Tip On The Tightrope

[Somersault]

F12 - Yvonne Barnett - START

At least she hadn't cried at all since she had gotten on the bus. That was one small consolation Yvonne could take, compared to the thousands of other things that had gone wrong today, but one tiny victory. That was good enough for now.

It wasn't, really, not at all, actually, but for now, she could pretend as if it was good enough. It was something to distract her from how empty the streets looked, which only reminded her that she'd probably never see streets full of people in her life ever again. She didn't even know how many people were here now, how many people had been forced into this thing.

Sweat ran down her forehead, but just as quickly, she wiped it off with the back of one of her hands. The heat was getting to her. She had already taken off her jacket, put it in the bag that kept on bumping against her jeans as she continued to walk, but it still felt so hot. Wherever they were in Mexico, it was a far cry from Denver in December, and that thought threatened to send a new wave of tears down her cheeks.

This time, however, none fell. Her face stayed purposeful and resolute, even if she wasn't exactly sure of whatever higher purpose she was seeking. There was hope, that much was true, but there had to be a sign of some sort, something to help show her the path.

Maybe it was one that she'd have to make for herself, whatever it was. Ever since she had woken up next a storage shed or something, she had been walking, which only had been for a few minutes, although it felt like much longer with the sun beating down on her back. Hopefully her back wouldn't get sunburned or something. Maybe that was a good thing, that she was still thinking about mundane things like the potential effects of all of this sun on her back. Not that she really did get sunburned all that often, but she remembered reading in a magazine once that it could worsen the blackheads or something on your back, and bacne was something she definitely didn't want.

Yvonne blinked as she continued to hold onto her hockey stick, turning her head to look at a small house to her right. Yeah, maybe it was a good thing that she wasn't instantly jumping to murdering everyone who had pissed her off even slightly. Perhaps it showed that she wouldn't lose herself to this game. Perhaps it showed that she was just another sad fat black girl, doomed to get killed by some dumb patriot who thought he was cleansing the country or something. Her face fell at that thought, but her gaze fell on the house she was already looking at.

She walked closer to the house, taking it in more fully this time. For lack of a better word, it seemed sort of...quaint, to be honest. Didn't really know if there was a better word for it, two stories but still seeming sort of tiny. Tilting her head, she tried to look at the house in more detail, before deciding to disregard that thought and open up the creaky garden gate, which made an audible squeal as she struggled to push it open one-handed, refusing to let go of the stick.

Maybe it literally was just a stick used to push a puck around, but it made her feel safe. Like she had a chance out here, even if it seemed seemingly microscopic to the rest of the universe or something. Even a one in a millionth chance could work out right, if the stars aligned just right.

Mmm, the stars. Oh. Oh, that actually may have brought something important. Horoscopes. Namely, the fact that she had forgotten to actually check her horoscope today (Was it still the same day? Did anyone know?). If she had her horoscope, then she could've at least tried to make a plan, an idea, even if it was just to meet up with Nanna-Fiora and Nani and other people who weren't instantly gonna try to murder her.

Anyways, though, there was the plan. The attempt at finding a path, even if she didn't know what it was; but she did know something that'd come in handy no matter what it was.

Kneeling down to the ground in the garden, Yvonne made the sign of the cross, before beginning to pray. She prayed for strength, in whatever form that would come in. To stay morally strong, to defend herself when the time came, the strength to not give up just like that, or something similar to any of those things. The specifics didn't matter at this point, anyways. Just had to be strong. Had to stop herself from thinking those nasty thoughts about the racist assholes and the whores and the - there she went again. Had to control herself. That was what being strong was all about.

[Pippi]

Nanna-Fiora rolled over in bed, shoved her face into the pillow, and groaned.

She knew this wasn’t her bed. And she knew this wasn’t her room and it wasn’t in her house. The sheets and pillow cases were a soft baby blue with a pattern of sea shells along one edge, rather than the dark blue of her own. The light streaming in through the window was far too warm for a December morning in Colorado. She couldn’t hear the soft hum of Vivaldi’s heater, or the sound of her mom cooking breakfast downstairs. This wasn’t her home.

She just wanted to pretend, just for a few more minutes, and imagine the shotgun at the foot of the bed wasn’t there.

Nanna-Fiora sighed, the sound muffled by the fabric of the pillow. It needed a wash. It smelled pretty rank. Still she kept her face shoved into it.

