Little Talks

[Maraoone]

((Johnny Lancer continues from Sinking Man))

He woke up to find that the rain had stopped. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel deserved. Almost felt somewhat insulting, really. It was cloudy, at least. The sun didn't have the audacity to shine just yet.

An hour or so after he woke up, the announcements came on. He wouldn't have thought Wendy capable of poisoning people, really. Then again, he wouldn't have found anyone capable of murder a week before. But things change.

Irene, on the other hand, was less of a surprise. That what-if popped up again. What if he'd stepped between Irene and Roy? Grabbed the harpoon from her? Maybe Rachael could've stayed around a bit longer. Maybe he would have taken a stab in the gut. Died the hero he said he would be.

Maybe.

They said it happened in the tar pits, what Irene and Wendy did. And so he found himself there a few minutes later. He probably should've run in the opposite direction. Or walk, really. They might still be there. What if he found them?

It might be a chance for him to rectify previous mistakes, he thought for a second. Do things. As if he'd done things before, had the will to do anything more. Nevertheless, he considered the possibility. A distant fantasy. As if he had the right to fantasize.

The sulfur drifted into his nostrils long before he saw the tar pits. He wanted to pinch his nose, but it may or may not have been broken by Roy. So, he let the smell enter him.

And then, the pits came into view. The pits, and not a single body. Or person, really.

He sat down, next to a tar pit, on the outskirts of the area, the woods a few hundred feet behind his back.

He wondered if Irene and Wendy were behind the bushes, waiting to ambush. He continued sitting there. Waiting for them. Tempting fate. If they came, then so be it. Let them come. He'd deal with it.

He pulled out a tin of crackers, started chewing on the stale bread. Letting his tongue lick the newly formed gap in his teeth as he jostled the food around his mouth. And once he swallowed, his tongue stayed there, almost trying to fill the space. Truth be told, he hadn't even discovered it until half the day has passed in the tunnels. There were too many other wounds competing for attention.

There was a pair of boots in the distance. Perhaps the last remaining trace of the massacre that had gone down here. He supposed it should have disturbed him, how those boots were the only remnants left of one of his classmates. How the person had probably died struggling for breath, struggling to free themselves from their end. But those thoughts passed through his with the same urgency, the same priority one would give to the color of the sky, or how one of the trees at the far end of the tar pits seemed somewhat lopsided.

He'd spent an entire day with Brigid's corpse. He'd just lost Rachael, Yaz. Many others. And this was a pair of boots, here. Trauma had diminishing returns, he supposed.

He spent the next few hours lying down, waiting for fate to come. Not doing much else. And eventually, trying to go back to sleep. Sleep had been elusive since the fight. He'd probably only slept two or three hours in the tunnels. And since nothing else was happening, since fate didn't seem like it was coming anytime soon, why not sleep?

Eventually, the exhaustion of the past few days caught up to him.

---

Everyday, Badass Johnny faced an almost insurmountable task. Something that filled him with dread just thinking about it. And somehow that gave him a bit of excitement. Because Badass Johnny, he was always up for a challenge. Because he was badass. It was in the name. But, all heroes had their Achilles heel, and Johnny was about to face his.

OK.

Come on.

You can do it.

With a grunt, Badass Johnny opened his eyes, and rose from his bed.

He sat on the edge for a minute or so, blinking. Turning on. Rebooting. Stretched his arms to get that blood flow going, to open up those blood vessels.

And then most of what came after, it was simply routine. Shower. Clean the glass eye. Rub the lotion on the scar tissue to prevent it from flaking. Shave. Put on some clothes, whatever smells, looks halfway decent.

And then, he walks out the bathroom. Passes by his room, and then past the other room. And he rushes downstairs towards the kitchen, eats a bowl of cereal. Blink some more, get the sleep out of his eyes. Make small talk with Mom, with Dad. Words shared. About school, about their jobs, about whatever case they were handling, or whatever news story was on the TV.

After that, he would clamber up the stairs, past the other room, and retrieve his bag. Double-check to make sure he wouldn't forget his calculator, because he had a math exam later, and forgetting would be Bad™.

It honestly would've been more efficient to just leave his bag in the living room, so he could just walk out the door and go to class after eating. It would get him less stink-eyes from the homeroom teacher.

But he left his bag here anyways, because he had a plan. Badass Johnny may be mostly brawn, but he had a few brains in him as well. Or, just one, really. Having multiple brains would be freaky. And probably a really cool sci-fi story. He should write that down somewhere.

But no, there was another task at hand here. The almost insurmountable task.

He put his bag around his back. Sneakers on. Walked out his bedroom. Closed the door.

And then, he stopped in front of the other room. Knocked. Shave and a haircut. Two bits.

No response.

He knocked again, thrice. Harder.

"Brian."

...

