Death Spiral

#1

The game hadn’t even begun yet and already Verity Stewart was a murderer.

((continued from ★))

She didn’t know how to deal with the image in her head. Of the other guy flying. Of the other guy falling into the water. Of his body not surfacing. Of her standing there, waiting for him. Hoping his body came up. Hoping there was something that told her that she hadn’t actually done that. That she hadn’t pushed him off the boat, knowing full well that his leg would make him drown. It was almost like she’d seen someone else do it. It was almost like she was watching a girl who looked exactly like her do the deed. It was almost like she wasn’t even here at all. Like she was watching this game rather than playing it. Never mind the fact that the corridor she’d ducked into and was rushing through because she didn’t want to look at the ocean stood around her. Never mind the backpack she was carrying by the strap. Never mind the empty air still on her hands. The bone-ache from how hard she’d pushed him. She was in her brain. All of that stuff was outside of her brain. None of it was real right now la la la la la no no no no no help help help help-

Her foot hit a lump on the floor and it took her so much to not trip over it. She turned her head to see what it was she got her foot caught on. A person. A classmate. Still asleep. Someone she recognized but someone she was absolutely not going to recognize because that meant there were people other than Verity here and that meant that person she just killed actually existed and no, no, look away. Turn around. Look at the floor. You always look at the floor when you don’t want to look something in the eye. Just look at parts of the floor that don’t have your classmate and-

Oh god.

More bodies.

More classmates.

More people. More people who existed. More of a chance that the guy she just murdered back there also existed. No. No. Couldn’t be here. Had to be- had to go in that door over there. The one a couple steps forward and then two steps left. That door. Get in there. Close the door behind you. Don’t-

Don’t look at the floor.

Don’t see the classmate there as well.

Leave the room. Go to the door parallel to this room. Don’t look at the floor on the way there. Open the door. Walk in the room. Close the door. Give yourself a brief glance of the floor. See no-one there. Drop your bag from your back to the floor beside you. Throw the bag of the person you just killed across the room. Feel your butt hit the ground. Feel your back push against the door behind you. Bring your knees in tight. Lean your crossed arms against your knees. Drop your glasses onto your lap as you lean your face onto your arms. Feel everything. The sound and smell of the ocean outside. The tumble tumble of the ship moving, like you’ve got fever and the floor doesn’t quite feel as still as it normally was. The mucus in your throat. Something wet against the part of your arms your eyes are touching and-

(wow)

(you just murdered someone)

(and you’re crying about it?)

-and the thing in Verity’s chest. The great big hole. It was like something out of a cosmic horror story. Every couple months or so when everything in Verity’s world felt like it was about to fall inwards onto her it opened. Just a little bit, but just enough. It would consume everything that fell in — every bit of air, every neurological twinge that went to her brain and told her how to feel — and grow. In size. In power. She could remember the last time she’d felt it. She could remember the last few times she’d felt it. She’d show up to where she needed to perform a piece of music and the hole would just be a little pinprick in the centre of her oesophagus but as the line got closer (she was always at the back of the line, she didn’t know why she always chose to be at the back of the line) and the time before her performance got shorter and shorter, it would open. Grow to touch both of her lungs. By the time it was her, by the time she had to perform, it had fully consumed her. Air no longer reached her lungs, it all just went into the hole and dropped out of sight while it begged for more. Tried to eat all her body parts. Became the only thing she could feel. She’d finish her performance and the hole would fade. Disappear. Not like it wasn’t there, though. The opposite. There was always still a little bit of an ache of her chest afterwards. A scar where the hole had been. The idea that she had fucked everything up. A feeling that her world — micro and meso and macro — would never be the same again.

Well.

At least now it was true.

She’d fucked up.

And now her world would never be the same again.

Somehow saying it that time felt clearer than the others. There’d been an undercurrent carrying the same message over and over again — you did it, you killed him, you killed him, you killed him repeating in the background of every other thought Verity had had up until this point — but now this time when she said it she could actually hear her own words. It wasn’t like this was happening to someone else. It wasn’t like Verity was watching someone who looked exactly like her on TV. No. It was like this was Verity. It was like the Verity who’d done what she’d just done was real. It was like everything that had just happened had just happened.

