Guilty Conscience (feat. Dr. Dre)

#1

He'd left Daniel behind.

He was likely back where the flowers were, way past that Mess Hall he had seen earlier. Back where the third person — Kris — had been. Back where he had been unlike himself; shouting, screaming at the person who killed his beloved. Back where he needed help, back where he'd probably needed the assistance of one of the few people he had left. Would he still be there? Was Daniel still in the field, facing down Kris? Would the encounter have been over, Daniel wondering where his ally had gone? Had the encounter ended poorly, Daniel being just one less person who needed to die for this game to be over? Maxwell didn't know. He knew how easy it'd be to check, he knew how easy it would be for him to just turn around and see if anything had happened to him, but he wouldn't do that. He knew that there was no way he could go back to Daniel now.

Because what could he say?

What was his reason for leaving him for the second time?

Did he even have one?

(selfishness)

(disregard)

(the fact that you can't think of anyone's needs but your own)

Just like last time, then.

Just like the time before that.

(Just like how he'd been for this entire game.)

Because really, as much as the question could only barely stand repeating, what good had he actually done on this island? He'd woken up. He'd said to himself that he would be the one who lived, that he wouldn't be someone who just up and died the way Mr. Dolph had. He'd explored. Found people. Convinced them to stick together. Convinced them to help him. Suddenly convinced them to let him go prance around the island because he felt like it and because he just wanted to if anybody had killed anyone. If there was any way he could turn his back and run away if their group was compromised.

And he'd done it. He'd convinced them. They'd let him go on his merry way and Yasmin had died soon after because of that.

And what was the point of leaving?

What had he done after he had let the group compromise itself?

Nothing good, that was what.

Because the first thing he'd done was attack a girl. Try to kill her because she had hurt him and because she had hurt his friend and the only thing his mind had wanted to do was to make her pay.

And maybe, if there was someone watching this, they would have thought he was justified. Jasmine had attacked Paris. Jasmine had attacked him. Jasmine was dangerous and she had to be taken out before she hurt anyone else.

But that wasn't how it was.

He had attacked her. Beat her. Chased her into the tunnels, only stopping because of an accident, purely because he had wanted to see her pay. Purely because he wanted to hear her scream, watch her squirm, let the flame that was her life be snuffed out by his action alone.

There was no way he could justify it.

There was no way he could call himself anything other than the bad guy.

Because then, in the tunnels, after he had found he couldn't get out, he'd been found by Michael. Felicia. Zubin. Ramona. Yumi. They'd helped him. They'd fixed his arm. They — not Michael, he'd left, he knew better — had flocked around him, gave him the responsibility to lead them to escape.

Had he done anything?

Had he helped them?

No.

He hadn't.

Because when the first plan had failed, when Zubin had been killed, when Saachi had suddenly appeared, threatening to kill them all, had he done anything? Had he helped? No. He hadn't. He'd just abandoned Felicia. Abandoned Yumi. He'd just watched as Ramona fought Saachi, watched as Saachi had ended her life, and congratulated her for the deed. He'd talked, argued, acted as if he was some daring hero to Saachi. Acted as if he was going to be some grand hero. Acted as if he was single-handedly going to be the one who beat this game. Acted as if he had the power to end the game the way he wanted it to end.

...He'd gotten a kick in the stomach for that. Honestly, he could still feel it.

And it had hurt then, of course. All his pride, all his bluster had gone in an instant. He'd fallen to the floor, had been forced to crawl out of the cabin on fear of death.

Poor showing from the one who said that they would beat this game.

He'd found Daniel again, after that. It seemed as if the universe had given him a second chance, there. A way to rectify the wrongs he had committed on the first day. They had joined up again and Maxwell had intended to make everything right. Confess his sins. Talk about what he had done, what he had been planning, and let Daniel be the judge on whether he deserved forgiveness.

Of course, he'd left after that. He'd run after the fourth person — the blue haired girl — all to fulfil his own selfish desires once again.

And really, the question was: had he done anything?

Had he helped anyone?

No.

He hadn't.

…

This place was somewhere he hadn't been before. The scorched ruin, it was apparently called. Initially, he wasn't sure as to why something like that would be here. Given the focus on mining, given the fact that this island's facilities were man-made, why would there just be some remnant of a previous civilization? What life was there here before the miners came?

Given the metal wall, given the… similarity to that mess hall he had walked past previously, he assumed that there wasn't much.

He took his steps to the wall. He let himself lean against it. He let his back slide down, let his body move into a sitting position as he closed his eyes. Breathed out. At the very least relax his physical body as his mind wandered. Moved. Played the last six days in his head over and over, over and over again.

Because there was a promise he had made, back on that first day, back on the cliffs where he had attacked Jasmine. He had talked to Paris before that had happened. He had made a promise. Not one he had been intending on keeping at the time — at least back then he had known what he wanted to be — but one he had made, if only to keep his friend happy. It'd been… tossed aside, then, but it came back when Maxwell was in the tunnels. Because there were people, in this game, who would do anything to win. Because there needed to be someone who would stop those people, stop them from hurting the people who couldn't properly defend themselves. That was supposed to be him. That was supposed to be Paris.

But Paris was gone. Dead.

(and you already know how much good you've done)

He breathed out again, his legs relaxed, and he opened his eyes again. He saw the sling, saw the prison his arm had been in for the past five days. It felt dull. There hadn't been any pain emanating from it for the last two days or so. When he'd moved, when he'd ran, it moved with him, unhurt.

