When he'd learned that he was to start his first stint of mandatory service, Arnold Blevins had been petrified. It had seemed far away, impossibly far away, as he made his way through university. He'd had his life planned out, and those two five-year stints he'd shoved into little corners. Maybe right after he got married and had kids for the first, he thought, ideally once his career was well underway. If his portfolio was decent enough, he could probably land some comfortable job producing propaganda instead of going anywhere near the fighting. But now, he'd been picked fresh after graduation, with a resume that was impressive only by the standards of those in his general life position.
He'd feared heading to war, feared fighting not because of the thought of killing someone—he was basically okay with that, especially someone at a distance or someone whose language he couldn't understand, because hey, if it was them or him who could blame him?—but because of the possibility of getting killed in turn, or else maimed or traumatized beyond reason.
So of course, when an opportunity had arisen to throw his hat into the ring for a position in the administration of The Program, he'd done so with all possible haste. It was a slight disappointment to learn he would be serving not under Brigadier-General Adams, who had been called away for some sort of important war-related reason, but under a man called Colonel Ammerman, but Arnold had gotten over it quickly enough. Ammerman was huge, stacked like a bodybuilder but all of that strength functional, and while he could put on a bit of a show he was generally direct and no-nonsense. He ran a tight ship, and he was quick to dole out praise and criticism where earned. Arnold had been doing his best to be praiseworthy.
This Program had started out so well, with an unprecedented bloodbath in the early hours, and Arnold had found himself drawn into the drama of it all, almost against his will. He followed the students, picked favorites among them, made a few friendly bets with his coworkers. It wasn't that different, he thought, from watching a movie. Maybe that was just because of where he was. Maybe the guys on the boats felt differently.
Arnold was technically security for headquarters. He stood guard two six-hour shifts a day, part of a crew half a dozen strong. Their biggest concern, Ammerman had explained, was that the students might somehow organize and launch an assault. This was so unlikely as to verge on paranoia—nothing of the sort had ever happened, and there was no reason the students should even know where the trailer jammed with broadcasting equipment and assorted monitors was—but it was better to be paranoid than to be dead. Mostly, Arnold spent his time watching the feeds and chatting with the techs, weaving a scheme in his mind as to how he could be reassigned to their department for the next cycle. He was starting to think he might find some real passion for this posting.
He'd just come on shift as the night wound down, and was leaning over the back of a tech's station, partially to check out the screen and partially because he was pretty sure the tech had been making eyes at him yesterday and if she was as bored as most of them seemed he might have a chance to make something happen. She was explaining something about camera life and delays and editing, which was equal parts boringly obvious and irritatingly arcane, when he noticed a change in the air. The other security officers were huddled together, and when he glanced their way, the man in charge, Lieutenant Laird, gestured to him impatiently.
"Sorry," Arnold said to the tech. "I'll be right back."
He jogged over to the others, expecting to have his ass chewed out for tardiness, but Laird just gave him a nod and continued speaking.
"It's probably nothing, but air and sea activity together aren't common. There've been rumblings of militia activity, which could account for this. The patrols don't think they need to worry yet, but you may get dispatched as extra security."
Arnold swallowed, his hand nervously brushing over the rifle hanging on a strap from his shoulder. This wasn't right. He was supposed to be avoiding danger and conflict here. There were rumblings about how things were going in South America, and while he didn't believe all the scuttlebutt among the troops, he knew that every rumor had a core of some sort. That was Propaganda 101.
He was raising his hand to salute when an alarm went off, blaring within the trailer so loudly and suddenly that he twitched his hand to cover his ear instead. Laird shouted something inaudible, and then the world was rocked by an explosion, the sound so loud that even the alarms faded into incoherent ringing.
The training for this post hadn't been that intensive. Basic, same as everyone, but they'd said this wouldn't be so rough. A great gig, if you could get over watching kids cut each other apart. Arnold had believed it. He'd believed it until right this moment, as he pulled his rifle to the ready and followed Laird out the door only to see the lieutenant jerk backwards and fall, forehead spurting blood. Arnold tried to turn aside, but the man behind him wasn't reacting as quickly and the pair tumbled out the door together.
As he fell, Arnold saw the group of men, and they didn't look like any ragtag militia he'd ever seen. These were spec ops guys, he realized, trained ones. He struggled to push himself upright, not sure if he was bringing his rifle to bear or discarding it, when one of the attackers grabbed him by the collar and roughly pulled him up. He felt the barrel of a gun press into the side of his head.
"Let's go back in," the woman holding him said, voice almost cheerful. Her accent was familiar even over the near-deafness she had to shout to penetrate, and Arnold slumped, let his gun fall from his hands and let himself be marched back up the steps he'd just fallen down.
The three members of the security detail who hadn't followed him had formed a protective shell around Ammerman. The techs had all backed as far from the door as possible, leaving stations unmanned, and Arnold felt absurd humiliation when he caught sight of the woman he'd been hovering over, even though she had wide eyes and held her hands to her mouth. He could see the screens, still showing students hiding or fighting, dying or dead. He swallowed.
"Halt," Ammerman boomed. "As an officer of the United States—"
"Oh, stuff it," called a man from behind Arnold. "You're a prisoner now, is what you are."
Ammerman seemed to be considering. His eyes flicked over the techs around him, the interlopers, and then they settled into contact with Arnold's. The corner of Ammerman's lip twitched up, and he gave a little nod, and instinctively Arnold returned it.
Then everything became chaos.
Ammerman drew his sidearm and fired three times, straight into and through Arnold's chest. The woman holding him screamed and returned fire, shoving Arnold aside, and as he toppled he thought he should do something, fight back or crawl for one of the medical kits stored under the consoles or something, but he just fell, his shoulder rebounding painfully off a chair.
He saw Ammerman calmly shooting even as he was shot once, twice in the chest himself, only stopping when a bullet caught him in the face. He saw the tech he'd thought so cute grab for her sidearm and get cut down. He saw the security detail fall almost as one, even as one of the attackers toppled too. He saw the consoles nearby, saw the images there changing, new alarms and warnings he couldn't begin to comprehend popping up, figures that couldn't have been students now appearing near the barricades.
Then he saw nothing but the enclosing darkness.
"This is such absolute bollocks."
Potter gave the man next to him in the helicopter a sidelong look, and then snorted. The bay area was weirdly empty for the size of it, just a half dozen soldiers in a space designed for many more than that. Kind of impressive the Argies had a piece of hardware like this on hand, much less to spare, what with the war.
"Which bit?"
Hedley, the other man, had his brow furrowed in such a way that Potter just knew he was about to start building up a head of steam. "Whole thing. Whole thing's total bollocks."
Potter snorted again, harder. "Bit late for that now, isn't it? We've been out here for months, mate."
"Yeah, and the whole time we've been out here, they've had a fucking invasion under their hats. They've been prepping to push the yanks out all this time, and we're arsing about stopping them killing their own when they're sat on our doorstep. How bloody pointless can you get?"
Potter shrugged. "They weren't going to tell us, were they?"
"Still," Hedley thumped the assault rifle in his lap for emphasis. "We could be back home right now, doing our bit. We're out in the arse end of nowhere to rescue the enemy."
"Mate, they're kids."
Hedley stopped dead. Potter fixed him with a look. Because that was the point. Even if he had his own reservations about all of this, not least that it was a hell of a roundabout way to throw in some propaganda, what mattered, at the end of the day, was that they were saving children from their own fucked up country.
Britain wasn't perfect, but at least back home they didn't march kids into a meat grinder and then ask to be thanked for it.
"Yeah. Okay."
"Two minutes! Button it!"
Potter exchanged a nod with Hedley, then put on his helmet.
In the aftermath of gunfire and shouting from outside the town, the noise of a firefight and explosions out on the water, the air was cut through with the roaring of rotors.
The skies above Cabeza del Dragón grew suddenly deafening as a heavy transport helicopter, flanked by two smaller escorts, cut through them.
Unerringly, the choppers arrowed towards different points of the town, lowered, and then as their side doors and bays opened, a series of dark-clothed figures emerged.
The world's most unexpected cavalry had arrived.
...And An Ending
((Rodney Vasicek and Rozenne Evans continued from Emotional Resolution))
Before the sound of "America the Beautiful" was replaced with a dull chopping sound outside, Rodney wasn't sure what he was going to say to Roz. He had a lot he could say to her. "Thank you for everything." "I'm glad I met you." "Please be with me to the end." All these thoughts ran through his head as he stared at her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. But that was when her expression changed. Something serious was going on outside the church, and no longer were they going to be able to enjoy their dance together.
Rodney looked down and realized that Roz was reaching down for her gun. His eyes widened in surprise as they moved from Roz to the door, then back to Roz. The sounds outside had to be choppers of some kind. What was happening? Were soldiers being sent in to execute them for their actions? Did his dad have something to do with this?
No, there was no way. But dammit, Rodney wasn't going to let the U.S. government take down Roz. She was the only thing that made this experience worth it, and he wasn't going to see her gunned down. He finally realized what his father's rigid training was actually for. It wasn't about being the strongest, the most patriotic, or the most manly. It wasn't about defending America or living up to the Vasicek name. It was about laying down one's life for what mattered.
