Everything Is Going According to Plan

[Maraoone]

You first get a sheet of paper, any paper, though preferably the normal kind, ones with the same ratio as the normal bond papers you print and shit. These papers could do, these long-abandoned notes from some sailboat captain guy, probably some rich fuck in some cookie-cutter suburb who got this boat in some midlife-crisis-induced spending spree who eventually realized the maintenance costs on this thing would be more expensive than whatever tax deductions he got from the thing. Some shit like that. These notes meant nothing and they were written by someone who was nothing, so they'd probably be put to better use for this.

Anyways, you get a sheet of paper and fold it once, then fold it again, crosswise then lengthwise. Then, you unfold it once and fold both diagonal flaps along the fold, the top bit, to the crease in middle so that it's half a diamond with a horizontal strip on the bottom. Kinda like a 45-45-90 triangle, fuck you Ms. Lawrence, he could remember all the special triangles shit even if they didn't have any real-world use. Not like he got asked in his fast-food job interview about the cosine of a 45 degree angle.

So yeah, with the loose flaps on the bottom rectangle strip, the diagonal ends, you fold up all four of them until you can't, until there's small diagonal corners on all sides.

Next, you fold up the small horizontal strip on both sides. The paper should start to look like a little sailboat, a small-scale replica of the boats that litter this arena.

With the pointy end down, you pull apart the little crease on the bottom end as much as possible, then you flatten it, push down the creases to make some even diamond sort of thing. Square. Diagonal square. Whatever. And then you fold up the paper flaps on both sides so the thing now looks like a half-diamond.

And then same shit as last time. Pointy end down, pull apart the crease, make another smaller diamond.

By now, there should be two flaps. If not then you probably fucked up somewhere along the line, guess you're shit outta luck now. Sucks to be you. Pull out the outer flaps on both sides until you get some trapezoidal kinda thing with the boat sails on the inside, vaguely like a canoe-sailboat hybrid thing. Whoever first invented this whole thing had some fucked idea of what a boat looks like, huh?

One more time, you pull open the bottom crease kinda to fill in the sail, and there you have it. Your own little paper boat-canoe-sail thing.

((Matias Juarez continues from Loyalty: 1))

The whole process was kinda muscle memory to Matias. His therapist back in middle school had been the first one to suggest it to him, said the whole meticulous process of it would pull his focus, calm him. Can't make these tiny delicate paper little things if you're freaking out, crumpling paper things, punching walls and shit. He'd thought it was stupid at the time, still kinda thought it was now. But these nice little paper things looked kinda neat, right? And they'd calm him down eventually, right?

Leslie liked boats. That was like, his thing. Boats. Fishing and shit. Guess that was why Matias had decided to make boats too. It felt like a fitting tribute, he guessed. That and paper cranes were a bit infuriating to make with the spindly little ends and shit. But mostly the tribute thing.

There were seven of the things surrounding him, seven of the boats. He was still bouncing his leg up and down, he still felt kinda fucked from last night. But it helped, he guessed. Was better than tossing and turning the hours away, waiting until the sun finally finally rose.

He'd peeled off his shirt and hoodie at some point in the night. It was still cold as fuck, actually, but he was also sweaty and his shirt was all sweaty and it'd been sticking to him and it just felt gross and sticky and shit. Now he wasn't sticky, just cold and hot and tired and sleep-deprived and maybe sick? Hopefully not sick? But yeah all those things and it just. Argh. Fuck.

The stickiness was at least partially explained by the sunlight. The sun had been up for a few hours, it was really fuckin' impossible to not notice the red stains on his hands. He could wash it off with water, but that was a waste of drinking water. He could get up and simply wash it off with all the abundant ocean water surrounding them, but well. It's not that he liked it here in this small little boat, but he liked it a hell of a lot more than anywhere else for the meantime. Hell of a lot better than the fishing trawler.

The red stains were on the paper boats as well, smears and fingerprints.

Had he been happy to die among boats? Was that like, part of why he'd wanted to end it then and there? Like, the guy decided that he'd peaked at this particular moment, there was nowhere else to go from here? Nowhere else worth going in this arena?