"There's this movie that's out already. It Comes At Night. It's a horror film. I know you love those. You wanna come? You know, when I get back?"

...

"Brian? You there?"

...

"Dude. Come on. It's gonna be fun."

...

"Dude."

...

"Please."

...

...

...

Johnny walked away from the room, going down the stairs. Bye mom, bye dad. Said it with an upbeat tone. Didn't look at them, even though he should have. And then he walked out the front door. Came over to the tree in their front yard. And he punched it.

He leaned on the tree, hunched over. Deep inhales, deep exhales.
 
Well, he failed. No dressing that up. Just as he had yesterday. And the day before. But no worries, he thought. Deep breaths. He'd try again. And again. And again. Brian would say something eventually, he though.

He had all the time in the world, he thought.

After all, how the fuck was he supposed to know June 9, 2017 would be anything but ordinary?

---

Johnny blinked his eyes. Stretched his limbs. Above him, a few stars shined through gaps in the cloud, partially obscured by smoke.  

He turned his head, and winced as blades of grass stroked his bandaged cheek. An orange glow emanated from between the trees. He looked at it like a moth would. And then, he turned away, and pushed himself up.

He hadn't had a coherent dream... ever. His dreams were usually wanton combinations of random memories. Gas stations and football fields. Forests and hospitals. Blood and morphine. He supposed it was a sign. A bit too convenient, yeah, but it made sense on some level, unlike a lot of the past week.

He supposed he should talk. It had been almost a week. They deserved words.

The only reason he hadn't thought of his family for so long was because he had been caught up in so many other things. So preoccupied with other things. Like Roy and Dan. And Rachael. And mostly her, actually. He'd forgotten them like the way he'd forgotten her, but worse. More sustained. He probably hadn't thought of them because they weren't actually in any immediate physical danger, but it was no excuse for a week of neglect. A week of mental, emotional danger.

He turned around, muttered a few curses as his broken ribs poked his lungs, and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. When the pain subsided to an acceptable level, he stood up. He turned on his feet, and caught the glint of a nearby camera, at the base of a bush. It had been looking at him the entire time. He walked over, and crouched to get a closer look. He tapped its side, and it looked at him in response. He had its attention.

"I... I suppose I owe you guys this. Mom, dad. Brian."

He opened his mouth to say something.

"...wait."

He thought he would have a lot to say. And he did. A week of unsaid words, thoughts just waiting there. All competing for priority. For attention. Overwhelming. He closed his eyes, let out a slow breath. Tried to gain some focus. He opened his eyes again, and saw the camera waiting expectantly.

"I'm sorry. Sorry for not speaking earlier. Sorry for not even saying a word. I'm sorry for a lot of things. I've been trying so hard to get home, trying so hard to be good. To do good things. To be a badass. I guess I fucked that all up, now."

Tears fell from his eyes. He paid them no mind.

"I should've looked at you guys when I said goodbye. I should've meant it when I said goodbye. I should've stayed around for a bit longer. Let myself be late. I should've done all that. But I didn't, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. And I'm sorry for breaking my promise. For punching a guy- punching my friend. I told myself I would be better than that. I told myself I would be good. And I wasn't. I just- if I ever make it home, please please forgive me. I didn't mean for things to end up like this."

His voice wavered. He clenched his fist.

"And if I don't make it home, then please forgive me as well. Please forgive me for not trying hard enough. For not doing good enough. Pretend that the last time you ever saw me was last week. Not like this. Just delete these clips, to be honest. Please."

It occurred to him that the fight with Roy and Dan had probably done a number on his face. He wondered for a moment how this all looked to his family. And then he didn't want to wonder.

"Just remember that I love you guys. Always remember that no matter what happens. No matter what I do. Please."

He was about to turn away from the camera. And then, he remembered. He looked straight into the lens.

"Also, Brian. Dude. Just. Just say something to me. Please. I forgive you already. Please. I've forgiven you so many times. Even if I don't hear it, just. Please."

He couldn't speak anymore. Couldn't say anything more. Once he finished speaking, he lowered himself slowly to the ground, trying to look away from the camera. Then, he let his body be wracked with sobs. He shook for a few minutes, hugged himself to try and stop the pain. He continued like this for several minutes, waves of emotion coming in ebbs and flows.

When it finally ebbed away for a last time, he laid there, not really thinking anything. Not allowing himself to think anything. He didn't have the energy anymore. He was sapped. He laid next to the bush, waiting for sleep to come and take him once more. But as he continued lying there, a single thought came to mind. Loud, overpowering.

This can't be it.

He got up one last time before going to sleep, and looked at the camera.

"I'll see you again."

One way or another.

((Johnny Lancer continues in There and Back Again))

Note: The thread takes place after Irene and Wendy's departure from Carp Diem, and ends shortly before Soren's arrival in There and Back Again.