In an instant, Rodney knew he would die for Roz, and he was prepared to prove it.
Rodney moved his hulking frame in front of Roz, pushing her slightly behind him and holding his arms out on front of him, showing his empty hands to all the figures with their flashlights and rifles.
"Freeze!" cried out one of the armed figures.
"Don't shoot!" Rodney cried out. "We're not fighting!"
"That's perfect, mate. Come with us," replied another figure.
"What?" Rodney asked.
"We're with the British government," the first figure said. "We're getting you all out of here."
Rodney lowered his arms a bit.
"Huh?"
"You heard 'em," replied the second figure. "We're busting you lot out of here. Gettin' ya' out of the country."
"So...the game's over?" Rodney asked, completely baffled by the presence of the figures coming up the aisle.
"Yep. Now let's go!"
Rodney dropped his arms to the side. He looked back to Roz. In an instant, a large smile appeared on his face. He started to laugh and jumped in place.
"Roz, we're getting out! We're free!" Rodney shouted.
He let out another cheer and wrapped his muscular arms around Roz. He continued to laugh as he picked her up and spun her in place. It couldn't be real. They were being rescued. They weren't going to die in The Program. He wouldn't have to watch Roz die here, and he had the chance to live a long, happy life with her and everyone else from school. He could kiss his old life goodbye and start a new one. One where he could write full time and not have to worry about what his dad or his brothers thought about him ever again.
"Yeah, that's sweet, but let's go," shouted the first figure. "Time's tickin'."
"Oh, right," Rodney said, putting Roz down.
Rodney was about to leave when he paused.
"One sec," he said to the British forces.
Rodney turned away from Roz and the soldiers and ran back to the alter. He picked up the small orgel in his hands. The little wooden box that got him through this game felt so comfortable in his hands. This would be his treasure to pass down to his children and their children. Before he walked back, he looked up at the man nailed to the cross on the wall. He quickly made the signs of the cross at the figure.
"Thank you," he said. "God is good."
He then hurried back to Roz, clutching the orgel in his left hand. He reached for Roz's hand with his free hand and clasped it tight.
"Well, looks like we get a happy ending after all. Let's go."
Rodney smiled at Roz. This truly was the best ending he could hope for.
M06: Rodney Vasicek: Escaped
Before the sound of "America the Beautiful" was replaced with a dull chopping sound outside, Rodney wasn't sure what he was going to say to Roz. He had a lot he could say to her. "Thank you for everything." "I'm glad I met you." "Please be with me to the end." All these thoughts ran through his head as he stared at her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. But that was when her expression changed. Something serious was going on outside the church, and no longer were they going to be able to enjoy their dance together.
Rodney looked down and realized that Roz was reaching down for her gun. His eyes widened in surprise as they moved from Roz to the door, then back to Roz. The sounds outside had to be choppers of some kind. What was happening? Were soldiers being sent in to execute them for their actions? Did his dad have something to do with this?
No, there was no way. But dammit, Rodney wasn't going to let the U.S. government take down Roz. She was the only thing that made this experience worth it, and he wasn't going to see her gunned down. He finally realized what his father's rigid training was actually for. It wasn't about being the strongest, the most patriotic, or the most manly. It wasn't about defending America or living up to the Vasicek name. It was about laying down one's life for what mattered.
In an instant, Rodney knew he would die for Roz, and he was prepared to prove it.
Rodney moved his hulking frame in front of Roz, pushing her slightly behind him and holding his arms out on front of him, showing his empty hands to all the figures with their flashlights and rifles.
"Freeze!" cried out one of the armed figures.
"Don't shoot!" Rodney cried out. "We're not fighting!"
"That's perfect, mate. Come with us," replied another figure.
"What?" Rodney asked.
"We're with the British government," the first figure said. "We're getting you all out of here."
Rodney lowered his arms a bit.
"Huh?"
"You heard 'em," replied the second figure. "We're busting you lot out of here. Gettin' ya' out of the country."
"So...the game's over?" Rodney asked, completely baffled by the presence of the figures coming up the aisle.
"Yep. Now let's go!"
Rodney dropped his arms to the side. He looked back to Roz. In an instant, a large smile appeared on his face. He started to laugh and jumped in place.
"Roz, we're getting out! We're free!" Rodney shouted.
He let out another cheer and wrapped his muscular arms around Roz. He continued to laugh as he picked her up and spun her in place. It couldn't be real. They were being rescued. They weren't going to die in The Program. He wouldn't have to watch Roz die here, and he had the chance to live a long, happy life with her and everyone else from school. He could kiss his old life goodbye and start a new one. One where he could write full time and not have to worry about what his dad or his brothers thought about him ever again.
"Yeah, that's sweet, but let's go," shouted the first figure. "Time's tickin'."
"Oh, right," Rodney said, putting Roz down.
Rodney was about to leave when he paused.
"One sec," he said to the British forces.
Rodney turned away from Roz and the soldiers and ran back to the alter. He picked up the small orgel in his hands. The little wooden box that got him through this game felt so comfortable in his hands. This would be his treasure to pass down to his children and their children. Before he walked back, he looked up at the man nailed to the cross on the wall. He quickly made the signs of the cross at the figure.
"Thank you," he said. "God is good."
He then hurried back to Roz, clutching the orgel in his left hand. He reached for Roz's hand with his free hand and clasped it tight.
"Well, looks like we get a happy ending after all. Let's go."
Rodney smiled at Roz. This truly was the best ending he could hope for.
M06: Rodney Vasicek: Escaped
G014: Mayumi Tendou
Honestly, Roz was waiting to get shot. Yeah, sure, Rodney could swallow some bullets for her, but not an entire magazine of their machine guns, he would only die before her and then she would have to watch his bleeding body slump over and realize she was next. She was still technically in a horror setting, did she expect it would change because she got close to a boy? No, that's how girls die in horror, either by sex or by surprise; sadly, Roz wasn't getting the first one tonight and she was only mildly surprised. She thought she deserved a better death.
A second surprise came when she heard their voices: it was English but not her English. It was weird to hear, as if it was foreign. She maybe had heard this accent once or twice in her life, and it was probably a fake one. She questioned the existence of the accent and the voice: was she already dead and it was our her brain was processing it? She read things about people hallucinating as they died due to the lack of oxygen the brain was receiving. She didn’t feel out of breath and her fingers didn’t tingle, though.
Rod was, however, not dead and actually jumping around. The buzzing in Rozenne’s ears started to settle down, perhaps she wouldn’t die. Maybe it was Clay and he decided to get a funny voice and he had friends come along. She cocked her head, seeing the trio at the entrance of the church. These weren’t students, these were adults. They weren’t wearing normal clothing either, it looked like they were going to war. Their guns weren’t trained on Rozenne and Rodney anymore. Hers was still in her pocket and she realized she would get in problems if they noticed it. Apparently, it was over. It felt like this was fake. She was probably dying from their bullets and that was her last moment of consciousness. She quietly pulled out the gun, seeing a member of the trio squint, but relaxed his face when he saw Rodney putting the weapon on the altar.
The trio at the entrance separated, there was a woman who looked around and under the pews, possibly looking for students. Roz walked toward her. If she was dead, it wouldn’t matter. The other members of the group were interacting with Rodney and he looked fine, but once again, did it really matter? As she approached the woman, she quietly told her what was on her mind.
“There’s a room in the back. I think we are alone, but there might be someone there, I don’t know.”
The woman with dark skin nodded with a smile. She was pretty if you ignored the scars on her face. Well, she was prettier with the scars, really. Without the scars, she would be bland looking. She waited for her answer, wondering if this was the moment she would turn into a spiral and absorb the world around her. Was she supposed to scream now?
“Oh, thank you, dear.” She shifted her gun in her hands when she noticed Rozenne’s leg, “Your leg is fucked up, are you going to be okay.”
Her leg. Roz pressed a finger on her wound. It felt like the pain echoed throughout her body, reminding her of her life. Mesmerized by the pain, the woman had to repeat her question. In her mind, Rozenne was under shock because of blood loss, but really she was in shock from the fact she wasn’t. She raised her head, and looked at Rodney. He looked happy, maybe she could be happy too if she tried. She didn’t smile, but she spoke in a reassuring voice.
“Oh, yeah. Happened yesterday. I’d like if someone could look at it, though.”
“We will,” she pointed the exit, “but you have to get out first.”
“Yeah, I probably should.” She saw Rodney get out first and she followed after him, but he stopped in his tracks to get back inside. The wind felt nice in the dusk. The warmth of the peninsula was fading a bit. It felt refreshing despite the sound of metal around her. There was a helicopter ahead of her, she assumed that was where she needed to be. Her new goal from surviving this ordeal was... achieved? Was it, really? She pressed on her leg again. The pain wasn’t enough, anymore. An armed man saw her do that and he looked puzzled. She only smiled back as she stumbled toward the helicopter. There were people in it. She noticed that trios of adults were patrolling around the helicopter. She assumed they were searching for more Rods and Rozs.
Rodney was still there, he arrived beside her, and grabbed her hand. It felt nice. He had the tiny orgel with him. She had abandoned her gun so now they only had a song to protect them. America was beautiful, tonight. She could still hear the song in her head. She had to admit it was kinda catchy. Rodney opened his mouth and said something about an ending. A good ending, that made Roz smile.