Christ, she really didn’t want to pick up the shotgun. It felt wrong. It felt dirty. It was a weapon the government had given a scared, frantic student in order for her to prove her patriotism. She snorted at the thought. Bullshit. Shooting her friends and classmates? What did that prove? That she could shoot other, scared, frantic students. Half of them were gonna be unarmed, for fuck’s sake. That hardly showed off America’s military might, if that was what this was supposed to be. And if it was a test of patriotism, forget that too. This was murder. Plain and simple.

She wasn’t going to just leave it behind, though. She wasn’t stupid. There were plenty of people out there who were, and who would quite happily take a swing or a shot at the first black girl they ran into if they thought it’d make Uncle Sam proud. She needed some line of defence, and if this was the only thing she had, then she was gonna have to take it. She would never open fire first, though. She wasn’t going to use this the way those fucks in charge of this shitshow of a country wanted her to.

Nanna-Fiora rolled over and let out another sigh that the ceiling caught, before she slipped her legs over the side of the bed and dropped the remaining few inches to the floor. She scooped her bag up, throwing it onto her back, before grabbing the shotgun, holding it in both hands. She turned to look at the mirror set into the front of the wardrobe. To her great pleasure, she looked absolutely ridiculous.

“Terrifying,” she murmured, the same wry smile that had floated onto her face back in the auditorium returning to greet her. The intimidation factor of the Kel-Tec was absolutely lessened by the fact that she was wearing floral-print tights.

Letting out a gentle chuckle, Nanna-Fiora made her way out of the room and down the stairs, taking in the décor of the house as she reached the combined kitchen and dining room. It was a nice place, really. Cute and warm and welcoming, all soft blues and yellows, seashell patterns and sailing boat decorations everywhere. It would be a nice place to live, and forget about everything, if she made it out of here alive.

Her thoughts were interrupted the second she glanced out the window to see a familiar figure kneeling down in the front garden. Her smile grew slightly wider, and after glancing around the rest of the garden to make sure Yvonne was alone, she strode to the front door and flung it open, putting on her best crotchety old man voice.

“And what do you think you’re doing, trespassing on my lawn?”

[Somersault]

Yvonne was still kneeling down on the ground, feeling the grass press against her jeans, when she heard the voice.

It wasn't just any voice, though. She could've picked up that accent from anywhere, even if it sounded a bit more chain smoker-y at this present moment. Or, did it just sound a bit older? In any case, she knew who it was, and didn't have to turn her head to make sure of that. Even by voice, Nanna-Fiora was very easy to pick out of a crowd. Not that it was a bad thing, really, but she knew it definitely didn't make life any easier for the other girl. Despite it all, though, she slowly started to have a small smile appear on her face, although she was still looking at the ground.

Maybe God had indeed provided for her in this time of great need, or maybe she was just being taunted with the fact that one of her closest friends was probably also doomed to die here, all because of what the government said. It was all lies, all of it, but it wasn't as if she could say that all out loud, right? Maybe she was sentenced to near-certain death right now, but she didn't want to make it any more of a distinct possibility. Instead, she hid it all behind a slowly fading smile.

"You know, just giving my thanks to the good Lord and all of that," she stated, almost immediately followed up with a bit of a giggle. Her impending death wasn't meant to be this funny, but with good company and good humor, maybe she could put off thinking about it for just a bit. Just standing here and shooting the breeze would be pleasant, even if it was just for the moment. Presently, though, she wasn't even standing, so that was something that had to be fixed, pronto.

Slowly and perhaps not too gracefully, Yvonne stood up from her kneeling position, and finally faced Nanna-Fiora, who was holding a very, very big gun. Now, she wished she had her hockey stick in her hands, but Nanna-Fiora was a friend, right? She'd just been joking, just had been yelling at her in this old-man voice about what she was doing, so it wasn't as if she would just go on and shoot her. Like, why would that happen? Besides, when it all came down to it, they were two of the only black girls who went to NSA, anyways, so they had that solidarity. And, Nanna-Fiora was a friend. A damn good one, who stood up for her when it seemed that even prayer couldn't get her through.

Maybe the same could happen now.

Smiling at Nanna-Fiora, she decided to leave the hockey stick on the ground, as a peace offering of sorts or something. Showed that she wasn't in the mood for any kind of shenanigans, but that she had something to defend herself with. But, maybe she wouldn't have to use it anytime soon. That was the hope that she was riding on now.

Hopefully it would tide her over for the next few hours, but a nervous hand still began to fiddle with the cross around her neck. The cool metal was a comfort for her, allowing Yvonne to focus her mind on the conversation. Best to keep it light, keep up the banter that she had responded to so easily just a few moments before.

