an honest accident (for all anyone else knew, haha) when he’d killed like at least two more people than Abe had? Maybe three? He’d lost count and it wasn’t really important anyways?
Whatever. Whatever. All he had to do was show the high-ground high-horsers that he was unshakeable, which meant he was willing to just let bygones be bygones, nothing personal kid, genuinely, he’d walk away and they could keep the house and he’d just have to fucking deal.
Abe took a deep breath, swung open the door -
and was immediately blinded by gasps and camera flashes. He blinked, before remembering where he was. The winner’s podium slash press conference, right, he had a nice little stand with a crown and a ‘#1’ printed on it with red paint, and a whole shitload of microphones at the top, like, at least fifty of them jutting out in different directions, he wasn’t sure why there had to be so many, but that’s just show business baby, right? You gotta go with the flow, and maybe the flow was just for dramatic effect, but he deserved a little drama after all that shit, right?
He stepped up to his spot at the top, squinting at the dark, almost cavernous room in front of him. The only source of light was a neon banner hanging on the back wall, saying ‘congratulations on being the one to make it home, i guess, i mean personally i would’ve preferred to have given my daughter one last hug but it is what it is’, kind of ruining the vibe but whatever, Abe wasn’t a sore winner, he wasn’t going to be putting in any complaints to management about it, kudos to the banner-maker for making a banner long enough to write fucking war and peace on it, right?
The crowd below him was indistinct - visible only by the light reflecting off of their glasses and cameras lenses. Fucking paparazzi vultures, man, that’s the price of fame, but also the point of fame, right? You might never be able to just walk outside and get a cuppa joe without being swarmed, but at least someone gave a shit in the first place, someone was hanging off of every word he said, and maybe it was by the neck, and maybe that weight was dragging him down to hell straight through the center of the earth, but he’d already been through hell and back, so that wasn’t the worst problem to have, like, shit man, he had a VIP card with Hell Stan’s name on it, he’d be set for life.
The indistinct rhubarb murmurings of the crowd died down and he could feel the expectation in the air. No need to keep his adoring fans waiting, right? This was the moment he’d slaughtered hundreds of kids for.
“Hey, hey, thanks for making it here, everyone! I just flew out from murder island and boy are my bloody arms tired! Bloody ‘cause I ripped someone’s heart out, y’know, I’m not fuckin British, haha, but you guys are smart, right, you get it,” he said, and the laugh track played along, and he didn’t even glance to see if any of the producers were holding up cue cards.
“Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering what my secret sauce was, right, how I got the sicko mode schmovin’ power to be standing here before you when all my buddies are getting empty closed-casket funerals, well. It’s ‘cause I’m the best and smartest and most ruthless motherfucker around, no one else stood a chance, right? No one else coulda been as uniquely awful from the word go, like, I went from zero to cold-blooded theft in life five seconds, that’s some get-up-and-go initiative.”
The crowd was getting unruly. ‘Rhubarb’, they shouted at him, well, if they wanted rhubarb, he was gonna fucking give them rhubarb, alright? The lights were slowly coming on, and he could see that some of the audience members weren’t holding cameras or notepads or anything at all. Just, framed photographs, held high, tears running down their old, old cheeks.
“Hey, hey, I’m just sayin’, maybe if you wanted your kids to come home they shoulda been a little less shit, right? A little less stupid, a little less trusting? Or like, a lot of less stupid, for some of them. I mean, you saw Christina, right? She stuck her fucking hand into a bear trap! I told her there was a bear trap in that bag! I literally told her! Big kudos to her parents for keeping her for wandering into traffic long enough for me to blow her head off, right?”
The outrage was growing and jesus did it feel good. He’d made a promise to himself, at the beginning, hadn’t he? He had to survive so the whole world could know what an absolute piece of shit he was, just, like, the smelliest garbage man without the dignity and honor of being necessary that actual sanitation workers had.
“They weren’t all bad, though, I mean, Axel? Perfect in every way. Love that guy, but like, not anymore, I’m not a necrophiliac, right? But after you bastards are satisfied I’m gonna go home and make myself some fuckin’ tea and go onto the dark web to find the footage of that night, that song, so I can rip the audio and just play it on loop for the rest of my life, alright? But I’m here and he isn’t, so all I’ve got left to say about him is like, get wrecked, buddy.”
Really, what the fuck was he even doing here? What did he want to do with his life? He’d fought so hard, killed so many people, for a future he couldn't even begin to imagine. So, if he couldn’t ever go outside again without getting shanked by some middle-aged vigilante, well, that solved a lot of problems, didn’t it? He’d never have to do shit again, and it gave people a nice public face to get angry at, and like, a face they can actually doxx and send hate-mail to, not like an abstract terrorist man.