She pulled him closer, puckered up her lips and stole a kiss from him. She could see him blush in the darkness that was setting in. She wanted to feel alive. To make sure she was still there. It worked.
This was real, this was happening, she wasn’t dying. She was still surprised to be alive, but there she was. He tasted good.
“Okay lovebirds, we gotta’ get going.”
The voice came from the helicopter, it was the voice of a rugged man coming from a megaphone. Roz giggled and nodded toward the flashlight pointed at them, but still took her time, she leaned up to Rod’s ear and whispered something to him. It was honest. She couldn’t lie about that, it felt too hard.
“You know...” She kissed his ear, “We can do the rest later.”
She liked him. A lot.
F08: Rozenne "Roz" Evans: Escaped.
A second surprise came when she heard their voices: it was English but not her English. It was weird to hear, as if it was foreign. She maybe had heard this accent once or twice in her life, and it was probably a fake one. She questioned the existence of the accent and the voice: was she already dead and it was our her brain was processing it? She read things about people hallucinating as they died due to the lack of oxygen the brain was receiving. She didn’t feel out of breath and her fingers didn’t tingle, though.
Rod was, however, not dead and actually jumping around. The buzzing in Rozenne’s ears started to settle down, perhaps she wouldn’t die. Maybe it was Clay and he decided to get a funny voice and he had friends come along. She cocked her head, seeing the trio at the entrance of the church. These weren’t students, these were adults. They weren’t wearing normal clothing either, it looked like they were going to war. Their guns weren’t trained on Rozenne and Rodney anymore. Hers was still in her pocket and she realized she would get in problems if they noticed it. Apparently, it was over. It felt like this was fake. She was probably dying from their bullets and that was her last moment of consciousness. She quietly pulled out the gun, seeing a member of the trio squint, but relaxed his face when he saw Rodney putting the weapon on the altar.
The trio at the entrance separated, there was a woman who looked around and under the pews, possibly looking for students. Roz walked toward her. If she was dead, it wouldn’t matter. The other members of the group were interacting with Rodney and he looked fine, but once again, did it really matter? As she approached the woman, she quietly told her what was on her mind.
“There’s a room in the back. I think we are alone, but there might be someone there, I don’t know.”
The woman with dark skin nodded with a smile. She was pretty if you ignored the scars on her face. Well, she was prettier with the scars, really. Without the scars, she would be bland looking. She waited for her answer, wondering if this was the moment she would turn into a spiral and absorb the world around her. Was she supposed to scream now?
“Oh, thank you, dear.” She shifted her gun in her hands when she noticed Rozenne’s leg, “Your leg is fucked up, are you going to be okay.”
Her leg. Roz pressed a finger on her wound. It felt like the pain echoed throughout her body, reminding her of her life. Mesmerized by the pain, the woman had to repeat her question. In her mind, Rozenne was under shock because of blood loss, but really she was in shock from the fact she wasn’t. She raised her head, and looked at Rodney. He looked happy, maybe she could be happy too if she tried. She didn’t smile, but she spoke in a reassuring voice.
“Oh, yeah. Happened yesterday. I’d like if someone could look at it, though.”
“We will,” she pointed the exit, “but you have to get out first.”
“Yeah, I probably should.” She saw Rodney get out first and she followed after him, but he stopped in his tracks to get back inside. The wind felt nice in the dusk. The warmth of the peninsula was fading a bit. It felt refreshing despite the sound of metal around her. There was a helicopter ahead of her, she assumed that was where she needed to be. Her new goal from surviving this ordeal was... achieved? Was it, really? She pressed on her leg again. The pain wasn’t enough, anymore. An armed man saw her do that and he looked puzzled. She only smiled back as she stumbled toward the helicopter. There were people in it. She noticed that trios of adults were patrolling around the helicopter. She assumed they were searching for more Rods and Rozs.
Rodney was still there, he arrived beside her, and grabbed her hand. It felt nice. He had the tiny orgel with him. She had abandoned her gun so now they only had a song to protect them. America was beautiful, tonight. She could still hear the song in her head. She had to admit it was kinda catchy. Rodney opened his mouth and said something about an ending. A good ending, that made Roz smile.
She pulled him closer, puckered up her lips and stole a kiss from him. She could see him blush in the darkness that was setting in. She wanted to feel alive. To make sure she was still there. It worked.
This was real, this was happening, she wasn’t dying. She was still surprised to be alive, but there she was. He tasted good.
“Okay lovebirds, we gotta’ get going.”
The voice came from the helicopter, it was the voice of a rugged man coming from a megaphone. Roz giggled and nodded toward the flashlight pointed at them, but still took her time, she leaned up to Rod’s ear and whispered something to him. It was honest. She couldn’t lie about that, it felt too hard.
“You know...” She kissed his ear, “We can do the rest later.”
She liked him. A lot.
F08: Rozenne "Roz" Evans: Escaped.
((Clay Bronson continued from Leaving The Other Half Undone))
He hadn't bothered to put his shirt back on.
Thus it was that he and his pound of flesh in excess were being flanked by a burly man with blonde hair cropped close to the dome of his skull. Went by the name Simmons, or at least that was the name the man was willing to share. Clay hadn't really intended to do much in the way of small talk and he certainly hadn't felt like even partitioning his lips in the first place... it had fallen out, randomly. A friendliness he wasn't really feeling, encrypted into a mess of verbiage that Clay might have heard before. Somewhere in the vicinity of the streets of Denver, echoing endlessly. Clay kept his eyes peeled for his peers as he doggedly followed Simmons running a patrol of the pool, searching for his peers. When no such faces were found Clay could only hope the other helicopters he'd seen puttering through the sky were dedicated to a similar mission: search and rescue.
Who would have thought it'd be the British? Clay could have forgotten they'd existed, in another timeline where he'd been spending today in a classroom, boredly scrutinizing a whitewashed textbook, wondering where The Program had happened that semester. Wondering what Bridie was up to.
Dust crunched under Clay's soles, sounding like cracking bone.
"Couldn't tell you how many we'll find. But we'll rescue them all, believe us." Clay nodded amicable-like, smiled a pretty wide smile which he didn't realize was as big as it was until he took a moment to consciously feel the stretch of his lips cleaving up into his cheeks. A slow nod, additionally. Clay didn't know where he got the energy to make that kind of gesture. His innards felt hollow, like he was going to collapse onto himself. Sort of like how hunger worked, that hole deep in the stomach, that sourness draining into the rest of his arteries and veins. Clay didn't take the time to think of what he said next, because it just went out there.
"Rescue some food while you're at it," Clay quipped, or some part of him that he had no conscious access to did, rather. "I hear you guys eat blood, or something like that?" Simmons shook his head, wore a humorless smirk.
"'Bout the last thing you should be focusing on. You're pretty cheerful, cheeky little..." Clay supposed he was, though it was beyond him to confirm with any certainty. Simmons seemed bemused with it all. Clay watched himself through the reflection off Simmon's cold, little eyes, before the soldier turned away to redundantly peer his flashlight through a small shack they'd already cleared twice over.
Clay existed. He was just there. Standing around, sun warming the ruddy red skin of his exposed collarbone, towel abandoned over one shoulder. Talking mindlessly, as if it was all he knew how to do and think. Maybe, it was all he had left to do, to think.
----
She walked, without grace, her laughing tip-toe curling her calves into butter smoothness. Her shadow blotchy, painted in formless chunks over the moonlit night. He followed.
Music stalked after them, the pop of yesteryear and yesterday, echoing through the cracks between the hinges of a closed door painted the mute navy blue of school colors long dried out by the years of winter sun. He didn't hear the music much. She laughed and he heard, even though her laugh was quiet. Little, like the pop and fizz of bubbles in a still soda glass warming on a windowsill. She didn't look at him, she looked forward. She'd promised to show him to her favorite burger place, a few blocks away. She'd trusted him with herself.
Clay knew he'd remember this night forever. He ran after this girl he couldn't call girlfriend.
----
Clay sat in a lonely corner of the helicopter bay, his bag abandoned by his own feet, his body abandoned draped over a bulkhead that rattled with each spin of the blades throwing them through the skies at a hurtling velocity. He watched faces be led onto the helicopter after him, streaming in one after the other. Endlessly, it seemed, as time stretched on. The helicopter lifted off and touched down at least twice more, freshly dusting the small port window Clay could watch out of each time as more faces he did and didn't recognize along melted into the crowd of those crying and screaming and shutting down around. All alike, these individual pinpricks of humanity.
He watched the landscape below whenever the helicopter flew, idly, dismally curious. He would see the occasional blot of a body, maybe living, maybe dead. No amount of familiarity spoonfed to him by his eyes would stir him.
Eventually, he'd fall into a zombie-like sleep, and wake somewhere far away, over the Atlantic Ocean, where his first sight was unfamiliar food.
M20, Clay Bronson: Escaped.
He hadn't bothered to put his shirt back on.