Her hand gripped the cross even tighter, as her other hand continued to hold onto the strap of the bag. "Well, seems like your house's been doing alright. Any big news 'round the neighborhood?" She still continued to smile, even as the chasm at the bottom of stomach felt like it was getting wider and wider.

[Pippi]

“Oh, y’know, just a buncha kids running around with guns and knives and stuff. The usual.”

The smile remained on Nanna-Fiora’s face as she watched her friend stand up to face her. It was almost as if they’d just bumped into each other at school, or whilst going out for a walk. Almost. The setting, obviously, was all wrong, an unfamiliar world, so different to the state she’d never left in her lifetime. There should never have been a gun in her hands, or the olive-green bags on their backs. The little subtle movements, the gestures, the looks, the hand tightly clenching the cross; all wrong.

But it was the closest thing she was ever going to get to a normal meeting with her best friend ever again, and Nanna-Fiora’s smile was warmer and more genuine than it had been for a long time.

She stepped out of the doorway to the house, blinking and squinting in the sunlight. She could see Yvonne’s weapon, something that looked like nothing more than a length of wood, nestled in the grass by her feet. For a moment, she considered resting her shotgun against the front wall of the house. Her smile faltered momentarily. She kept the shotgun in her hands, relaxed, angled slightly towards the ground, but still firmly in her grasp.

She wasn’t worried about Yvonne. She wasn’t a threat. She was never a threat. And that was why she kept hold of the shotgun. It was never about. It was for.

“The neighbourhood’s really gone downhill recently, wouldn’t you agree?”

Nanna-Fiora walked closer to her friend, the gravel crunching of the front path beneath her feet becoming muffled and swishy as she moved to the grass. She could see Yvonne’s weapon clearly now; a hockey stick. Really. They were sending people with hockey sticks to fight flighty, impulsive kids with guns. What did that prove? What did any of this fucking prove?

She looked at Yvonne for a moment.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said, voice soft and gentle.

[Somersault]

"So do I." With that, Yvonne finally felt her muscles relax just a tiny bit, the tension snapping like a rubber band. Her voice didn't have the same nervousness to it that it had initially, replaced by something calmer, if only by a little. The hand around the cross loosened, and it felt as if the chasm in her stomach had closed, at least for now. Her smile, too, was different. Not exactly, relaxed, but calmer. Realer. Better. "Like, glad that you're okay too.

If it had been pretty much anyone else she had seen here, she probably would've picked up the hockey stick, and like hell. But, it was Nanna-Fiora. She was chill, she was cool, she sort-of disagreed with Yvonne's musings on the usefulness of astrology. Most of all, though, she was a good person. She managed to stay cool and composed, even when the most racist of bullies threw words at her, she still remained standing.

She wished she could have that strength, that ability to pretend insults were like rubber, bouncing off her without a care in the world. Even now, it seemed as if she was still taking things well. Like she was still doing just fine, rather than the impact of this being like a cannonball to her own little world.

Yvonne continued to smile at Nanna-Fiora for a bit, before looking around the rest of the neighborhood. Mostly, the houses looked somewhat similar to one another; cute, quaint, perhaps even a bit suffocating in their scale. At least she was here with a friend, though. Maybe if they could meet up with a few more of the group, they could build something, protect themselves, pretend that things weren't like this.

She motioned to the houses around them. "I'd have to say yes to that earlier question, though. It's definitely seen better days."

Murder always did put a damper on property values, after all.

There was hope to be found in this situation, though. Right? At least, it was what she had told herself earlier. The future definitely seemed a bit brighter, so that had to count for something.

"Maybe we could do one of those Extreme Home Makeover things? Touch up a few fixer-uppers or something."

[Pippi]

She would have hugged Yvonne, if she’d been the hugging type. That was what you were supposed to do, in films and stuff, when you ran into a friend you thought might be lost, in a situation fraught with peril, right? Embrace them in your arms, hold them tight and promise not to let them go, tears rolling down your cheek, all that jazz and schmaltz.

All Nanna-Fiora did was keep her shotgun pointed down at the ground and keep the warmth in her smile and her eyes and her voice. That was it, and that was all she was going to do, and that was all that Yvonne would be expecting of her.