He reached over to the sailing logbook, about to make his 8th sailboat, but he stopped himself. He was going nowhere with this. He was going nowhere.

He'd told himself he'd get a move on after the second announcement, do something, he guessed, and the second announcement had happened. Leslie died, even the announcer thought it was an okay death, given the circumstances. That had to count for something, right? And Cristobal, he died too. Fuck. Like, he'd always been a bit of a pussy really, like, in general. Weak-willed and shit. But he'd also been one of the few guys Matias liked in this school. Pretty decent guy.

...he was supposed to feel worse about this. That was how these things worked, he thought. Like, obviously the Leslie thing would be the foremost thing on his mind because, fuck, man, he'd been there for it, he'd done it but. There was this lack of weight. He'd liked Cristobal about as much as he liked Leslie, so why didn't he feel worse about this?

Is this what Ashanti had meant by 'too personal?' Should he really have just let someone else get to Leslie?

Had she been right?

Ugh. Fuck. Fuck. Just. No, fuck her, fuck her, but just. Why the fuck did it even matter? He'd accepted Leslie's offer because he didn't want him to hurt, and he'd done just that. Even the announcer saw it. He didn't want Leslie to hurt, to be hurt by someone else. It was Matias or someone else, and Matias had taken control, and it had been over in a second.

And, and, he'd gone on that boat with the intention to kill. He'd woken up with the intention to kill, it'd been the very first thing he'd signed to Ashanti. Finger across the hand, play, kill, same sign. Whether it was Leslie or Vasily or Junji or Cristobal or whoever, someone wasn't stepping off that boat at the end of it, that was what he'd intended.

Leslie hadn't suffered, and Matias got himself a kill. He didn't have the right to feel this way. This is what he'd wanted from the very start.

Right?

Not wanted. He didn't want this. But he'd intended it, he'd intended to kill someone, and he did, but.

He swallowed, a lump stayed stuck in his throat. He slid down the wall he'd been sitting against, banged the back of his head against the wall a few times.

He'd have to do this again.
And again.
And again.

He wanted to get home, he wanted to see his mom and his dad and his siblings, he wanted to get them out of that tiny fucking apartment, he wanted them to have a life. But to do that, to have even the slightest hope of all that, he'd have to go through this again.

He didn't know what he was feeling, what he believed and what he didn't, but he didn't like it. Didn't like any of it.

Matias covered his face with his hands, took deep breaths through them. Uncovered his face, stared at the sky.

"Yo. Yo, Ben."

Might as well.

"Could you, uh- could you give me any ideas? Like... does it ever stop feeling like this, like, every time I... every time I kill? Or should I just get the fuck over myself?"

[Rattlesnake]

A voice echoes from Matias' collar.

"Yo yo yo.

"I gotta say, I'm pretty happy with how you guys are doing so far, all of you. You know, the producers were loadin' me up on crab facts and mentioned they've got, like multiple brains? They're actually called uhh, ganglia or something but point is, you crabs are bein' some real multi-brain thinkers out there.

"Anyway, you're on the same wavelength with some of your teammates and I think you're asking the right questions. So what I'll tell you is, did I ever roll out of my bed, or my little corner of the ground or whatever, bright and early 'cuz I was excited for what I needed to do? Fuck no. Some people do, that's their thing I guess. A few of your teammates, but not you and not me.

"And that's fine 'cuz I can tell you from experience where you go from there is: you look at where you are now, and you look at your best possible worlds, and you look at what the gap between them looks like. None of the paths there are easy, right? Which is gonna be a strength for you 'cuz you're only gonna do stuff that you know is gonna help you out. Take those little steps closer, avoid doing stupid shit so many kids do cuz they're having fun up until they're bleeding on the ground.

"Let me know, is that framing things good for you?"

[Maraoone]

Matias scrunched his eyes.

"That's... pretty neat actually. Didn't know that about crabs."

Let out a bark of laughter.

"...and it helps. Kinda."

About as much as any other motivational talk did.

Silence settled into the boat after that, for a few seconds.