Thus it was that he and his pound of flesh in excess were being flanked by a burly man with blonde hair cropped close to the dome of his skull. Went by the name Simmons, or at least that was the name the man was willing to share. Clay hadn't really intended to do much in the way of small talk and he certainly hadn't felt like even partitioning his lips in the first place... it had fallen out, randomly. A friendliness he wasn't really feeling, encrypted into a mess of verbiage that Clay might have heard before. Somewhere in the vicinity of the streets of Denver, echoing endlessly. Clay kept his eyes peeled for his peers as he doggedly followed Simmons running a patrol of the pool, searching for his peers. When no such faces were found Clay could only hope the other helicopters he'd seen puttering through the sky were dedicated to a similar mission: search and rescue.
Who would have thought it'd be the British? Clay could have forgotten they'd existed, in another timeline where he'd been spending today in a classroom, boredly scrutinizing a whitewashed textbook, wondering where The Program had happened that semester. Wondering what Bridie was up to.
Dust crunched under Clay's soles, sounding like cracking bone.
"Couldn't tell you how many we'll find. But we'll rescue them all, believe us." Clay nodded amicable-like, smiled a pretty wide smile which he didn't realize was as big as it was until he took a moment to consciously feel the stretch of his lips cleaving up into his cheeks. A slow nod, additionally. Clay didn't know where he got the energy to make that kind of gesture. His innards felt hollow, like he was going to collapse onto himself. Sort of like how hunger worked, that hole deep in the stomach, that sourness draining into the rest of his arteries and veins. Clay didn't take the time to think of what he said next, because it just went out there.
"Rescue some food while you're at it," Clay quipped, or some part of him that he had no conscious access to did, rather. "I hear you guys eat blood, or something like that?" Simmons shook his head, wore a humorless smirk.
"'Bout the last thing you should be focusing on. You're pretty cheerful, cheeky little..." Clay supposed he was, though it was beyond him to confirm with any certainty. Simmons seemed bemused with it all. Clay watched himself through the reflection off Simmon's cold, little eyes, before the soldier turned away to redundantly peer his flashlight through a small shack they'd already cleared twice over.
Clay existed. He was just there. Standing around, sun warming the ruddy red skin of his exposed collarbone, towel abandoned over one shoulder. Talking mindlessly, as if it was all he knew how to do and think. Maybe, it was all he had left to do, to think.
----
She walked, without grace, her laughing tip-toe curling her calves into butter smoothness. Her shadow blotchy, painted in formless chunks over the moonlit night. He followed.
Music stalked after them, the pop of yesteryear and yesterday, echoing through the cracks between the hinges of a closed door painted the mute navy blue of school colors long dried out by the years of winter sun. He didn't hear the music much. She laughed and he heard, even though her laugh was quiet. Little, like the pop and fizz of bubbles in a still soda glass warming on a windowsill. She didn't look at him, she looked forward. She'd promised to show him to her favorite burger place, a few blocks away. She'd trusted him with herself.
Clay knew he'd remember this night forever. He ran after this girl he couldn't call girlfriend.
----
Clay sat in a lonely corner of the helicopter bay, his bag abandoned by his own feet, his body abandoned draped over a bulkhead that rattled with each spin of the blades throwing them through the skies at a hurtling velocity. He watched faces be led onto the helicopter after him, streaming in one after the other. Endlessly, it seemed, as time stretched on. The helicopter lifted off and touched down at least twice more, freshly dusting the small port window Clay could watch out of each time as more faces he did and didn't recognize along melted into the crowd of those crying and screaming and shutting down around. All alike, these individual pinpricks of humanity.
He watched the landscape below whenever the helicopter flew, idly, dismally curious. He would see the occasional blot of a body, maybe living, maybe dead. No amount of familiarity spoonfed to him by his eyes would stir him.
Eventually, he'd fall into a zombie-like sleep, and wake somewhere far away, over the Atlantic Ocean, where his first sight was unfamiliar food.
M20, Clay Bronson: Escaped.
Upcoming:
Second Chances V3 (deconreconfirmed):
Relations Thread!
Olivia Fischer (original handler, Maraoone)
Memories: 1 Pregame: 1
Faith Marshal-Mackenzie (original handler, Frozen Smoke)
Memories: 1 Pregame: 1
Sayuna Lewis (original handler, Cicada)
Princess McQuillan (original handler, Cicada)
Pregame: 1
Second Chances V3 (deconreconfirmed):
Relations Thread!
Olivia Fischer (original handler, Maraoone)
Memories: 1 Pregame: 1
Faith Marshal-Mackenzie (original handler, Frozen Smoke)
Memories: 1 Pregame: 1
Sayuna Lewis (original handler, Cicada)
Princess McQuillan (original handler, Cicada)
Pregame: 1
(Kassandra Vaitaki continued from What We've Been Searching For)
"Hey, we need a medic!"
Kassandra arrived at the helicopter, still in the arms of the muscular woman who had carried her out of the dump. It felt weird to feel so comforted by the sight of so many people milling about in uniform, but it made her feel good to know that all of these people were there to make sure that her and her classmates were safe, or at least as many of them as possible.
She could already recognize some of her classmates, either already in the helicopter or on their way there. She and Marion weren't the only ones. They had actually managed to get a decent amount of the class. So many of them were escaping the death sentence that had unjustly been given to them. It touched her that these people that they didn't even know were doing this for them.
She was laid on the ground once more as another woman redressed her injuries. She felt extremely tired, but the excitement of the event was keeping her awake. Between the discussions, orders, and her own examination, it was quite the exciting scene.
But most of that was just white noise to Kassandra, although the cleaning of her wounds did make her wince from the stinging feeling. Kassandra's focus was mostly on her outstretched arm and the person holding her hand through the process: Marion Williams. Her vision was a little blurry at this point due to her exhausted condition, but she could still recognize Marion clear as day.
She had been through so much with Marion, from their awkward meeting, to rescuing her from the gazebo, to all of the times they spent getting to know each other. And after all of that time, Kass knew one thing for certain, and that was that she really, really liked her.
And after all of the struggles and worrying, Marion was there with her, uncuffed and safe. It had been worth it.
Kass couldn't do anything but smile as she looked up at her. She didn't know what was going to happen next, but she was finally convinced that it was going to be okay.
F11: Kassandra Vaitaki: Escaped
"Hey, we need a medic!"
Kassandra arrived at the helicopter, still in the arms of the muscular woman who had carried her out of the dump. It felt weird to feel so comforted by the sight of so many people milling about in uniform, but it made her feel good to know that all of these people were there to make sure that her and her classmates were safe, or at least as many of them as possible.
She could already recognize some of her classmates, either already in the helicopter or on their way there. She and Marion weren't the only ones. They had actually managed to get a decent amount of the class. So many of them were escaping the death sentence that had unjustly been given to them. It touched her that these people that they didn't even know were doing this for them.
She was laid on the ground once more as another woman redressed her injuries. She felt extremely tired, but the excitement of the event was keeping her awake. Between the discussions, orders, and her own examination, it was quite the exciting scene.
But most of that was just white noise to Kassandra, although the cleaning of her wounds did make her wince from the stinging feeling. Kassandra's focus was mostly on her outstretched arm and the person holding her hand through the process: Marion Williams. Her vision was a little blurry at this point due to her exhausted condition, but she could still recognize Marion clear as day.
She had been through so much with Marion, from their awkward meeting, to rescuing her from the gazebo, to all of the times they spent getting to know each other. And after all of that time, Kass knew one thing for certain, and that was that she really, really liked her.
And after all of the struggles and worrying, Marion was there with her, uncuffed and safe. It had been worth it.
Kass couldn't do anything but smile as she looked up at her. She didn't know what was going to happen next, but she was finally convinced that it was going to be okay.
F11: Kassandra Vaitaki: Escaped
((Maya Spooner continued from Siete Diablos))
Maya made it to the rescue team and escaped.
F21 - Maya Spooner: ESCAPED
Maya made it to the rescue team and escaped.
F21 - Maya Spooner: ESCAPED
((Grant Gault continued from Tomb of the Forgotten))
Well fuck him sideways.
Grant had been trying to plot out a trajectory for the rest of the Program now that he'd blown his load, so to speak, cause it was all well and good picking up the cred for what he'd pulled off, but at a certain point having an aura of badass wasn't going to be enough. Couldn't kill people with reputation alone, though it helped. Pretty good 'don't fuck with me' angle to be getting top killing billing.
Maribel had finally got around to dying. He was kind of impressed by how long she'd lasted. Long enough that he probably could have stretched things out with Charity a bit further, but hey-o, he'd seen the opportunity and taken it. Golden boy with the golden touch.
Besides, he'd had a bomb. What was he supposed to do, not use it?
The primary consideration had wound up falling back on the reason he'd gone into the graveyard in the first place, namely 'scavenge battlefield, acquire weaponry'. Only reason he hadn't done that at the graveyard is that there'd been a chance that lobbing an explosive at people wasn't necessarily a guaranteed kill and he wasn't really interested in having a discussion where he tried to explain that no actually he hadn't meant to try and catch Charity in the blast radius.
Lying was wrong.
Except out of the absolute fucking blue, here came the rescue party, and Grant wasn't even sure how he could deal with that. Like, holy fuck an honest to god rescue?