A façade of normalcy. That was all she needed right now. And, fuck, it didn’t even matter if she, or Yvonne, or everyone on the island knew it was a façade. There were guns all over the place and an oppressive government watching their every move. The every day worry that someone would try and make her life a living hell just because she was black had been intensified tenfold, because they wouldn’t use words or taunts, they’d use bullets and fists. There were almost certainly kids, the weak-willed and weak-hearted and the plain unlucky, who had already been killed. Only an idiot would act like this situation was any worse than it actually was, and when Nanna-Fiora ran into strife, because she was going to at some point, she would deal with it head-on without sticking her head into the dirt.

But this wasn’t pretending. This was capturing a little bit of that warmth, and a little bit of normality, just to make sure they didn’t go insane. And normalcy wasn’t hugging and crying for Nanna-Fiora. It was being stoic and quiet and steadfast. It was being a rock.

Maybe a rock with a few more smiles.

She chuckled softly, another thing rocks weren’t known to do but that she was sure was appreciated. She looked around at the houses Yvonne was gesturing to, making sure the shotgun was aiming away from her at all times.

“Heh. Maybe. It’s not as though we’ve got anything else we can really do out here. I’ll just do the heavy lifting, though, you’ve always had a better eye for detail than me.”

She wondered how good of a fortress you could make out of a seaside cottage.

[Somersault]

Life would never go on as usual, Denver wasn't just waiting for them, waiting to welcome them home like a port for lost sailors, but it was nice to believe, just for a bit, that there was a chance. A chance to not kill or be killed, a chance to just lay down and relax, speak to her loved ones before it was her time to go.

Just a little bit of normal, just a little bit of false hope. Just enough to help her keep going, and just enough to help her keep all her marbles in her brain out here. For now, she didn't have to think about how probably at least a tenth of the people here didn't like her because of her race, how another bit found her annoying, and how a frighteningly large portion were ready to throw away everything in order to live. She looked back down at her cross, how it shined as the sun shone down on it. Hopefully, she had Jesus on her side here. He was probably an important ally to have.

But, he wasn't the only ally, or only friend out here. One of them was standing in front of her, holding onto a shotgun, but happy. Able to calm down and just find a shelter in the storm that was their rapidly approaching deaths, and find some sort of odd comfort in that. Nanna-Fiora was still staying strong, and Yvonne was still trading comments back and forth with her, like they were just spending a lazy Saturday at the cafe, giggling at horoscopes and complaining about school.

Sadly, she didn't know whether giving people the benefit of the doubt here was going to help her survival chances any.

Yvonne covered her mouth with her face, trying to suppress the giggle that came out after Nanna-Fiora's comment. Clean House: Death Island Edition did seem awfully tempting at this point, and maybe there was some sort of greater meaning to be gleaned from this. Additional insight to be found.

"Aw, you're just saying that to make me feel better about myself," she said, with an eye roll added in for good measure. Maybe, there was nothing really to do here, but maybe giving a house a makeover in normal world terms meant making it intruder-proof in Program-terms or something. Like a euphemism, because she did indeed pay attention during English class, even if her favorite books probably did not fall anywhere close to high-brow literature. Couldn't fault her for liking trashy novels, right? "but maybe we could go start with the house right behind you? Or not, really. Up to you."

A finger was hesitantly pointed at the cottage that Nanna-Fiora exited right out of, while Yvonne's eyebrows were scrunched in concentration. A better house choice could probably have been made, but she would go down with her poorly constructed ship. Even if it was a really dumb choice.

[Pippi]

Nanna-Fiora wondered if Yvonne was seriously considering this home makeover thing. Probably not. She believed in astrology and horoscopes, yes, but she was a smart girl nonetheless. No doubt this was also a coping strategy, just like her own. And Nanna-Fiora was more than happy to go along with it; she’d started the whole thing off, after all.

However. And this was a big however, considering Nanna-Fiora didn’t want to tank the mood so soon. She didn’t want them to… go too far with it. They needed to understand exactly how much danger they were both in. She knew it. She was sure Yvonne knew it too. But they had to have it out in the open. They needed to be ready to drop this façade at a moment’s notice. Otherwise, the more and more lax they got, the worse they’d come off when someone tried to attack them.

This was the correct course of action, right? It felt correct. It would be better for them in the long run, she felt certain.

But she didn’t want to spend the rest of her short life in fear, checking around for people watching her every fifteen minutes and at every sudden sound.

But she didn’t want to be unprepared when some racist asshole with a loaded rifle barged into their stronghold.