He was trying to let the words stew in his brain, really. Pull apart the words like you'd pull apart, uh, crab legs when trying to get at the meat. And he didn't find much other than the vague sense of positive sentiment. Be cautious, don't do stupid shit, you can do this, basically what Matias had been trying to do the entire time anyways.

And, he spoke with this attitude, this 'go get 'em tiger' attitude that said that this was either easy for him or that he didn't really understand what they were going through, which was a bullshit thought because, like, look at the guy's face, he's been through shit. But, like, just the words, the sentiment, 'You can do it,' it'd never meant much coming from other people because every kid was told that once upon a time. His second grade teacher had told him, once upon a time, that he could be anything, and now look where he was: working cashier at Cantina, the eleventh best Mexican eatery in his neighborhood, destined to live with his parents for at least five years or so, shit grades, friends off to better things, and now with, what, 80%? 90% odds? of dying while the audience claps.

Motivational talks didn't really do much for him, basically.

Like, he was just telling him to get up, deal with it, every single day as if he was trying to pep him up to go to some 9 to 5 office job, as if it was his duty.

As if it was his duty.

Oh.

"...it doesn't stop feeling like this, doesn't it?"

His eyes watered. He rubbed at them hard.

"You just. Feel like a fucking asshole. Every single time. Right?"

[Rattlesnake]

"You feel like someone who's going through hell, yeah.

"Know what, let's be really really real here. It's like uhh, there was some author who gave a college commencement speech or something and it got all famous 'cause he had some really quality ineffable wisdom in there and now every high school English teacher shows it to their seniors. And one of the things he said was, like, if there's a high rise on fire, the people who jump out the windows aren't suddenly not afraid of falling. They're just more afraid of the fire. It's like that.

"But, hey, remember this is a team game now. Someone's gotta win, which means a lot of someones have gotta lose. And the crabs are beating the tar out of everyone else right now."

[Maraoone]

Matias gulped, looked past the sky with wide eyes, silent as he waited for Ben to finish speaking.

He couldn't think, again.

Just. There'd be dozens of hours more of this. Days more. Years more, in the best outcome.

Years more of this.

God.

Goddamn it.

He let in a few unsteady breaths, body slightly shaking.

Not. Not now. Don't think about it now. Something else. Something easier.

Like. The thing Ben had just said, the little story, little nugget of wisdom, little—he really fucking wished Ben would stop using these fucking stupid metaphors. But, yeah, those. Fires, skyscrapers.

He'd heard that same metaphor. It had been some mental health forum they'd held at Mangrove a few years back, some smarter guy than him could probably make up some other sort of parallel or metaphor. He'd gotten the meaning before, he just, he needed to stop thinking all these thoughts and just find the meaning, get at the meat of things, and.

He got it, maybe?

"So, uh.

"You mean— you fuckin' mean, like, we're forced into it, right? By circumstance and all?"

Silence persisted a bit longer.

"I just... thank you for the sentiment, thank you for the nice sentiment and all but I ha— I hadn't— I woke up to this. I woke up, like, I saw your face and you... you're fuckin' everywhere man. Your face is fuckin' everywhere. And, like, you were sayin' shit about no worries and fame and money, and my family is stuck in place, they do nothing but worry, and I do nothing but worry, and I—

Another gulp.

"I don't deserve that credit. I don't deserve that benefit of the doubt.

"When I woke up, it was the first decision I made. To kill someone. When I walked onto the boat, like... fuck, man, I didn't know it was him, I didn't— I didn't want it to be him. I wanted it to be anyone else. One of those randos you hear on the announcements and you blink and say 'Shit sucks' and then you move on with your day, and I—"

He was so sure when he'd woken up. He'd been so sure about what he'd do and how he'd do it. So, where was that smug, cocky, I-can-do-fucking-everything feeling he'd had when he'd first woken up? Where was it? Everything felt like shit, everything felt so scary and uncertain, and, he wanted it back. He wanted that feeling back.

His throat felt like it was clogging up. Like he was suffocating. Another gulp of air.

"Should I even feel like that? Do I have the right to feel like that? Because, like, I chose it. I didn't choose him, but I chose to do what I did. And, and, and I know, like, I sa— I said it was cause I didn't want him to hurt, and I wasn't lying, like, I can't fucking imagine how I'd feel if someone else got to Leslie and came up on him all quiet and fishing and shit and just— just hurt—"

He clenched his leg, fingers pressing into the denim fabric of his jeans.