Someone of a more patriotic bent than Grant would probably have had some issues with cosying on up to a foreign excursion, but so far as he was concerned, these random British guys weren't the ones who'd made him start doing murders left right and centre, nor were they the ones that got his brother crippled for life.
So y'know, god save the fucking queen, or however it went.
"You come here often?" Grant asked one of the soldiers—or he assumed they were soldiers, they kind of looked like spec ops guys—escorting him to the extraction point. Hah, extraction point, listen to him sounding all official. He'd only overheard them talking about it, but it sounded good, right? Good fucking bye Program and good fucking bye America.
Okay, so maybe he was a little bummed out about America in general, but if it came down to leaving or betting his life against however many other people were still between him and making it out alive... Nah, he could deal.
The soldier laughed. It sounded weird with a different accent. Not bad weird, actually.
He wondered if she was cute under the balaclava.
"Cheeky shite," she said, shaking her head.
"Quit gabbing," growled one of the others. "Keep an eye out."
The first soldier looked back to Grant, grinned, and rolled her eyes.
Oh yeah, definitely cute.
They turned a corner and there up ahead was a motherfucking helicopter. Grant imagine a beam of light illuminating it from above with a choir of angels singing along. It was only a slight exaggeration. Ticket out.
He stopped walking for a second, closed his eyes, and grinned. Sometimes you needed to appreciate the good things, take a couple seconds to enjoy what you had. This was a definite basking moment.
Grant couldn't say this was the plan, exactly, but he'd executed well enough to make it this far, so fuck it, he deserved a bit of luck in his life, right?
Man, sucked to be Charity, huh? If she'd acted on what had looked to be a growing lack of enthusiasm and just ditched, she could have made it out, too. That was too bad. He kind of liked her, and her company wasn't bad; the nicknames had grown on him. Crying shame, eh?
Ah well. He had a flight to catch.
"Hurry it up!"
He opened his eyes. Both the soldiers were looking back at him. He grinned at them and half saluted.
"On my way, chaps," he said, in his best imitation of a British accent.
He thought it was pretty good, but the female soldier just laughed again.
All right. Freedom time. Grant out.
Grant took a step forward and something hit him very hard between the shoulder blades, like someone thumping him on the back for a good joke.
That was weird.
He took another step forward, and it was wobbly. One of the soldiers said something, or maybe didn't say it? It sounded like they were shouting, but like, from a very long way away, as if they were yelling at him from the bottom of a well or something.
What had they just yelled? Another step and wow actually he was feeling pretty dizzy. He was going to just take a second.
Ground felt like an all right place to kneel—aw come on why did they have to grab him under the armpits and drag him along. He was an adult, he could walk by himself. He tried to get his feet under himself and they skittered out from underneath.
Haha well okay maybe not.
The chopper was getting close now as the two soldiers continued to say... something. Come on, speak up a bit, they were introducing him to their ride, at least try and sound interested in showing him the decals and customisations. Ooh, did it have a bed? Maybe he could take a nap there. He felt very tired, all of a sudden.
"Medic!"
Grant blinked, glanced down at the growing red patch right on the breast of his shirt. Ooh. That was what they'd been shouting about.
Man, this shit was never going to come out.
M30 - Grant Gault: Escaped
Well fuck him sideways.
Grant had been trying to plot out a trajectory for the rest of the Program now that he'd blown his load, so to speak, cause it was all well and good picking up the cred for what he'd pulled off, but at a certain point having an aura of badass wasn't going to be enough. Couldn't kill people with reputation alone, though it helped. Pretty good 'don't fuck with me' angle to be getting top killing billing.
Maribel had finally got around to dying. He was kind of impressed by how long she'd lasted. Long enough that he probably could have stretched things out with Charity a bit further, but hey-o, he'd seen the opportunity and taken it. Golden boy with the golden touch.
Besides, he'd had a bomb. What was he supposed to do, not use it?
The primary consideration had wound up falling back on the reason he'd gone into the graveyard in the first place, namely 'scavenge battlefield, acquire weaponry'. Only reason he hadn't done that at the graveyard is that there'd been a chance that lobbing an explosive at people wasn't necessarily a guaranteed kill and he wasn't really interested in having a discussion where he tried to explain that no actually he hadn't meant to try and catch Charity in the blast radius.
Lying was wrong.
Except out of the absolute fucking blue, here came the rescue party, and Grant wasn't even sure how he could deal with that. Like, holy fuck an honest to god rescue?
Someone of a more patriotic bent than Grant would probably have had some issues with cosying on up to a foreign excursion, but so far as he was concerned, these random British guys weren't the ones who'd made him start doing murders left right and centre, nor were they the ones that got his brother crippled for life.
So y'know, god save the fucking queen, or however it went.
"You come here often?" Grant asked one of the soldiers—or he assumed they were soldiers, they kind of looked like spec ops guys—escorting him to the extraction point. Hah, extraction point, listen to him sounding all official. He'd only overheard them talking about it, but it sounded good, right? Good fucking bye Program and good fucking bye America.
Okay, so maybe he was a little bummed out about America in general, but if it came down to leaving or betting his life against however many other people were still between him and making it out alive... Nah, he could deal.
The soldier laughed. It sounded weird with a different accent. Not bad weird, actually.
He wondered if she was cute under the balaclava.
"Cheeky shite," she said, shaking her head.
"Quit gabbing," growled one of the others. "Keep an eye out."
The first soldier looked back to Grant, grinned, and rolled her eyes.
Oh yeah, definitely cute.
They turned a corner and there up ahead was a motherfucking helicopter. Grant imagine a beam of light illuminating it from above with a choir of angels singing along. It was only a slight exaggeration. Ticket out.
He stopped walking for a second, closed his eyes, and grinned. Sometimes you needed to appreciate the good things, take a couple seconds to enjoy what you had. This was a definite basking moment.
Grant couldn't say this was the plan, exactly, but he'd executed well enough to make it this far, so fuck it, he deserved a bit of luck in his life, right?
Man, sucked to be Charity, huh? If she'd acted on what had looked to be a growing lack of enthusiasm and just ditched, she could have made it out, too. That was too bad. He kind of liked her, and her company wasn't bad; the nicknames had grown on him. Crying shame, eh?
Ah well. He had a flight to catch.
"Hurry it up!"
He opened his eyes. Both the soldiers were looking back at him. He grinned at them and half saluted.
"On my way, chaps," he said, in his best imitation of a British accent.
He thought it was pretty good, but the female soldier just laughed again.
All right. Freedom time. Grant out.
Grant took a step forward and something hit him very hard between the shoulder blades, like someone thumping him on the back for a good joke.
That was weird.
He took another step forward, and it was wobbly. One of the soldiers said something, or maybe didn't say it? It sounded like they were shouting, but like, from a very long way away, as if they were yelling at him from the bottom of a well or something.
What had they just yelled? Another step and wow actually he was feeling pretty dizzy. He was going to just take a second.
Ground felt like an all right place to kneel—aw come on why did they have to grab him under the armpits and drag him along. He was an adult, he could walk by himself. He tried to get his feet under himself and they skittered out from underneath.
Haha well okay maybe not.
The chopper was getting close now as the two soldiers continued to say... something. Come on, speak up a bit, they were introducing him to their ride, at least try and sound interested in showing him the decals and customisations. Ooh, did it have a bed? Maybe he could take a nap there. He felt very tired, all of a sudden.
"Medic!"
Grant blinked, glanced down at the growing red patch right on the breast of his shirt. Ooh. That was what they'd been shouting about.
Man, this shit was never going to come out.
M30 - Grant Gault: Escaped
((Leo Menendez continued from Dogtown))
"So there's this joke that my Sunday school teacher really liked."
They were walking in a loose group, accompanied by the young freckle-faced man Leo had bumped into (he'd told them to call him Jonesy) and a couple of other soldiers, all armed and appropriately dressed for combat. There was a nervous energy, but it was hard to hurry with people lugging along other people. Jonesy had relieved Leo from carrying Buddy, which Leo was grateful for; his shoulder had been starting to ache. Jonesy flanked Leo on one side, and Sylvia was on the other, keeping quiet as they walked along. Leo was trying not to glance back too often to check up on Charlie, Edward, and Danielle.
Jonesy inclined his head slightly towards Leo to show that he was listening. Sylvia didn't outwardly react that Leo could see.
"So there's this flood, right? Or a hurricane or something." Leo had never seen the ocean before he was left in this place to die. "And there's this man, this really pious man, who lives in the danger zone. He's got people telling him to evacuate, but he's got this idea. He knows he's really good, right? He's always gone to church, never missed a service with his family."
Leo couldn't remember the last time that his family had actually gone to church as a family. All the cracks spiderwebbed from the same point in time, where Leo was eleven and his mother held baby Dylan in his arms, and they stood at the airport watching his dad in uniform, walking away and never looking back.
"So this guy, he's not going to evacuate. He believes in the Lord and knows that because he's so good, the Lord will save him from drowning in the flood. He sticks around, and he just prays real hard."