But…

“Yeah, sounds good to me,” Nanna-Fiora said, nodding, trying to keep her emotions off her face. It wasn’t hard. She’d practiced doing so a lot. “It’s pretty cosy in there. Doorways are a little small, so don’t hit your head, alright?”

She turned back to face the house she’d just come out of. Then she paused, and looked over her shoulder at Yvonne.

“Probably best to head inside anyway, you know.”

Her head drooped a little.

“Just in case.”

Her mouth became a hard, straight line.

“You know the kinds of people who are out there.”

Nanna-Fiora strode into the house, ducking into the combined kitchen-dining room. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Her shoulders sagged.

God, this was tough.

[Somersault]

Well, the mood lightened a bit, before getting as heavy as a lead balloon and plummeting all the way back down. Yvonne thought it would have been nice to just stay for a bit, be a bastion in the wild shores of this situation, but that seemed more of an impossibility with every moment that passed. Wishing for safety wasn’t enough though, sometimes, prayer wasn’t either, but she hoped it would be enough here. If not for her salvation, then for her redemption, or something.

Something to believe in. That was the key. Lift her up when things were down, a belief that there was a better place just waiting for her, all of it.

“Yeah, ‘course I’ll be careful,” Yvonne said, trying to mask any traces of disappointment. She supposed that putting everything out in the open would make it easier on them when somebody did find a way into their safe haven or something, but that didn’t make it an especially comforting thought to have. Of course she’d have to face it, everyone had to, but it still felt uncomfortable.

But, the hockey stick on the grass reminded her of what the stakes were, and Nanna-Fiora’s footsteps meant that she sort of had to go right now, and so she picked up the stick, and followed her inside. Once there, she closed the door, taking one hand off her so-called weapon to reach the knob.

The hockey stick was definitely wooden, no doubt about that, but it kind of felt that the longer Yvonne held it the cooler it became. That didn’t make any sense to her, or at least what she had learned in Science, but maybe it was just her mind trying to make something out of all of this. Maybe it was an omen, or maybe she was just going crazy.

Now wasn’t the time to keep on having those thoughts, however. There was a house to makeover, conservations to be had, and many things to do. All the things, the better to stop thinking about how likely it was that some jerk was going to show up and bust a cap in both of their faces.

That’s why they were gonna fix this place up though, right? To make sure nothing like that happened, and if it did, they’d be ready. Just had to.

“Let’s start by barricading the door?” Yvonne asked, pointing at the now-closed entrance. If they covered it with like planks or something, then people couldn’t break in, but if they blocked off the door, then they’d have to get out the windows, and that’d mean they’d injure themselves, but that was probably better than just dying here.

Putting the stick and her bag down on a kitchen counter, she pulled out a chai from the table, trying to figure out how best to break it down or something.

At least that was a problem that seemed easier to solve.

[Pippi]

“Yeah, sounds good to me. Means we can keep this place mostly intact and, y’know. Comfortable. Or something.”

Nanna-Fiora trailed off and stood back for a moment, bag bumping into one of the cabinets, watching Yvonne take a chair from the table. Her smile had all but vanished by now, and she mentally cursed herself a thousand times over. Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit fuck. That hadn’t been a good idea at all, had it? She shouldn’t have underestimated her friend, her best friend. She wasn’t going to just let all the racist pricks out there just waltz in here and blow her head to smithereens, just because she was pretending they were renovating the house, was she? Course she wasn’t.

A disgruntled little noise left Nanna-Fiora’s mouth. Then a sigh. Then she stepped forwards to place her shotgun on the table, and grabbed a chair, just like Yvonne had.

Oh fucking well. They had gone down this path now. No point beating herself up about it. Wasn’t as though there was some sort of guideline for dealing with the shit thrown at you in the program. There wasn’t anything. The most ‘American’ kid at school, the biggest racist with the biggest ego in other words, could be taken down in the first five minutes because they tripped and broke their neck.

This whole thing could be decided by blind luck, and the government was parading it around like it was the pride of America.

Nanna-Fiora looked down at the chair with glazed eyes. It was a little wobbly, one leg slightly shorter than the other three. There were marks and dinks all over it, and a couple scratches that looked like some kid had tried to carve their name into it. There’d been people who’d lived in this house, once. A family, just trying to live a peaceful life, trying to support one another. They’d sat at this table, and they’d ate and they’d laughed and they’d done all the stuff families did together. And then the government had rolled along and carted them out of their houses for god knows how long, maybe forever, just so they could stain their walls with the blood of kids, fucking kids in the name of patriotism.

She couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t let this bubble inside of her. This wasn’t like back at school, where she’d have insults thrown at her that’d bounce off like rain on a windshield. This was suffocating her. She couldn’t let herself drown.

“Why are we doing this?” Nanna-Fiora muttered, eyes still fixed on the chair. “Not the building barricades stuff, I know why we’re doing that, but why is that our only goddamn option right now?”

Finally, she looked up, locking eyes with Yvonne. Her gaze was hard. Her mouth was a thin, straight line. Her brows were furrowed. This was the rock that most people knew Nanna-Fiora as.

“Look at us! We’re building barricades out of chairs and tables! We’ve never been taught that! No matter how hard we try, they’re not going to be good barricades! How can this prove anything when we’re all just running around, scared, and confused, and trying to do what we think is right? How does this help America? How does this help our country?”

Nanna-Fiora could feel the heat rising in her cheeks as her grip tightened on the chair’s back.

“We all could have been something! Every last one of us! And yet they kill us all off, just to get one person, one scared and broken person who happened to be a little smarter or a little stronger or a little luckier than the rest of us? Why? Don’t they see how stupid that is?”

She raised the chair above her head, and smashed it down onto the hard stone floor.

“It doesn’t-“

And again.

“-make-“

And again.

“-sense!”

And again and again and again as she yelled as the chair splintered and cracked and broke, wood and dust dropping off of it each time she raised it, until she was finally left with nothing but two thin, shattered pieces of wood. She stood there, panting for a moment, before she threw those, too, into the pile.

“They’ve sent us to die, and nobody’s given me a good reason why.”

[Somersault]

Yvonne had still been solemnly looking at the chair, moping about how they were going to get about cleaning all of this up, when Nanna-Fiora started screaming. When Nanna-Fiora started saying everything that Yvonne knew in her heart of hearts was absolutely true, spitting out words of truth, maybe not wisdom, but something that was definitely, inexorably right. Nothing about this was fair, there was no real reason for this, but that was precisely why they had to keep on going. She didn't know why, and maybe she never would, but the cross hanging around her neck gave her something. Something to grip on to in times like these.

With a crack, the chair she was holding dropped to the floor. Her gaze was held directly on Nanna-Fiora now, the glare she had so often desperately wanted to use but never could, now on full display. She was almost visibly shaking now, not from fear but the barely contained fury within. Not really at her friend, no, but she needed someone to scream at. It was her time to have her outburst, it was her time to finally say what was on her mind, even as her face ran hot and droplets of sweat began to form.

"Maybe that's because there isn't, okay!?" Yvonne shouted, left hand once again grasping the now-familiar cross. There had to be something somewhere that he was telling her, but it couldn't be in the form of this. Not in this death game in which she was almost assured to lose.

Her face fell just a bit, but the look on it was still as intense, a fire lit from the flames of righteous fury. All of it, out. Out, out, out. A river of repressed emotion, out, the gate broken. The dam overflowing. Everything.

"Don't you know how much I've been praying, I've been looking at the stars, trying to see if maybe there was something here? If there was something more than death and all of this shit? Horoscopes, Jesus, all of it. Know what they've told me? Nothing, and sure, maybe I'm an idiot or whatever, but having something, someone up there watching out for me? I want that. Want that so much."

Yes, this was fucking bullshit, all of it, and oh gosh the language she was using was quite vulgar, but there was no other way of expressing it, you know? There was emphasis on those words now, and all of it was wrong like the world was turned upside-down on it's head, but maybe there was no other way to be at this moment. Desperate, searching, even if that meant fighting with one of your closest friends.

Not that her friend would hurt her, no, those were not thoughts she needed to be having, but in situations like these good people did some awful things, didn't they? Couldn't it be different this one time around, a one in a million chance in the cosmos? That change and good fortune would rain down like the promised providence of the oppressed, the good Lord leading everyone out of the depths of their despair? Just one tiny change, and then the whole house of cards would fall down, exposing everything for what it truly was?

There was still anger, yeah, but now there was also sadness, and an increasing urge to just be right for once in her life. Yvonne had to finally predict something correctly, right? In all of her horoscopes, all of the crappily made ones that were pretty much just nagging, one had to have a kernel of truth hidden in there somewhere. Just a tiny bit, not a fraction more.

"Don't you want that too?"

Nanna-Fiora had to, right?

There was no other option. No other choice.

Hand on her cross, head in her heart, she hoped.

