The Way I Am

#1

Hmph.

It seemed as if a fight had erupted since the last time he was here.

He could see the bodies on the ground. Among the flowers, barely even visible underneath. It'd been a day since Maxwell had last been here, it'd been a day since he had left Daniel on his own, but it seemed as if this place had not lain vacant during that time. It seemed — given the corpses of Irene and Jonathan — that this game was coming to a close. That in a few hours, he would have the chance to do all the things he declared to himself he'd do when he'd woken up on that cabin bed, those seven days ago.

Survive.

Take his position at the top.

Be so unlike Mr. Dolph. Be so unlike all those who had died the previous game. Be so unlike all those who had died the previous seven days.

He'd said he could do that.

He'd said he could beat them.

But the message had changed. It wasn't about winning, anymore. It hadn't been ever since he had talked to Paris, ever since he had chased Jasmine into the tunnels, intent on killing her. Even if he had been confused about the message since then, even if it still felt blurry now, he at the very least knew that it had changed. That it shouldn't have ever been about being the person the terrorists wanted. Never being what someone else had wanted him to be.

He'd said to Paris, back then, that there were people who would play this game, that there were people who would do absolutely anything to win. He'd made a promise, in response to that. No matter what happened to him, no matter who it was, he would make sure those people didn't win. He would make absolute sure that they weren't rewarded for what they did.

It'd been for Paris.

It'd been for Lyndi.

It'd been for everyone else he had failed over the course of these last seven days.

But even that message had waned, reading it over and over again. Even he couldn't convince himself that he'd done what they had set him out to do. Maybe he had somehow convinced others he was a hero, maybe they were able to see him that way, but nothing he had done backed up those claims. When his group was in danger, when he'd had to step up and defend them, all he'd done was stand and watch as Ramona took a cleaver to her head. When it came time to take down one of the people Paris had talked about, when it came time to fight someone to the death, he had let Chuck do all the work while he reaped all the spoils.

He wasn't a hero.

He hadn't done anything Paris had wanted him to do.

(you finally get it)

(you're finally just accepting what you are)

There was another message, as well. One he'd given to himself. One telling him to beat the game, make it end the way he wanted it to.

…

That was all the mention it needed, really. He had a plan, yes, but in all odds Chuck would be the one who would enact it. In all odds Chuck would be the one who beat the game. In all odds Chuck would be the one who made it end the way he wanted it to.

And what would that make Maxwell?

Where would he end up?

Here, probably. Among the dead. Killed by a leg wound that was probably infected at this point. Killed by a wound given to him in a fight he'd done nothing in.

It was an almost fitting fate, in a way.

One he deserved.

But it hadn't taken him yet. It seemed as if he could still walk. Still traverse this island.

Still pretend as if he could do something.

He took his steps. Across the field, intent on leaving. Given that there was nobody here, given that waiting on someone could just result in him sitting idle for an indeterminate amount of time with no guarantee of payoff, he saw no point in staying. If he was going to pretend he could do something, if he was going to pretend he could still turn things around, he might as well do it in a place that wasn't here. Might as well do it in the place where he hadn't abandoned-

His foot stopped. Hit something. He let his body stall, let the trident hit the ground as he looked down, tried to see whose corpse he had not notic-

Daniel.

He was there. Arm reached out towards one of the others.

And there was something he could say about that. Something he could note to himself, where nobody could hear. He could say that the position he found him in was ironic, given that it was the same as when they'd first met on this island. He could say his regrets, bemoan the fact that Daniel was dead. Bemoan the fact that they had never met one last time. Bemoan the fact that he had never been able to confess his sins to Daniel, that Daniel had never been able to know the selfishness behind all his actions. He could say that it was a relief, that it was at the very least okay that Maxwell had not had to meet him one last time. That Maxwell at the very least didn't have to watch him die.

He could do any of those things.

But honestly, there wasn't really a point anymore.

Daniel was gone.

Just like Paris. Just like Lyndi. Just like Zubin. Just like Jason. Just like Felicia.

Just like everyone else he'd failed.