"The storm comes in, and he's praying, and his house starts to flood so he climbs up onto the roof. And his neighbor comes by in a boat, because the neighbor was prepared too, just in a different way. So the neighbor sees the guy and he calls out to him, 'Hey, jump in my boat! I'll take you to safety!' But the guy says no. He says, 'God will save me, and I'm going to wait right here for Him. I'll be fine.' So the neighbor drives his boat away, and the guy goes back to praying."
Leo's throat hurt. He wanted some water. His hand ached from the bruise he had pressed into it, a faint cross shape with dark points ringing the edges of his palm.
"The storm's getting worse. Guy's on his roof still praying. All of a sudden, this helicopter comes by." The corners of Leo's mouth twitched up, a reflexive ghost of a smile that was gone as soon as it appeared. "It's the Coast Guard. They yell at the guy through a megaphone, 'Come over here! We're here to rescue you and take you to safety!' And again, the guy says no. Like he told his neighbor, he tells the Coast Guard, 'God will save me, and I'm going to wait right here for Him. I'll be fine.' So the Coast Guard goes off and leaves him because they've got other people to rescue, and the guy goes back to praying."
Leo could see the helicopters now. Their own little group weren't the only ones out of his classmates to be there, nor the only British soldiers. He wondered where their own military guys were.
He wondered if he could even say that they were his anymore, from the second he had said yes to Jonesy's offer of rescue.
"So anyway, the guy drowns. No big miracle happens or anything, he just dies in the storm. He goes to Heaven though, because y'know, he was very good and all that. So he gets there, and he sees God, and he's like, 'Lord, man, what's the deal? I believed in You. I told everyone that You were going to save me, and You never sent me any help.' And God says-" Leo's voice broke abruptly.
He wheezed out a laugh, and realized that there were tears on his cheeks. "And God, he says- he's all like-"
Dear God. Dear God. Leo pressed both hands over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut against the embarrassment of losing his cool in front of everyone, just like that time back at school. After a minute or two, he had calmed enough to speak again, but his voice still wobbled with something that was like mirth, or pain, or both.
"God looks at the guy, and He goes, 'Man, what are you talking about? I sent you a helicopter and a boat.'"
M08 LEO MENENDEZ: VAYA CON DIOS
"So there's this joke that my Sunday school teacher really liked."
They were walking in a loose group, accompanied by the young freckle-faced man Leo had bumped into (he'd told them to call him Jonesy) and a couple of other soldiers, all armed and appropriately dressed for combat. There was a nervous energy, but it was hard to hurry with people lugging along other people. Jonesy had relieved Leo from carrying Buddy, which Leo was grateful for; his shoulder had been starting to ache. Jonesy flanked Leo on one side, and Sylvia was on the other, keeping quiet as they walked along. Leo was trying not to glance back too often to check up on Charlie, Edward, and Danielle.
Jonesy inclined his head slightly towards Leo to show that he was listening. Sylvia didn't outwardly react that Leo could see.
"So there's this flood, right? Or a hurricane or something." Leo had never seen the ocean before he was left in this place to die. "And there's this man, this really pious man, who lives in the danger zone. He's got people telling him to evacuate, but he's got this idea. He knows he's really good, right? He's always gone to church, never missed a service with his family."
Leo couldn't remember the last time that his family had actually gone to church as a family. All the cracks spiderwebbed from the same point in time, where Leo was eleven and his mother held baby Dylan in his arms, and they stood at the airport watching his dad in uniform, walking away and never looking back.
"So this guy, he's not going to evacuate. He believes in the Lord and knows that because he's so good, the Lord will save him from drowning in the flood. He sticks around, and he just prays real hard."
"The storm comes in, and he's praying, and his house starts to flood so he climbs up onto the roof. And his neighbor comes by in a boat, because the neighbor was prepared too, just in a different way. So the neighbor sees the guy and he calls out to him, 'Hey, jump in my boat! I'll take you to safety!' But the guy says no. He says, 'God will save me, and I'm going to wait right here for Him. I'll be fine.' So the neighbor drives his boat away, and the guy goes back to praying."
Leo's throat hurt. He wanted some water. His hand ached from the bruise he had pressed into it, a faint cross shape with dark points ringing the edges of his palm.
"The storm's getting worse. Guy's on his roof still praying. All of a sudden, this helicopter comes by." The corners of Leo's mouth twitched up, a reflexive ghost of a smile that was gone as soon as it appeared. "It's the Coast Guard. They yell at the guy through a megaphone, 'Come over here! We're here to rescue you and take you to safety!' And again, the guy says no. Like he told his neighbor, he tells the Coast Guard, 'God will save me, and I'm going to wait right here for Him. I'll be fine.' So the Coast Guard goes off and leaves him because they've got other people to rescue, and the guy goes back to praying."
Leo could see the helicopters now. Their own little group weren't the only ones out of his classmates to be there, nor the only British soldiers. He wondered where their own military guys were.
He wondered if he could even say that they were his anymore, from the second he had said yes to Jonesy's offer of rescue.
"So anyway, the guy drowns. No big miracle happens or anything, he just dies in the storm. He goes to Heaven though, because y'know, he was very good and all that. So he gets there, and he sees God, and he's like, 'Lord, man, what's the deal? I believed in You. I told everyone that You were going to save me, and You never sent me any help.' And God says-" Leo's voice broke abruptly.
He wheezed out a laugh, and realized that there were tears on his cheeks. "And God, he says- he's all like-"
Dear God. Dear God. Leo pressed both hands over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut against the embarrassment of losing his cool in front of everyone, just like that time back at school. After a minute or two, he had calmed enough to speak again, but his voice still wobbled with something that was like mirth, or pain, or both.
"God looks at the guy, and He goes, 'Man, what are you talking about? I sent you a helicopter and a boat.'"
M08 LEO MENENDEZ: VAYA CON DIOS
((Sylvia Veneski continued from Dogtown))
This was treason.
Call and answer, and she no longer knew the answer. It was like her body was moving itself. On some level Sylvia wanted to hang back instead, wanted to tell the whole world to wait. She wanted to hesitate. This was the whole rest of her life unfolding in front of her.
Leo was telling a joke, and she was hearing but not really listening. She could feel every pebble she stepped on through her gradually dirtier sock. Her shoe was out there somewhere too, forever lost.
She felt relief, and confusion, and... fear. For what seemed the first time after waking up here, she was afraid for others, not just for herself. She sometimes worried about absurd and silly things, paranoid to the last, overthinking. Maybe that was true now.
But there were people back home who she cared about (her family, her friends, whoever was left, anyone who was left). Could she say for sure that they wouldn't be punished for this in the same way that not showing up for Announcement Day warranted punishment?
There was no precedent she could remember for that happening. There was no precedent for this, either, an invasion on American land, the enemy interfering with internal business. In the same way that her government wanted something from her, the British wanted something too, even if it was just for her to let them take her. Going with them meant helping them strike a blow against America.
If she was out of America's reach, then who could they punish?
She could run from the British even now; maybe she wouldn't be gunned down as she did. She could stay in the Program. She could fight it out. Forget her arm. If almost everyone left, she had a better shot at winning.
Instead, she was leaving. That had always been the end she expected, that she would do anything just so that she lived, no matter the form that life took. She would never see any of those people back home she cared about again. She would never know what happened to them, now or ever.
Leo was wrapping up his joke. Laughing. Crying. Even though she hadn't been listening in any real detail, Sylvia suddenly thought she understood. On some level, even if it wasn't the right one.
This was a miracle. More than anything she had dared to call a miracle before. She wanted to go home, but she was only allowed to live. What she was feeling was a special sort of ingratitude, to shove deep down inside, rolled up with her worries.
The sound of the helicopters was almost deafening now. She looked up, expecting to see stars and the moon, but instead she just blinked hard for a moment and saw nothing.
There was no going home, not from the start. Now, home wasn't even home anymore. Somehow the thought brought her closer to crying than anything since the first announcement.
F32: Sylvia Veneski - ESCAPED
This was treason.
Call and answer, and she no longer knew the answer. It was like her body was moving itself. On some level Sylvia wanted to hang back instead, wanted to tell the whole world to wait. She wanted to hesitate. This was the whole rest of her life unfolding in front of her.
Leo was telling a joke, and she was hearing but not really listening. She could feel every pebble she stepped on through her gradually dirtier sock. Her shoe was out there somewhere too, forever lost.
She felt relief, and confusion, and... fear. For what seemed the first time after waking up here, she was afraid for others, not just for herself. She sometimes worried about absurd and silly things, paranoid to the last, overthinking. Maybe that was true now.
But there were people back home who she cared about (her family, her friends, whoever was left, anyone who was left). Could she say for sure that they wouldn't be punished for this in the same way that not showing up for Announcement Day warranted punishment?
There was no precedent she could remember for that happening. There was no precedent for this, either, an invasion on American land, the enemy interfering with internal business. In the same way that her government wanted something from her, the British wanted something too, even if it was just for her to let them take her. Going with them meant helping them strike a blow against America.
If she was out of America's reach, then who could they punish?
She could run from the British even now; maybe she wouldn't be gunned down as she did. She could stay in the Program. She could fight it out. Forget her arm. If almost everyone left, she had a better shot at winning.
Instead, she was leaving. That had always been the end she expected, that she would do anything just so that she lived, no matter the form that life took. She would never see any of those people back home she cared about again. She would never know what happened to them, now or ever.