Her gut told her no, of course, just as it had done so too many times to count before, but Yvonne was done with that. Her heart had to be right,  just this once. Once in her life. Had to.

Oh God, it needed to be.

[Pippi]

She blinked. She studied Yvonne’s face for a moment, and couldn’t get a good read on it. Normally, that was a sign to stay silent.

“Yeah,” Nanna-Fiora said, quiet as the grave. “Yeah, I want that. I really, really want that to be the case.”

She wandered over to the table, to the space where the chair that was now woodchips once stood, and gripped the edge of it, staring out of the window into the front garden. Her hands were already clenched tightly around the wood, the surface digging into her flesh.

“But when I look down at the knife sticking out of my chest, or at you bleeding out into the ground, I’m not gonna be thinking ‘At least there’s a reason this is all happening’! I’m gonna be crying and pleading and begging for my life, begging for one last chance, because it’s not my time to go, no fucking way!”

She was yelling, voice cracking, table creaking as she pressed down into it, because this wasn’t some random racist asshole at lunch break she was arguing with, this was her best friend, her best friend who she thought would agree on every point down to the wire but who seemed to have completely and utterly misread the situation they were in.

“But I don’t get a choice in the matter! And I don’t know what I’d hate more! The fact that I’m dying for no goddamn reason? Or that there is a reason for all this to happen, and someone is watching over me, and their plan involves me getting my fucking throat slit!”

She shoved the table, and it slid a couple of inches away from her, making a horrible scraping sound as it did. She put her hand to her brow. She could feel a headache coming on. She forced herself to breath normally, to stop herself from shaking so much.

“I’m going to die, Yvonne. I’m going to die out here, and I don’t want my death to be meaningless. I wanna die for something, I want there to be a cause to die for! Not because some asshole with a buzz cut managed to fulfil his dream of killing all the black kids.”

She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. She replayed the words that she’d just said in her mind, and the sudden sinking of the lead weight that was her heart plummeted to the soles of her feet.

Nanna-Fiora looked at Yvonne to see just how much she’d hurt her friend.

[Somersault]

Her eyes were wide, face unmoving. Until she blinked, until all she did was blinking, like a robot gone haywire, like her brain was telling her all of this was so wrong but she could do nothing other than stand there, blinking. Useless. Just taking it as her friend started screaming about how none of it was worth it, how none of them had a choice in what they were going to do here, and Yvonne could have sworn that she heard something crack deep within.

She had to look away from Nanna-Fiora. It was impossible for her to keep staring without suddenly bursting into tears now, and she wasn't gonna cry right in front of her, not when she had wanted to be right, wanted to be the one standing victorious, and no, none of it was holy, but that didn't make bits and pieces of it any less satisfying.

"I know, girl, I know. I want to know that when I die, there's gonna be a better place for me, somewhere where we're not gonna be teased because of what we look like, or because of how we talk or something."

Trembling, one of her hands reached for the hockey stick, and the other for the bag, finally releasing her death grip on the cross necklace. The pain of having gripped it so tightly was like a dull ache in her hand, but she tried to pay any particular attention to it, instead focusing on grabbing her things, and leaving.

Leaving. Leaving leaving leaving. Leaving behind one of her friends here because they were fighting, because Yvonne didn't want to think about the fact that maybe it wouldn't turn out alright, that there was only a black void in the place that was meant to be the heart of the universe. It hurt, it hurt so much, but she still had to believe in something out there, because accepting the other thing as truth? Still didn't feel right, no matter how tempting it was.

"I just..." She paused, unable to fully articulate the words that were soon going to be falling out of her mouth. The door out of the house was just there, and by saying she was going to go, saying she needed to not be here, she would be turning her back on all of it. Turning her back on Nanna-Fiora and all, unable to face the facts, seal the real deal. She had to, though, because she honestly didn't know what was going to happen if there was another argument here, or if maybe Nanna-Fiora got a bit trigger happy, and in this situation she didn't think they could patch everything back up again. "I just have to go, okay?"

Her entire body felt like it was burdened with a hundred more pounds, as she hoisted her duffel over her shoulder, and clutched her weapon in her hands. There was no looking back, now. None of that at all.

When she opened the door, the sun, which had seemed so bright and cheerful once, seemed to be trying to melt her down into a puddle, left only with her regrets and doubt. It hurt, being outside, but it was only when she had exited the house that she began to let the tears and snot roll down her face like a river, because there was no keeping it inside anymore.

It was probably the right decision, but that didn't make her feel any less awful about it.