Shame about his folks’ grocery store, they’d be lucky if their customer base just dried up without getting any bricks or cocktails through the window. Tough luck, it wasn’t really their fault their son was shit, but Abe had tumbled down the slippery slope a long, long time ago, and now he was making it everybody else’s problem.
The lights kicked on, illuminating every single angry face in the crowd. They were screaming. They were jumping over the barriers separating them and the podium. Well, that was fine.
One asshole in particular was already right up in front of him, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and holding a microphone to his face, like, woah, c’mon dude, everybody else wanted a piece of him too, learn some personal boundaries or at least get in line first, haha, but like, the fastest way to make him go away was to humor him with a good-humored answer.
The lights cut out. He blinked. Marco stood in front of him, holding his gun - his gun, which was funny to think about, because that emphasis could really go both ways, couldn’t it? Whatever. He just had to stick to the script and then he could figure out where the hell he was going from there.
“I mean it was an accident, bro, really, I never wanted to hurt her, but it got me a nice lunch, so I’m not gonna complain, right? Haha.” Abe halfheartedly shrugged.
-
Emprexx Plush
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Marco was a murderer. There wasn't a morning that passed without him reflecting on that since he'd killed Kayla. By the standards of every legal drama YouTube had offered him as white noise clips over the years there was debate to be had about whether what he'd done was some form of manslaughter because of mental state, duress, the lack of intent to kill her when he moved, the perception of threat, dozens more excuses he lacked the armchair expertise to dream up, but from those first hours before anyone else had known about his crime Marco had considered himself a murderer. There was no redeeming what he had done. He'd never tried. Kayla was someone he had hardly known but he would carry the mistake of what he'd done to her with him as long as he was allowed.
Nick was a murderer. By his word he had less right to that label than Marco had; mercy in one hand and self defense in the other. Of the many opportunities he was given for violence Marco only saw him take the ones forced upon him. When given the opportunities to make things right with those around his victims he took it, even when they didn't everything they could to rob themselves of closure. In spite of that high ground Nick still carried himself like a murderer. Whether his actions were right or wrong their results weighed on him until the end came. Marco's last memories of Nick were helpless and at gunpoint yet there was relief in how he held himself, a kind of certainty that he had earned what was coming: the death, yes, but the opportunity that it meant someone else might live as well. He carried what he'd done to Beryl and Jeremiah as long as he was allowed.
Marceline was a murderer. There was no way to know what had gone through her head with everyone she had killed, but Marco knew that despite holding conviction in her heart for days that killing Nick was a stroke of justice for a dear friend she still believed once she was at Marco's mercy that she deserved to die for what she had done. Not just to die but to be tortured. The only thing she could imagine to offer him was her suffering. She killed a murderer but because he was loved she believed she should die as poorly as Marco could only assume she killed him. Marceline died slow. Unlike most she had the opportunity to die in relative peace. Still she carried Amelia, and Roxanne, and even Nick with her as long as she was allowed.
Abraham was a murderer. They didn't know each other. He hadn't been there when Forrest died. The only metric he had to judge was how Abraham chose to act now. Anger, remorse, denial, fear, indignation, acceptance, Marco had seen it all on a dozen faces. Yet Abraham swaggered out of his hiding place with confidence, word and deed and intent dripping with the same shrugging smugness he'd been shrouded in since he'd put his stolen gun to Marco's head, unburdened in every step. It was all a fucking joke to him. He hadn't carried Forrest one inch from where her body had fallen.
Marco was a murderer. He had lived surrounded by murderers for two weeks. He had slept with murderers. He had eaten with murderers. He held murderers. He had argued with murderers. He had loved murderers. He had killed murderers. So as much as something human within him was disgusted, appalled even, at Abraham reducing his girlfriend's death down to a fond memory of a hot meal he'd earned in reward, the only thing that truly shocked Marco was how little the gun in his arms fought him when shots too quick for him to count stuttered out in a fraction of a second too brief for him to measure.
He hadn’t made any conscious decision to pull the trigger. It was a reflex calling back to a promise he’d made the morning after his mistake: I wouldn't hurt Kayla again. Some people...some people don't deserve to go home, though. If I have to hurt them… The idea of who didn’t deserve to go home had remained so vague in his mind that he could not bring himself to apply it to Marceline, who had hurt him worse than anyone else alive, or Justin, who had more blood on his hands than anyone else Marco had met. It took Abraham’s complete disregard bordering on disdain for anyone but himself to drag the standard from hypothetical to real. If there was a single person on this island who absolutely did not deserve to go home, it was Abraham Watanabe.