Because it had happened.

She’d killed- no. She’d killed a person. She’d pushed h- them off this boat knowing full well that their leg would make them drown.

And why had she even done that?

…

(because)

…

…

…

No. No. This wasn’t school anymore, but she still couldn’t just accept a blank answer. There had to be a reason. She couldn’t have just cracked. She couldn’t have just freaked out. She couldn’t have just murdered someone because some part of her brain had felt like it. No. There had to be some sort of reason. There had to be some sort of logic behind the decision to- to- to do what she did. She just couldn’t remember it. She just kinda got consumed by the heat of the moment. She just couldn’t get past the fact that she killed someone and maybe once she calmed down a little bit she could remember. Think things through. Know for sure why she killed him.

Because she was panicking now.

Right?

She’d just killed someone and she’d been panicking about it before so it was only logical that she was still panicking now because it still hadn’t been more than a couple of minutes. And maybe once she stopped panicking then she could take a breath. Think things through. Go through her head one more time and get a conclusive answer as to why she did what she did.

Right?

Right?

…

…

Why was she calm now?

Why wasn’t calm working?

Why wasn’t she thinking things through? Why couldn’t she come up with an answer? Why did she kill someone up there?

(because)

No.

(because you did)

No.

(because that’s what you are)

No. That… didn’t even make sense. She hadn’t killed anyone in high school or anything. That wasn’t who she was. No. This was just a thing her mind did. This was just where she tried to gaslight herself just so she could feel more shitty about things. She’d told herself back with the person she just killed that she was always going to be nothing. Do nothing and then die. Now she was telling herself that she was always going to be a murderer. No. She’d caught herself out this time. She wasn’t going to fall for her own traps. She was going to work herself out of this spiral and then-

(and then what?)

(you still killed him)

(for no reason)

(remember what you said? back at band camp? in that time in the music room you’re not even sure was 9th or 10th grade)

(you said you’d go for the win)

(take everyone out)

(no mercy)

(and now look at you)

(you’ve done it)

(and now you’re balking)

(and now you’re trying to convince yourself that that’s not who you are)

No. No. Fuck that line of thought. She wasn’t a murderer. She wasn’t a murderer. She’d told the person she’d murdered that she’d take everyone out back that night at band camp but that didn’t mean anything. That was just a thing people said when they were angry and lonely and nobody liked them. They’d think bad thoughts and they’d dream those bad thoughts and they’d hope beyond everything else that those bad thoughts would one day become real but that meant nothing. They were just thoughts. They didn’t mean anything and they didn’t become anything and they didn’t mean Verity was a murderer. It didn’t mean that there’d been no choice. No reason as to why she killed the person she killed. No. No. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t who she was and-

(stop being stupid)

(look at yourself)

(you’re fat)

(nobody likes you)

(you’re a victim to your own head

(and you can’t even control the things you say and do)

(you can’t even control your own life))

(do you really think they put you on here because they thought you could make it?)

(no)

(they wanted someone to kill the moment they woke up because they freaked out and didn’t think things through)

(they wanted someone to wake everybody else up)

(let them know that this game has begun)

(you wouldn’t need to last after that, of course)

(because that’s all they needed from you)

(and that’s all you’d do)

(because that’s what you are)

(because this was always what was going to happen)

(burn bright)

(burn fast)

...

...

She remembered something. Back from before this. It felt… crazy to think about how she used to write child murder now that she’d just done the real thing, but… it was like this character she wrote once. He was paranoid. So much so that some of the other members joked about how he’d have a mental breakdown right there at graduation. He got put in the game, and obviously he kinda had a massive mental breakdown. He started thinking that everyone else was out to get him. He pushed one of his friends off a bell tower because of that and then someone tried to get revenge for that and then the paranoia was validated. He came to the conclusion that if he didn’t want people to get him he had to get them first. He went around the island after that shooting people and getting kills and he hated it. Wanted it to end. He wanted to be somewhere where he didn’t have to hurt anyone. And that was the end of his arc. There wasn’t anything after that. He got killed about 40% of the way through the game and that… really was as far as he could’ve gone. People always complimented Verity about how he was the shining star of her cast but Verity knew he had to die. Before it was too late. Before he lasted longer and outstayed his welcome.