"It was nice knowing you, Nanna-Fiora."

The words came out as a whisper, unheard to anyone but herself. Honestly, she didn't know why she had spoken those thoughts into audible existence. Maybe she was just trying to keep a part of herself here, just so she didn't feel like she was losing herself.

It didn't really change anything, though. Her feet were still on the ground, she was still walking, and she continued doing so, as long as it was away. Away from her friend, away from the death, away from the words trying to force themselves out of her mouth. There had to be a glimmer of something other than doom here, she knew that, but finding her friend here only made her feel worse.

It was going to be a long walk.

((Yvonne Barnett continued elsewhere))

[Pippi]

“Wait…”

Her heart was plummeting, in freefall, dropping at a frankly terrifying pace, the full repercussions of what she’d said instantly becoming clear. She’d seen the look on Yvonne’s face, the way she’d been trembling, obviously holding back tears, before she’d looked away from her. The hand that had been gripping hold of the rosary like her life depended on it, so hard it looked like it would shatter, had finally moved away from her neck, moving instead to her scant belongings. Nanna-Fiora tried to speak again, but her throat had suddenly dried up, and the words had evaporated from her mouth.

The door had opened, and Yvonne had become enveloped in sunlight before Nanna-Fiora could regain her ability to speak.

“Wait, Yvonne, just wait a second, please, I’m sorry…”

It was way too late for that. Too late to ask for forgiveness when your victim was already halfway out the door. Nanna-Fiora stepped forwards, as if that was going to stop Yvonne. All it did was give Nanna-Fiora the chance to see the girl walking away from the house, not looking back once.

She stood in the doorway until Yvonne was truly gone, and then she was all alone, left in a house with nothing but a broken chair and a shotgun and her own goddamn thoughts for company. She could feel the heat rising in her face, as her thoughts went into turmoil, anger and frustration sending them tumbling over each other. She grabbed hold of the front door, slamming it shut, rattling the walls and knocking an acrylic painting of a boat in a harbour crashing to the floor, before turning and striding back over to the table, shards of glass crunching beneath her shoes.

She grabbed hold of the back of the chair, ready to break it into splinters, just like its counterpart. She paused for just a second. Long enough for her brain to yell at her to slow down. Calm things down. Breath.

So Nanna-Fiora did just that, and breathed in and out, and felt anguished tears splatter on the seat of the chair. God. Goddamnit. Why couldn’t she have managed to restrain herself like this a few minutes ago? She knew Yvonne better than anyone. The girl was religious. She was superstitious. Nanna-Fiora cared about her enough to never suggest the two were connected, so why hadn’t she figured that saying shit like she had would hurt her?

She could make as many excuses as she liked. She could tell herself that being put in this position, thrust into the Program, had put her brain off-kilter, that she hadn’t been thinking straight, that she was stressed and scared and she hadn’t meant what she had said. No excuse changed the fact that she had pushed away her best friend and one of the few people she could guarantee would be an ally out here. As if this wasn’t gonna be hard enough already.

Slowly, she released her grip on the chair, and wandered into the living room, flopping down onto the faux-leather sofa, looking up at the sofa and thinking of nothing at all. She tried to will her brain to work, to try and think about what she was going to do next and how she was going to survive this ordeal, but nothing came to her.

So she sat. And she stared.

And eventually, she grew sick of this place. Sick of the blank ceiling, sick of how dead it felt with no family living in it, sick of the air that hung in the room, filled with bad memories and regrets.

Nanna-Fiora stood up, silently sweeping up her bag and her shotgun. So much for their barricade. So much for staying safe and sound in their own little house whilst the racists and murderers raged outside. In one fell swoop she had ruined all of that. She made a disgusted noise, and walked out of the house.

The sun was lower in the sky now, but it was still warmer than it had been inside. She cradled the shotgun, finger resting against the trigger, ready to curl around it at a moment’s notice. So here she was. One black girl against an entire government that couldn’t care less if she died. She wasn’t ready for this. Then again, she didn’t think that she would have been ready after days of planning and with Yvonne by her side. She just had to survive, even if it was on her hands and knees and in the gutter, even if it was through a mouthful of blood and a stomachful of lead. She just had to fight until the last breath.

“If there is someone watching over us, now’d be a real nice time for you to show your face,” Nanna-Fiora muttered.

She left cold safety behind, and strolled forwards into the warmth of the unknown.

((Nanna-Fiora Kroos continued in RED or DEAD))