Could he take it out?

Could he at the very least look as if he was useful?

...Well, since it seemed he wasn't going to try and find Daniel soon...

He moved. Brought his right hand up. Tried to move the sling, the part forcing his arm into its position, off his shoulder, tried to let his arm drop. It was hard, trying to grab it; it was hard, trying to push his arm up so there was less tension, but he got it moving. He pulled the top of the sling across his shoulder, got it off, let go and-

"Aah-!"

Felt the pain in his shoulder re-emerge as if he'd just been freshly shot there again. Felt his thoughts disappear as he tried to reach for the sling again, tried to pull it up onto his shoulder once again. Felt frustration when his right arm wouldn't quite reach, the closest part of the sling being a place he could barely even see.

Felt as useless as he'd been these past six days, as he tried to move his left arm again, as he tried to at least address the tip of the iceberg he'd created on this island.

Baxter was dead.

More than him, too. Michael, Yumi had also passed. Three people he'd met on this island, three people he had used to know had now been taken victim, had fallen before Maxwell had. Was that fair? Was that… right? Admittedly, the past six days had told him that it'd be unlikely that the right thing ever happened here, but… he didn't know. They'd…

Honestly, they'd probably done a lot more than he had.

Because those three, they had done something. Yumi would have stayed with Felicia. Yumi would have helped her. Yumi would have been with her in her final moments, helping her, making sure she at least died comfortably. Michael had avenged Yasmin, in his final moments. He had finally taken out one of the people causing death. Baxter had… Maxwell didn't know. Baxter had probably done something since the last time Maxwell had seen him. Baxter had probably done well. Helped people.

Done a lot more than Maxwell had, at the very least.

Because honestly, what had he managed to do since waking up here? Out of all he could say, out of all he had done, was there anything he could be proud of?

No. There wasn't.

He hadn't done anything.

He hadn't helped anyone.

All he'd done was kill Yasmin. All he'd done was attack a girl. All he'd done was allow one of his allies to die purely because he felt like it. All he'd done was abandon his last ally when they had needed him most.

Why was he still here?

Why did he deserve to outlive them?

…

His arm was back in the sling. His back was still against the same metal wall he'd been against yesterday. He'd been sleeping there, before Victor's voice had woken him up. It was true that he could have found someplace indoors, it was true that it was irresponsible for him to let himself lower his guard out in the open, but he honestly didn't even care at this rate. His body was used to the cold. His body was used to sleeping this way.

(and honestly, you don't even care about whether you live or die at this point)

He moved his head up, and the particular regret of that decision decided to make itself evident straight away. The crick in his neck, the stiffness that sleeping upright had caused, went through his body, made a moan scream out. Made him close his eyes again to block out the pain block out the pain block out the-...

It faded. Went away, as quickly and sharply as it emerged. He opened his eyes. Saw his surroundings, barely changed.

Saw the church, in the distance. The place where Lyndi had died. The place where her corpse had laid for the past six days, assuming nobody had done anything to it.

...He wanted to see it.

But he knew he couldn't. The church — The Parish — had been inaccessible for days now. If he tried walking in there, all he would accomplish was his own death. All he would do was make his final action as pointless as all his previous ones had been.

(i mean)

(you may as well, at this point)

(maybe then you'll at least do one of the things you told yourself you'd do)

There was no reason to do it.

No reason to kill himself.

But he stood. Took a few steps forward. Looked towards the Parish.

Stayed there, for a second, mind empty. Body unmoving. All he needed to do was walk forward, walk towards his death like he'd walked away from everyone else. Let himself go there, let himself die and shatter the iceberg of problems he had made. Let all the problems no longer matter. He would… probably be missed, his death would probably be regretted by others because they hadn't known what he had been really thinking, suffering but would it matter, in the end? Would anyone who actually cared about him be alive, by the end of this game? Would his actions have any impact at all once all was said and done?

Honestly, the answer was probably no.

Because he hadn't done anything.

He hadn't helped anyone.

He took a step forward.

Because if he'd done nothing, if he'd only served as one more person for the cameras to watch, then why should his death have any sort of gravitas? Why should he act as if he needed someone else to do him in?

He took another step forward, towards the Parish. His collar was beeping, at this point. If he stayed here long enough, that would be it. His collar, the binding around his neck, would explode, and he would finally be gone. Forgotten. He wouldn't ever have to worry about the future. He wouldn't have to answer any of the questions he had put into his head.

(and you'll die just like Mr. Dolph did)

(and you'll die exactly the way they wanted you to)

(are you okay with that?)

…

No.

No. He wasn't.

He took a step forward. Felt his collar beep again, slightly faster in tempo.

And he stopped. Turned. Walked back. The beeping went away. He didn't know how. He didn't know why, but he was moving again. Away from the Parish. Away from Lyndi.

Away from death.

Why was he doing this?

Why was he allowing himself to live for what he'd done?

...

(its because you're too chickenshit to just fucking kill yourself)

...

(its because you can't think of anything other than your own wants)

…

(its because deep down you still can't let yourself die like that, deep down you care about yourself too much to do the world a favour)

…

He didn't know.

And as he walked — away from the Parish, away from the Ruin — the question implanted itself into the back of his mind, same as all the others.