And there was another person she wrote, just like that. She was a smart girl who nobody ever appreciated. Who tried so hard to win favour and was always just second best to her beloved older brother. Always just a goon the valedictorian used to make herself look better. And she was angry about that. Very angry about that. She believed that she was special and she deserved the attention she never got. That she was better than everyone else. And she decided when she got put on SotF that she was going to show them that. So she did. Or, well, she tried to. She stomped on her ex boyfriend until his ribs punctured his lungs. She shot another guy for… reasons she couldn’t quite remember. Verity had always wished she’d lasted a day longer, but she couldn’t be too disappointed, really. There wasn’t really much more to her other than that. She could only do her thing for so long. Before it got old. Before people got sick of her.

Those two people were the same. Not in personality, not in playstyle, but in function. They were the people who got the game going. They were the people who finished their arcs early. They were the people who didn’t stick around long before the real main characters took stage. They’d hit the death spiral. They couldn’t win the game because to win the game meant they had to last a lot longer than they did and to last a lot longer than they did meant to last longer than they reasonably could. They were the frontloaders. The house fires.

Burn bright.

Burn fast.

Burn out.

(and that’s what you are, isn’t it?)

(that’s what you were always going to be)

(fitting)

(you were never actually able to have your killers stick around)

She took a breath.

She took a breath.

She took her eyes off her arms and her arms off her knees and looked around the room. Saw her bag just a metre or so to her right. Slowly — almost unwillingly, all her muscles and all her bones just wanted to go back to where they were at the door and be sad for a while — she got her arms and her waist over to it and then dragged it back to where her body wanted to be. She wasn’t going to try and think about RP stuff when this was the real thing. She was going to check her bag. That was what people did. When they wanted to think things through and begin their game and try and figure out what they were going to do they checked their bag. Searched for their weapon. Verity was going to do that. She undid the zipper, opened the backpack, and-

Saw the extra ammunition before she saw the gun itself.

She took a breath.

She took a breath.

Okay. Not a problem. She had another bag, all the way across the room. It… wasn’t hers, but maybe she had to be optimistic. Look for upsides in… all this. Maybe she’d murdered someone and was now making way too much light about it, but at the very least she was now the first student in any SotF game to have two bags at the start of the game. She moved towards it. Crawled. Felt her knees not feel all that good underneath all her weight. Feel how much the rest of her still wanted to be back at the door. Still wanted to think about death and get sad and stuff.

Reach the bag. Undo the zipper. Look inside.

Find another gun.

Laugh.

Just kind of drop to the floor. Roll around and look at the ceiling. Feel your stomach whip up and down, up and down as you cackle into the empty air. There was something Verity had read about. How girls tended to have two types of laughs. One for when things were funny but not that funny and another for when things were that funny. This was that laugh. This was that funny. She was really… god. This was what she really was. They’d set her up to be the girl who snapped and killed someone immediately and rather than realize that straight away and even begin to try and stop it she… did it. She did it. She read the signs and did exactly what they told her to.

And now she was going to do it again.

And now she was going to be the girl who burned. Everyone would remember what she did these first couple days. She would wake everyone up. Make them find out who they really were. Play her role and do her part and leave the stage exactly when the real main characters stepped up. Burn bright. Burn fast. Burn out.

That was who she was.

That was who she was always going to be.

(and do you want that?)

No.

Not really.

But it was stupid to think that she could do anything else. Like, really. Everything had bent itself in a perfect shape to make her what she was. She’d made somebody fly just by letting go of a bag. She made a leg bleed just by having it hit the ground. She’d received two assigned weapons, one more than anyone had ever gotten in SotF, and by chance they were both guns. The universe had made things clear. She was going to be what she was going to be. There was no way this ever could have worked out in a different way.