Leo was wrapping up his joke. Laughing. Crying. Even though she hadn't been listening in any real detail, Sylvia suddenly thought she understood. On some level, even if it wasn't the right one.
This was a miracle. More than anything she had dared to call a miracle before. She wanted to go home, but she was only allowed to live. What she was feeling was a special sort of ingratitude, to shove deep down inside, rolled up with her worries.
The sound of the helicopters was almost deafening now. She looked up, expecting to see stars and the moon, but instead she just blinked hard for a moment and saw nothing.
There was no going home, not from the start. Now, home wasn't even home anymore. Somehow the thought brought her closer to crying than anything since the first announcement.
F32: Sylvia Veneski - ESCAPED
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Irina Ivanov
- Posts: 222
- Joined: Wed Aug 08, 2018 9:47 am
- Location: The Land Down Under
(Edward Taylor continued from Dogtown)
What was he doing? All in a span of a few minutes, a girl came and attacked them, and a fight ensued. He had panicked and picked up a bow, and held it at gunpoint at the girl. Even with the sound of helicopters, he was still holding it. He looked at the battered girl, and the initial fear formed into something else, anger.
This girl was not just rude, she was willing to kill them, beyond crude. She injured someone and put their lives in danger. If she had escaped, then she might kill more. He couldn't let that stand. He had a good weapon in his hand, of course he’ll use it at some point. That being said, it was a bit early, but he’s seen far more explosively bloody days in past Programs.
Vigilante justice is abhorrent, but at this point, I’m the closest to the law there is. What will you choose, Edward? Bringing justice to this girl, or being cowardly again?
He barely could grasp the most logical reasoning: That this girl was simply a victim of The Program. Sure enough, by America’s standards, she was the dutiful hero, and he was the un-American villain.
He let go of the bow after what seemed like forever. He was a hunter, he was sure to be accurate.
He missed.
Edward couldn’t have missed by normal standards, so what caused him to misfire and leave the arrow embedded in the floor?
Maybe the new voice. The unfamiliar accent and maturity of it, it couldn’t have been a fellow American classmate. He turned around, and confirmed his fears. A British soldier. He’s never met a british person outside of films that portrayed them as sinister, bloodthirsty, baby-eating villains. A stereotype that he knew was propaganda.
What are the Brits doing here?....Saving us? Inconceivable! What enemy of the state would come in like knights in shining armour?
Still, he had to go along with them. Afterall, if even he had a little chance of survival, then he would take it. Much preferred over a shotgun in the stomach in the name of patriotism.
_______________________________________________________________
He was in the back of the group, trying to be as far from their British saviour as he could. And also trying to avoid Danielle. He didn’t dare stay too far though. He didn’t wanted to be picked off by the fittest. That being said, he wasn’t sure if the British were coming to save them. He didn’t understand why they would save them before and he still didn't. Maybe they had come to finish them off themselves.
He chuckled at Leo’s joke. But he truthfully much more terrified then he seemed. Edward didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die by the British, most of all. But what could he do? If he stayed, he would be killed, likely much more painfully.
But much more painful was what he had realised. His family was surely disowning him as he spoke, for associating with non-americans. And even if was returned to America, then he would be without a home. A filthy traitor. He would be in much more danger if he tried to return home. Maybe his father would gun him down. For trying to killing someone or accepting help from the enemy.
Edward was a man without a country.
He looked around him. Classmates around him were also being rescued. There was no way that this was a trick for the British to kill them, as they seemed to have taken measures to make sure the rescued were safe. No matter if they killed, were patriots or not, everyone here had a similarity: They wanted to live. They knew that their lives will never be the same again, and they were willing to accept that. He was willing to say that that was courage, even for a few. However, him? It couldn't have been any more cowardly.
For the first time since he arrived here, he hid his face not out of impulsive denial or fear. He wept. He wept as silently as he could, as boys weren't meant to cry. He wept because of multiple reasons: For the life that he was leaving behind, and the life that he was now to begin.
Miracles came in the strangest of ways.
M42 - EDWARD TAYLOR: ESCAPED
What was he doing? All in a span of a few minutes, a girl came and attacked them, and a fight ensued. He had panicked and picked up a bow, and held it at gunpoint at the girl. Even with the sound of helicopters, he was still holding it. He looked at the battered girl, and the initial fear formed into something else, anger.
This girl was not just rude, she was willing to kill them, beyond crude. She injured someone and put their lives in danger. If she had escaped, then she might kill more. He couldn't let that stand. He had a good weapon in his hand, of course he’ll use it at some point. That being said, it was a bit early, but he’s seen far more explosively bloody days in past Programs.
Vigilante justice is abhorrent, but at this point, I’m the closest to the law there is. What will you choose, Edward? Bringing justice to this girl, or being cowardly again?
He barely could grasp the most logical reasoning: That this girl was simply a victim of The Program. Sure enough, by America’s standards, she was the dutiful hero, and he was the un-American villain.
He let go of the bow after what seemed like forever. He was a hunter, he was sure to be accurate.
He missed.
Edward couldn’t have missed by normal standards, so what caused him to misfire and leave the arrow embedded in the floor?
Maybe the new voice. The unfamiliar accent and maturity of it, it couldn’t have been a fellow American classmate. He turned around, and confirmed his fears. A British soldier. He’s never met a british person outside of films that portrayed them as sinister, bloodthirsty, baby-eating villains. A stereotype that he knew was propaganda.
What are the Brits doing here?....Saving us? Inconceivable! What enemy of the state would come in like knights in shining armour?
Still, he had to go along with them. Afterall, if even he had a little chance of survival, then he would take it. Much preferred over a shotgun in the stomach in the name of patriotism.
_______________________________________________________________
He was in the back of the group, trying to be as far from their British saviour as he could. And also trying to avoid Danielle. He didn’t dare stay too far though. He didn’t wanted to be picked off by the fittest. That being said, he wasn’t sure if the British were coming to save them. He didn’t understand why they would save them before and he still didn't. Maybe they had come to finish them off themselves.
He chuckled at Leo’s joke. But he truthfully much more terrified then he seemed. Edward didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die by the British, most of all. But what could he do? If he stayed, he would be killed, likely much more painfully.
But much more painful was what he had realised. His family was surely disowning him as he spoke, for associating with non-americans. And even if was returned to America, then he would be without a home. A filthy traitor. He would be in much more danger if he tried to return home. Maybe his father would gun him down. For trying to killing someone or accepting help from the enemy.
Edward was a man without a country.
He looked around him. Classmates around him were also being rescued. There was no way that this was a trick for the British to kill them, as they seemed to have taken measures to make sure the rescued were safe. No matter if they killed, were patriots or not, everyone here had a similarity: They wanted to live. They knew that their lives will never be the same again, and they were willing to accept that. He was willing to say that that was courage, even for a few. However, him? It couldn't have been any more cowardly.
For the first time since he arrived here, he hid his face not out of impulsive denial or fear. He wept. He wept as silently as he could, as boys weren't meant to cry. He wept because of multiple reasons: For the life that he was leaving behind, and the life that he was now to begin.
Miracles came in the strangest of ways.
M42 - EDWARD TAYLOR: ESCAPED
((Charlotte Pemberton continued from Dogtown))
Charlie was sure this was technically kidnapping, or maybe taking prisoners of war. Hostages? Might be.
Ever since she was little, she’d think about that. Someone snatching her away, never to be seen again. Her parents were worried, as she grew up. They always told her and Toni to be safe while out and about. The two of them always had to have their phones nearby. It wasn’t just for calling people. Sometimes, their mother would advise them to take a picture and text her or Dad if something happened.
Mom had reason to worry.
Charlie never found out until she was older, but she had an aunt. She’d disappeared in her teens, never to be seen again. Charlie had found out accidentally, when she overheard Mom talking about it in Freshman year. They’d talked a bit about it as well. She remembered the look that was on Mom’s face as she talked about it.
Charlie and Toni’s aunt, her mother’s sister, had disappeared forever, never to be seen again, presumed… gone.
Sometimes she’d think about that.
Another time, she read about a POW’s experience. He’d talk about what the enemy could and would do if they caught someone. It wasn’t graphic, but it still stuck with her. Any number of things could happen if they decided to take a prisoner.
That’s why Charlie was hesitant even now, as they were being escorted to the helicopter. They were apparently being “taken out of this hellhole,” but she wasn’t certain what that meant. The men had accents that sounded vaguely like what she heard in movies, and were clearly soldiers.
As instructed, she brought the girl-- Danielle-- along, all bundled up inside a fishing net wall decoration they found. Hopefully that’d keep her restrained, and not capable of doing anything. Charlie pushed her forward, enough to keep her moving.
“Easy--”
But, she looked behind her, just a pause.
It was the first time she’d actually left the bar. This entire time, she’d been inside. It’d been her and the boy, then only her. Then, it was her and the others. In a sense, it was like a home. Was it weird to think that? It’d only been a few days, but it still held some importance to her.
Then suddenly, she wanted to run back inside. Hide. Let them not take her. Be somewhere that seemed safer, more certain.
