A Detour from God

[General Goose]

((Chuck Soileaux contonued from We're Mostly Made of Water.))

They had headed to the parish, but Chuck had left the group for a moment. Not in an adrenaline-fuelled rush, as Adonis had done. Nope. It was a regulated, announced, temporary departure, to fill the time in between breaks, a detour from their journey, Chuck slipping away into the woods to...

Well. To have a shit. Chuck had used a euphemism, but he couldn't quite recall which one.

He had walked a distance away. Further than intended. But, well, now was as good a time as any to scout. To venture outside the perverse comfort zone of sorts that Chuck had, accidentally, adapted into a new routine. Chuck had made sure to mark his progress, carving little notches in the trees, as a trail to guide him back. He would not be like Adonis. How the others hoped to reunite with Adonis, Chuck did not know. 'Hope' seemed to be the implied strategy.

Chuck had spotted a rather depressing sight in the distance. The scorched ruins, he guessed from its appearance. A burnt out husk. Louise would have loved that. His sister had a macabre fascination with abandoned buildings - how the facades crumbled, how nature and neglect asserted their holds in unpredictable ways. Chuck vaguely understood it. But now wasn't the time to get all nostalgic about the life back home.

During the trip over, Chuck had asked Michael about the kills to his name. Chuck, for all the efforts of Saachi to beat any charitable instincts out of him, still was a naturally trustworthy and forgiving sort. Well, perhaps those were inaccurate terms. Outdated, certainly. He was...willing to give the benefit of the doubt. Willing not to descend into judgements and prejudices. Willing to view the circumstances of the situation, the actions of others, sheer bad luck, as the true determinant of many an action here.

Chuck knew that not every killer on the list would be as reprehensible as Saachi. And Michael had explained. Blaine had...deserved it, by Michael's retelling. Chuck did not know Blaine well enough to speculate on the veracity of that claim. It wasn't like with Saachi. The bitch in debates? Yup, Chuck could totally believe she was secretly some festering pustule of Randian bullshit. And Simon...

Well, again, Chuck had pretty serious misgivings about mercy killing. Part fear, part ethical quandary. But Simon had asked for it? And clearly Michael wasn't a mercy-killing addict. Kyran's continued existence spoke to that. Perhaps Chuck had judged Sophie too harshly...

Nope. It was Lance, rest his soul, who had done that. His own judging had been internal. Induced by blood loss and panic.

Chuck was predisposed to believe Michael. He had not adopted Saachi's worldview of caricatured nihilism, had not eschewed basic human politeness. Plus his treatment of Kyran...that was endearing. Someone with Saachi's callousness would not have...indulged in such feeble and suboptimal strategies, as she probably would have put it. Damn it. Saachi was exactly the sort of student that proved Danya's point. That made his whole exercise work. That justified this twisted social experiment.

Chuck liked to pretend it was bigger picture concerns such as that that motivated his unerring disdain for Saachi, rather than just pure personal vitriol.

Yeah. The worst that Michael could be? Antivillain.

He still wasn't clicking with Natali, but whatever. She was perfectly cromulent as far as travelling companions go. She wasn't a threat, or a free rider, or anything like that. And so Chuck could look past the obvious lack of personal chemistry there.

Kyran had been...doing better. Improving. He was semi-lucid. Emphasis on the 'semi' (heh). He had not registered that his group had changed. Kyran liked to sleep. Chuck, for a split second, envied him. He wished he could get some shut-eye in this inhospitable environment. And then he remembered that being envious of someone fainting in and out of consciousness was a stupid position to take, even when not on an island of death.

But what he could get, in the small enclosure of trees he found a modest distance from the ruin, was some privacy to take a dump. And he sang. To no tune in particular. Mainly to keep himself awake, so he didn't fall asleep and get killed in the ignoble position of squatting on the ground as he emptied his bowels. The lyrics were...crude. Apropos, though. Candid and plain-spoken, from the heart, a no-thrills no-nonsense ode to life on the island. "Oh, I’m having a shit, and I’m wiping my ass, and I’m using leaves, because there’s no toilet paper, but it ain’t too bad, because I’m not eating much, but if you are gonna abduct kids, give them toilet paper, you dicks.”

Maybe there was toilet paper in the bag. Chuck should have double-checked before squatting.

He bundled the leaves up in a ball, very careful not to get shit fingers, with at least five layers of foliage between his fingertips and anything icky. And then he threw the ball of shit-leaves at the nearest camera.

((Chuck Soileaux continued in The Whole Enchilada.))