(so)

(what)

(you’re not even going to fight it?)

She stopped laughing. She’d actually stopped laughing a bit ago, but that full stop hadn’t really pronounced itself until now. It was like… something high-brow. You heard the joke and thought ‘hm, that’s funny,’ but didn’t actually laugh at it at all. Well, no. It wasn’t like that. Those jokes were funny. This one was just sad. Here is a story about a girl who could never change who she was, told by a fool, signifying nothing, or whatever that Shakespeare quote was. She’d tried. She’d tried so many times. But it was pointless. The world went the way the world went. There was a macro and a meso and a micro all around Verity and she had no say in any of it.

(so what?)

(you’re not even going to try?)

(you said it yourself, back there)

No she hadn’t.

(this is a whole new place)

(you can be a whole new person)

(this game has to begin at some point)

(you can’t just be the same person you always were)

…

…

God, she hated it when she was right.

Because she was. It was obvious. There was no point going into a big paragraph literal navel gaze questioning whether it was possible to not murder people. There was no wondering what track she was on, whether she’d already gone too far down it to come back. Maybe she was. It didn’t matter. She could just veer in a different direction. Go through the foliage rather than the path set before her. Maybe she’d find a new thing. Maybe she’d just get lost in the forest forever. She wouldn’t know unless she tried. She couldn’t change unless she changed.

Because this was it.

This was Survival of the Fittest. This was the best Verity was ever going to get. There was no idea that maybe one day school would end. There was no idea that maybe someday somebody or something was going to come down from high and save her. No. This wasn’t Miami anymore. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t calm. The boy she killed was gone and there was blood on her hands and it was all because she’d let go of her bag. It was just like all the things she’d ever thought about this game. That it had to begin at some point. That she couldn’t just sit down and pretend it wasn’t happening and do nothing and die. No. She was here. She was on this ship. The Verity Stewart in Miami who did nothing and was very sad about it had to die. A new Verity had to take her place. There was a life worth taking back somewhere in this soul. She had to find it. She had to keep it. For her sake. Maybe for her sake.

She didn’t know how she was going to do it, but now she knew what she had to do.

However many minutes before the game actually began, Verity Stewart had woken up.

((SS01: Begin))

She’d put both guns into the one bag. She’d dropped some of the clothes she figured she wouldn’t need into the other one. It was mostly a case of her figuring out what she needed and what she could leave behind without feeling too insecure. Food? Sure. Water? Definitely. Two weird compass things she had no clue what to do with? Dumped. Maps? Didn’t really need a second one. When she was done, when she was secure, she stood up. Put the bag with her name on her back. Moved to hide the bag without her name somewhere where it wasn’t in plain sight. Found a good spot under a bed. Bent down. Moved to stuff it in. Looked at the name first, though, one last time.

Timothy Torales.

One.

Her one kill. Her only kill. She wasn’t going to do it again. She wasn’t going to let herself turn into that type of person, but… she wasn’t going to forget it, either. She wasn’t going to forget him. She wasn’t going to try and pretend that he’d never existed. That she’d never killed him. She’d hated those types of people. The ones who never thought about the consequences. The ones who did shitty things but still got to call themselves heroes for some reason. No. She’d done what she’d done. She knew that she wasn’t allowed to decide what she would be called. She would be her.

She would do what she could do.

It didn’t really matter what anyone else thought, anyway.

She put the bag under the bed. Stood up. Went for the door. Opened it. Went through. Looked around. Saw that all the cameras around her were finally recording. Found that she could actually stand to look at the people on the floor. At least for more than a second. She looked. Tried to see who else was put in here with her.

Saw one of the bodies move. Twitch. Begin the process of waking up.

She thought about the guns in her bag.

She thought about how they really would not be able to stop her. If she tried.

Took a breath.

Took a breath.

Looked up from the floor. Walked over the body. She’d go… somewhere else. Where there were people. Where there was enough time for all of them to wake up. Talk. Get her bearings, once again.

Begin this game again. The way it was supposed to go.

((Verity Stewart, continued in Help))