And really, all Maxwell had was himself at this point. All those people he had met, all those people he had made false promises to were gone. His words to them meant nothing now. Chuck was still out there — Chuck was probably still out there — but the promise there was to meet on the other side, the point was that they weren't supposed to meet again. The girls who'd been here back when he had abandoned Daniel may also be out there, but honestly, he had no way of telling whether they were still alive or even who they actually were. Were they still on this island? Were they killers? Were they the people he was supposed to stop from winning? He honestly didn't know. He honestly couldn't tell.

…

He sighed.

Point was, he was by himself now. Point was, all he had left were the promises he had made to himself. To win. To beat this game. To make it so that Paris' death was not in vain, yadda yadda.

To do one last good thing. To prove to the world — to the cameras — that he was at the very least capable of doing that.

(do you really think you're gonna be able to do it?)

(do you really think you're even going to get the chance?)

No. He didn't. The jury was still out on whether he could achieve that one, simple thing, but signs were saying that he couldn't. If he was unable to do one good thing over the past seven days, then what odds were there that he would be able to something in the hours, maybe even minutes he had left? If he had failed in the eyes of the sixty or so people who had come on this trip, what odds were there of him succeeding in the eyes of the ten, possibly fewer people left? If he had let Daniel, Paris, Lyndi, Zubin, Jason, Felicia down, was there any chance that he would actually make it up to them, be the person that he had intended to be for them?

He looked down, took a glance at Daniel's corpse again, as he sighed.

Honestly, if it was someone other than him having these thoughts, Maxwell may have found this laughable.

Because really, was he like this back at school? Back then, was he really this concerned with doing whatever the right thing was? Was he really so obsessed with proving himself a good person? Don't get him wrong, he probably had done good things back at P.J Hobbs, but had he been this determined in doing them? He knew he'd legitimately cared about Lyndi, he knew that he'd been close with Felicia, he knew that he'd been good friends with Paris, and he'd known that he had varying levels of friendship with Daniel, Jason, and Zubin, but had they ever been his primary priority? Had he ever truly viewed them as more important than himself?

…

Heh.

This island had changed him.

And the thought of that was genuinely hilarious to him. Maxwell Lombardi, the king of P.J Hobbs, the person who was willing to do anything to stay on top, reduced to someone crying for his fallen subjects. Maxwell Lombardi, once the most selfish person he knew, now kicking himself because he genuinely couldn't do anything for other people.

God, it was probably the first time he'd laughed this week. All it had taken was for a collar to be put around his neck, and suddenly the people running this game had managed to change the core of who he was. All it had taken was for people to start dying, and suddenly Maxwell had become some paragon of righteousness, trying to keep his friends safe, trying to stop those dastardly bad guys from getting their way.

And that wasn't good.

Because that meant that the people running this game had won. Because that meant that this game had corrupted him, warped him into something he wasn't. If he was now suddenly focusing on doing what others wanted him to, if he was now a far cry from what he used to be, then that meant that he had let this game beat him. If he somehow managed to outlast everyone else after this point, if he somehow managed to be crowned the Fittest, he would still lose regardless. Everything he'd tried to do these past seven days, all the lives that had been lost because of this game? They would all be for naught. They would all be rendered pointless just because he'd fallen exactly in line with what these terrorists wanted.

And how could he fix that?

How could he make it so that he still stood a remote chance at beating this game? How could he claw himself out of the trap the people running this game had laid for him?

He didn't know.

Because going back to what he used to be, assuming the role as king of P.J Hobbs wouldn't work. If he became selfish again, if he elected to make others fall for his own gain, if he gave in to his own desires and started listening to that voice that told him to kill all the people around him, then he would still be doing what the terrorists wanted him to do. He would still be falling into the aim of their stupid game.

It was a lose-lose situation either way. If he stayed the way he was now, then he would be admitting that the game was able to change him. If he reverted to what he used to be, then he would be feeding into what they wanted, giving them the blood they oh so desired.

So what could he do then?

If following neither path worked, then which path could he follow?

He didn't know.

Wasn't as if doing what he was already doing had worked out for him.

Wasn't as if going back on all that would change anything.

Wasn't as if he could just sit here and let the game take his life.

Wasn't as if-

…

Wait.

Was it-

Could he do both?