"Did Cristobal feel like that? Did he— god, that fucking bitch on the announcements said Junji just rubbed it in, did he... goddamn it. Goddamn. I... I'm fuckin'... I'm pissed, I feel like shit about that too, but, I don't— I don't feel as bad? I don't feel as bad. And I— if I hadn't stepped on that boat, or if I'd listened to fucking Ashanti and just stepped off, would it matter... less... to me?

"I don't kn— I don't know, and that makes me feel fake. Like I'm just making up my own reasons and that's- that's really fucking confusing to me, if you haven't gathered yet. Like I don't even know myself, like I'm lying to myself somehow, like I can't even fuckin' believe myself, and I—

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

"I know it doesn't matter, I know whether or not I feel bad, no matter how fucking guilty I feel, I'll have to do this. I know if I didn't do that, I'd be further away from winning or whatever, I know that, I know that, I know that. But I just"—he lifted his head up off the ground, dropped it into the floor—"I can't"—thud—"fucking"—thud—"GET OVER MYSELF."





He continued with a hoarse, somewhat diminished voice. "I'm sorry for making you my fuckin' therapist man, I just..."

He became distinctly aware of the camera that had been trained on him the entire time.

His family would be watching this, yeah?

Ben didn't have a family anymore. He didn't have a fucking family anymore.

He swallowed the urge to scream.

"...yeah.

"Look, if you have nothin' to say to that, that's fine and all, I know I said a lot, but, uh, just one thing."

Ben had said they were doing a good job, weren't they?

"You think you can tell me where the other crabs are? Since you're all about teams and shit... also, why crabs?"

[Rattlesnake]

"Well, first thing first. I gotta, gotta, gotta say this really is some heavy shit. And, like, it's easier to grin about it to a camera, you know, they turn it on and you just stand a little straighter and start projecting your voice like they coached you. But I'm not wrong about what I said there. And all this shit—like, can I really hurt people, what's gonna be there at home, those times where it just hits you and you stand there like this has got to be a fuckin' dream, you know—that's exactly what I went through. And my thing was, in that moment where I was watching my friends die around me I thought, out of all the things I could possibly want, this sure as hell ain't on the list. And after that, I'd done it once already, I'm just—I'm shrugging here, you can't see it, but I am—fuck 'em. You take what's yours and you don't look back 'cuz you can't go back. That's my message, and I think you'll really have a good shot if you can reach that faster than I did.

"But, anyway, for one thing, I can't tell you where the other crabs are. It sucks a fat one and I know I just got done, like, pep talking you or whatever, but if I breach contract now—and we're about outta time here now—I can't help you later. For why you're crabs, well, I'm a Baltimore guy, or Baltimore-adjacent, so I think I got some bias, but I think crabs are, like, top three iconic sea animals. And there's that thing where stuff keeps evolving into them for some reason. Crabs are fuckin' awesome."

[Maraoone]

"...fair enough."

Crabs were okay he guessed.

The rules were fuckin' bullshit too by the way, but wasn't like either of them could do anything about it so.

"See you later then, man."

No further reply came.

You can't go back.

You don't look back cause you can't go back.

He couldn't, yeah.

Leslie was dead, would stay dead either way.

Whether or not he wanted it, whether or not he meant it, he was dead. Matias had landed the final blow. He was dead. No undoing that.

He was dead.

He sat up, looked at all the paper boats scattered around him.

"Fuck, man."

Okay, no more. No more. Had to fuckin' get over himself, right? Can't end up like that, right?

He tried to distance himself from this for a moment. Think about what Leslie would have to say about this, if he were an audience member watching. Just looking upon Matias standing alone on this little boat, moping like a little bitch.




That was the tragedy of it, wasn't it? He didn't know.

All those years spent with each other, and the most he had to say for Leslie at the end of it all, the best guess he had for what his friend would say about it all was 'I don't know.'