There was blood pooling all around him from multiple wounds in his chest. Marco had watched enough people die to know even before Abraham’s first attempt to hack his way to breath that he wasn’t dead yet. Marco was walking down the hall already when Abraham’s hands came up seeking purchase he could not determine, before his gasps started to sound like speech in generous interpretation. Their eyes met briefly before Marco broke their line of sight with his gun. He couldn’t look at him when he spoke.
“Sorry.”
Marco held no delusion that the burst of gunfire into Abraham’s face was mercy, nor that his apology was for hurting him. He apologized because there was nothing in him that was ready to give Abraham another chance. It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel right. There was no more justice in killing Abraham than there had been in killing Marceline. Marco wasn’t a better person than him for ending his story in violence; he just couldn’t bear to listen to one more word of it.
He was sorry.
He shot him again anyway.
Nick was a murderer. By his word he had less right to that label than Marco had; mercy in one hand and self defense in the other. Of the many opportunities he was given for violence Marco only saw him take the ones forced upon him. When given the opportunities to make things right with those around his victims he took it, even when they didn't everything they could to rob themselves of closure. In spite of that high ground Nick still carried himself like a murderer. Whether his actions were right or wrong their results weighed on him until the end came. Marco's last memories of Nick were helpless and at gunpoint yet there was relief in how he held himself, a kind of certainty that he had earned what was coming: the death, yes, but the opportunity that it meant someone else might live as well. He carried what he'd done to Beryl and Jeremiah as long as he was allowed.
Marceline was a murderer. There was no way to know what had gone through her head with everyone she had killed, but Marco knew that despite holding conviction in her heart for days that killing Nick was a stroke of justice for a dear friend she still believed once she was at Marco's mercy that she deserved to die for what she had done. Not just to die but to be tortured. The only thing she could imagine to offer him was her suffering. She killed a murderer but because he was loved she believed she should die as poorly as Marco could only assume she killed him. Marceline died slow. Unlike most she had the opportunity to die in relative peace. Still she carried Amelia, and Roxanne, and even Nick with her as long as she was allowed.
Abraham was a murderer. They didn't know each other. He hadn't been there when Forrest died. The only metric he had to judge was how Abraham chose to act now. Anger, remorse, denial, fear, indignation, acceptance, Marco had seen it all on a dozen faces. Yet Abraham swaggered out of his hiding place with confidence, word and deed and intent dripping with the same shrugging smugness he'd been shrouded in since he'd put his stolen gun to Marco's head, unburdened in every step. It was all a fucking joke to him. He hadn't carried Forrest one inch from where her body had fallen.
Marco was a murderer. He had lived surrounded by murderers for two weeks. He had slept with murderers. He had eaten with murderers. He held murderers. He had argued with murderers. He had loved murderers. He had killed murderers. So as much as something human within him was disgusted, appalled even, at Abraham reducing his girlfriend's death down to a fond memory of a hot meal he'd earned in reward, the only thing that truly shocked Marco was how little the gun in his arms fought him when shots too quick for him to count stuttered out in a fraction of a second too brief for him to measure.
He hadn’t made any conscious decision to pull the trigger. It was a reflex calling back to a promise he’d made the morning after his mistake: I wouldn't hurt Kayla again. Some people...some people don't deserve to go home, though. If I have to hurt them… The idea of who didn’t deserve to go home had remained so vague in his mind that he could not bring himself to apply it to Marceline, who had hurt him worse than anyone else alive, or Justin, who had more blood on his hands than anyone else Marco had met. It took Abraham’s complete disregard bordering on disdain for anyone but himself to drag the standard from hypothetical to real. If there was a single person on this island who absolutely did not deserve to go home, it was Abraham Watanabe.
There was blood pooling all around him from multiple wounds in his chest. Marco had watched enough people die to know even before Abraham’s first attempt to hack his way to breath that he wasn’t dead yet. Marco was walking down the hall already when Abraham’s hands came up seeking purchase he could not determine, before his gasps started to sound like speech in generous interpretation. Their eyes met briefly before Marco broke their line of sight with his gun. He couldn’t look at him when he spoke.
“Sorry.”
Marco held no delusion that the burst of gunfire into Abraham’s face was mercy, nor that his apology was for hurting him. He apologized because there was nothing in him that was ready to give Abraham another chance. It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel right. There was no more justice in killing Abraham than there had been in killing Marceline. Marco wasn’t a better person than him for ending his story in violence; he just couldn’t bear to listen to one more word of it.
He was sorry.
He shot him again anyway.