Could he somehow just take the best parts of both paths, use them to set off on his own journey?

The logic… made some sort of sense? He could probably commit to it if he tried hard enough? He could…

He shook his head. No. He wasn't going to do that. It'd just be as stupid and pointless as doing neither would be. It'd achieve nothing and it'd mean that-

(no no no no no stay on it stay on it you're actually fucking onto something for once)

But.

No, it didn't make sense, it-

(think about it)

(were all the things you did on this island really just for the people around you?)

(do you really think you did what you did just because you wanted to be a good samaritan?)

…

No.

He honestly couldn't say he did.

Because that was really what he'd been trying to tell himself these past few days, wasn't it? That was really the whole point of all the things that had entered his mind. Could he really say that he'd done everything he did for the people he cared about? When he had abandoned Felicia, abandoned Yumi so that he could watch Ramona die, could he really say that he had done that for the greater good of everyone involved? When he had abandoned Daniel, when Maxwell had left him at the point where he needed help most, could he really say he'd done that to help his friend? When he elected to turn away from Saachi, when he had attempted to ensure that her death would take as long as possible, did he really think he was acting heroic by doing that? Did he really think letting her sink into the tar was the right thing to do?

(The point was, he'd never done the things he did for the good of the people around him.)

(The point was, they were never supposed to be.)

All the things he'd said, all the things he'd promised others, they'd never been for them. They'd never been for anyone else. They were meant for him.

Him, and him alone.

And that promise to beat this game, that promise to do one last good thing, that promise to make sure nobody who played won, that hadn't been for the people on this island. No, that was for the people running this game. That was for the people who took joy in watching this game break him, break all the people around him.

That was him telling them that he wasn't going to let this game change him. That was him telling them that this game was not going to alter the core of who he was.

So why not keep going with it? If what he was doing already served him well enough, then why change it? Why not just do what was already working?

…

It seemed like a good plan.

…

The corpse was still below Maxwell. The blood had pooled around the flowers, on further notice. His shoe had been drenched in Daniel's blood for all the time he had stepped there. He would have stepped away (as if keeping his shoes clean really meant anything at this point) but he'd been stuck in his thoughts. Too busy thinking about what he'd done and what he'd do to pay attention to the world around him.

...God, if someone had shot him in the middle of deliberating all that it would have been almost fitting.

But that didn't happen. He was still alive. The body was still below him. The body was still the body of Daniel. While he could still say that there were regrets there — the fact that he had never been able to confess his sins to Daniel, the fact that Maxwell had not been able to get here before Daniel had died — it felt as if…

No. They still felt the same. They still felt like proper regrets.

But the idea of regret itself seemed less important now. While they were still there — while he oh so wished that things could have come out differently between him and Daniel — they seemed as if they took a less priority within his mind now. It was the same with the questions, all the things that he had put into the back of his mind to answer, explain later. Why did he feel it so important to leave the cabin, abandon the group he was with? What was it that possessed him when he was at the cliffs, at the tar pits, that caused him to want to make other people hurt? Why had he opted to run after the blue-haired girl, the last time he was here? What had possessed him to walk away from his suicide, earlier today, when every part of him wanted it to happen?

He didn't know.

Didn't need to know, either.

Because really, who did it benefit that he answered his own questions? Which audience was present here who needed to know why he did what he did? Who felt that it was so important to explain his actions as if this was some sort of criminal trial?

Nobody.

That was who.

He'd done what he'd done.

He'd still do what he'd do.

And to him, that was more than enough.

He looked around. Saw the sun set. Analysed the field of flowers, one last time.

Started walking, not looking back at Daniel's body as he moved. Walked away. Left, now knowing what he was going to do.

(and what is it?)

(what empty promise are you going to make this time?)

…

He would beat this game. He would do that one last good thing. He would make sure that nobody who played won. He would make sure that this game ended the way he wanted it to.

Not for Daniel, not for Paris, not for Lyndi, Zubin, Jason, Felicia, not for the people running this game, not for any audience watching, not for anyone else he'd failed over these past seven days.

He would do all those things he'd promised for him.

Him, and him alone.

((Maxwell Lombardi, continued in SC2 Endgame))