He had a rough idea. Leslie had never been much for dramatics, actively shied away from them actually, so he probably wouldn't be up for whatever the fuck this was, but that was it. A rough idea, a guess. The summation of a few years of friendship right there.

They didn't give tutorials on this shit, on how sad or not you were supposed to feel about someone close-ish to you dying. You were expected to feel a certain way, he certainly felt like he was supposed to feel a certain way, but yet no one told him nada. All that was left was this longing for memories that weren't there, for a friendship that could've been closer but wasn't, for feelings that felt too strong or didn't feel strong enough. This confused grief or guilt or whatever the fuck this was.

All that was left was this ghostly regret.

Wiped at his eyes again, back of his hands came back wet. Fucking hated the feeling.

Come on. Come on. Get up. Man up. Get up.

Can't end up like that, Ben had said. Can't end up like that. Ben was right, yeah, Matias didn't want to end up like that. For obvious reasons, yeah, cause being dead probably fuckin' sucked. But also.

Eyes drifted over towards the camera once more. Tried to look through.

Would they even be able to watch this? They'd had to cut back on TV back home, it wasn't like anyone watched anything there anymore. Ma and Pa got all their news from Facebook, nothing worthwhile on TV anymore, Ma would say. It was how they treated every material setback they got. Had to sell the DS? No worries, it'll give you more time to study, we'll use the money to have a nice dinner. Forgot to pay the electricity bill? Had to go without lights for a few days? Think of it like a little camping trip, we'll light the house up with candles, huddle together, tell scary stories. Lost their house? A smaller apartment will be fine, they said, less floor space to vacuum, easier to keep clean. We'll be closer together.

Being like that was a position that felt impossible to arise from, really. It was the way this fucking world worked. One small mistake, one small misstep could set you back hugely, but years and years and years of sweating and crying and bleeding and working your fuckin' ass off only ever sufficed to keep you in place, like the world's worst treadmill.

The only thing harder than being from a poor family was being from a poor family down a member.

Like, he had younger sisters, Salome and Josefa, the most adorable things, and a younger brother, Lucas, a little shit but also in an adorable way. And, they were generally less of a fuck-up than he was at school. Good grades, didn't get into fights, generally let Mama and Papa get a good night's worth of sleep, basically. Had a future, basically.

And, the idea of them growing up into beautiful or handsome teenagers and also having to deal with Karens and their American flag hat-wearing husbands complain about not having enough meat in their tacos and getting a medium drink when they'd ordered a large, and then coming home to the same fuckin' claustrophobic apartment they'd spent the past decade in, the idea of them also having to waste away what should've been the prime time of their fuckin' lives, on top of probably feeling all sad and shit just cause their fucking big brother couldn't get over himself, it fucking killed him.

He wasn't sure he'd have a home to go back to. There was this look Papa gave Matias whenever he came home with a bloody nose or a scraped cheek, this sort of quiet frown that really came through to his eyes, if that made sense. The look would linger for forever, and Matias would give him some attitude just to break the silence, just because getting into shouting matches felt easier.

He didn't want to imagine what look he'd get if he got home now.

But if he didn't go home, then there wouldn't be a home worth being in for his parents, for his siblings.

So it was decided then.

He pushed himself off the ground with a slight groan, knees shaky. Rubbed the back of his aching head. Considered his next move.

Ben couldn't tell him where the other Crabs were, and the producers could suck it really. What was the fuckin' point of having a fuckin' team if you couldn't find your fuckin' teammates?

He only really had an idea where one of them was

He braced his hands against the back of his head, squeezed his eyes shut.

"Fuck me. Fuck me fuck me fuuuuuuck me."

Stomped the ground.

"FUCK."

He really didn't wanna do it.

He saw her face again, right up in his, telling him Leslie didn't matter.

He really, really didn't wanna go back.

But he didn't have anyone else. The size of teams at the start meant this season would become a numbers game sooner or later. He needed someone else.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

After a few seconds, he headed over to his bag. Found, put on a plain orange shirt. And then he picked up the seven paper boats, shoved them into his bag. He didn't even know if Leslie would care for them. but the gesture would be appreciated at least, right? If he had to fuckin' come back, might as well.

((Matias Juarez continues in Loyalty: 2))