Charlie had been just as scared of The Program. She’d often check and check, just to figure out the chances of being picked. Each time she brought it up, they’d assure her that the chances of being picked were slim, and even if she was, it’d be “a honor.”
She remembered what it was like. Wondering if someone was going to find you. Wondering if you were going to kill someone. Wondering what would happen if you smashed someone’s head open with a sledgehammer, or if you attacked someone with a broken bottle, or if you put glass in their food, or any number of awful things. Wondering if you were sick for having those thoughts, and try to push them away, just for a moment, hoping others didn’t realize.
As far as Charlie was concerned, she had two choices.
Either stay in a place she was used to, where the danger and fear was known. Or leave to a place where any number of things could happen.
She looked forward, just as someone-- Leo-- told a joke.
It was an old one, one she’d heard multiple times. But she let her cheeks raise. Despite everything that had happened in the past few minutes, she had to. It was oddly fitting.
Allow yourself another breath.
Push Danielle forward a bit more.
“C’mon, let’s go.”
Maybe she trusted.
Female Student #19 Charlotte “Charlie” Pemberton- ESCAPED
Inside the now quiet bar, someone could see a pink pastry box, sitting on a table with its lid splayed open. Only a few crumbs, decorated with red, white, and blue frosting, dotted the inside. It was alone, and without anyone to tend to it.
If someone would later enter the bar, if they saw the furniture readjusted towards the door, and the chair on the floor near the storage room, and maybe signs of a missing wall ornament, and definitely the pastry box, they might have guessed someone else had spent some time in here.
But by the time they would have, that someone-- someones-- would have been long gone.
Charlie was sure this was technically kidnapping, or maybe taking prisoners of war. Hostages? Might be.
Ever since she was little, she’d think about that. Someone snatching her away, never to be seen again. Her parents were worried, as she grew up. They always told her and Toni to be safe while out and about. The two of them always had to have their phones nearby. It wasn’t just for calling people. Sometimes, their mother would advise them to take a picture and text her or Dad if something happened.
Mom had reason to worry.
Charlie never found out until she was older, but she had an aunt. She’d disappeared in her teens, never to be seen again. Charlie had found out accidentally, when she overheard Mom talking about it in Freshman year. They’d talked a bit about it as well. She remembered the look that was on Mom’s face as she talked about it.
Charlie and Toni’s aunt, her mother’s sister, had disappeared forever, never to be seen again, presumed… gone.
Sometimes she’d think about that.
Another time, she read about a POW’s experience. He’d talk about what the enemy could and would do if they caught someone. It wasn’t graphic, but it still stuck with her. Any number of things could happen if they decided to take a prisoner.
That’s why Charlie was hesitant even now, as they were being escorted to the helicopter. They were apparently being “taken out of this hellhole,” but she wasn’t certain what that meant. The men had accents that sounded vaguely like what she heard in movies, and were clearly soldiers.
As instructed, she brought the girl-- Danielle-- along, all bundled up inside a fishing net wall decoration they found. Hopefully that’d keep her restrained, and not capable of doing anything. Charlie pushed her forward, enough to keep her moving.
“Easy--”
But, she looked behind her, just a pause.
It was the first time she’d actually left the bar. This entire time, she’d been inside. It’d been her and the boy, then only her. Then, it was her and the others. In a sense, it was like a home. Was it weird to think that? It’d only been a few days, but it still held some importance to her.
Then suddenly, she wanted to run back inside. Hide. Let them not take her. Be somewhere that seemed safer, more certain.
Charlie had been just as scared of The Program. She’d often check and check, just to figure out the chances of being picked. Each time she brought it up, they’d assure her that the chances of being picked were slim, and even if she was, it’d be “a honor.”
She remembered what it was like. Wondering if someone was going to find you. Wondering if you were going to kill someone. Wondering what would happen if you smashed someone’s head open with a sledgehammer, or if you attacked someone with a broken bottle, or if you put glass in their food, or any number of awful things. Wondering if you were sick for having those thoughts, and try to push them away, just for a moment, hoping others didn’t realize.
As far as Charlie was concerned, she had two choices.
Either stay in a place she was used to, where the danger and fear was known. Or leave to a place where any number of things could happen.
She looked forward, just as someone-- Leo-- told a joke.
It was an old one, one she’d heard multiple times. But she let her cheeks raise. Despite everything that had happened in the past few minutes, she had to. It was oddly fitting.
Allow yourself another breath.
Push Danielle forward a bit more.
“C’mon, let’s go.”
Maybe she trusted.
Female Student #19 Charlotte “Charlie” Pemberton- ESCAPED
Inside the now quiet bar, someone could see a pink pastry box, sitting on a table with its lid splayed open. Only a few crumbs, decorated with red, white, and blue frosting, dotted the inside. It was alone, and without anyone to tend to it.
If someone would later enter the bar, if they saw the furniture readjusted towards the door, and the chair on the floor near the storage room, and maybe signs of a missing wall ornament, and definitely the pastry box, they might have guessed someone else had spent some time in here.
But by the time they would have, that someone-- someones-- would have been long gone.
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CondorTalon
- Posts: 459
- Joined: Thu Sep 20, 2018 1:22 am
((Ingrid White continued from Cataplexy.))
Well.
What else was there to say?
Ingrid left the house.
Ingrid stayed as far away from people as she was able.
Ingrid managed to not die.
Ingrid's leg managed to heal... somewhat.
And so the day passed. And so Ingrid found herself alive when the skies erupted.
...
Ingrid ran. She decided to run until she encountered someone, because right now it was time to make a choice.
Ingrid ran. She ran through the pain in her leg. She ran until she saw the soldiers, and only then did she allow herself to slow down. A soldier spotted her, and she allowed herself to speak.
"What's going to happen to me?" she asked.
Ingrid didn't remember much after that.
F04 - Ingrid White: ESCAPED
Well.
What else was there to say?
Ingrid left the house.
Ingrid stayed as far away from people as she was able.
Ingrid managed to not die.
Ingrid's leg managed to heal... somewhat.
And so the day passed. And so Ingrid found herself alive when the skies erupted.
...
Ingrid ran. She decided to run until she encountered someone, because right now it was time to make a choice.
Ingrid ran. She ran through the pain in her leg. She ran until she saw the soldiers, and only then did she allow herself to slow down. A soldier spotted her, and she allowed herself to speak.
"What's going to happen to me?" she asked.
Ingrid didn't remember much after that.
F04 - Ingrid White: ESCAPED
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Wham Yubeesling
- Posts: 1255
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:15 pm
- Location: there is a man standing behind you
- Team Affiliation: Stephanie's Buccaneers
- Contact:
There were shapes, in the darkness.
Y'know, things. Dream shit. Things you couldn't even begin to describe just 'cause there weren't even any words to describe them. They weren't proper dreams — not yet proper dreams, at fuckin' least — but they still existed in the same sorta realm, just one door down from dreams proper and just a couple more rooms down from whatever your mind did when it was dyin'. Buddy sorta wasn't really in a position where he could say or really think anything, but if he did, he'd probably say or think somethin' about how he didn't know what his mind'd do when he was going to die and that he wasn't plannin' on findin' out either. Cause that was the main aim of what Buddy'd been trying to do these past few days. Sorta lost track of that durin' the last final moments when he'd done all that shit, but, um…
"And God, he says- he's all like-"
Y'know that saying about how at the last moment a god would come out of the machine and suddenly make everything okay again?
Well, if Buddy were around to see this, if Buddy knew what the sayin' was, he'd drop all that unholy shit he'd done in the past and become a man of faith.
"God looks at the guy, and he goes, 'Man, what are you talking about? I sent you a helicopter and a boat.'"
"Heh. Y'got a sense of humour on yeh, kid."
But he wasn't. Buddy was not on the phone right now. Not because he was dead or anythin' — the opposite, really. He was just filled with so much life and sugar that he was off in a little place called dreamland right about now. He was at the point where he was doin' stuff there rather than just seeing vague shapes and shit in the darkness, but what he was doin'... eh, didn't matter. Buddy had once read a book and that book had told him that you didn't remember dreams unless they were fifteen minutes before you woke up, and that sounded like somethin' relevant to this conversation.
"Least though… when we're back… I can fuckin' put this guy down."
Cause, y'know. Buddy had done things, and there were going to be consequences for those things. Maybe there weren't any blood on his hands, but dude didn't really have a clean soul. Dude wouldn't think that he'd get off scot free, if he knew what was happenin' right now. He didn't, but, well…
Dude was frolickin' in dreamland right now. Dude had no idea what was goin' on in the outside world.
"You know how this happened, by the way? Doesn't look like his head got hit."
And hey, when literally everything he had to worry about was out there?
"Whatever. Guess if he looks like a nuisance he's gonna be a nuisance."
Dude was gonna take the one break he'd actually gotten.
M35 - Buddy Underwood: ESCAPED
Y'know, things. Dream shit. Things you couldn't even begin to describe just 'cause there weren't even any words to describe them. They weren't proper dreams — not yet proper dreams, at fuckin' least — but they still existed in the same sorta realm, just one door down from dreams proper and just a couple more rooms down from whatever your mind did when it was dyin'. Buddy sorta wasn't really in a position where he could say or really think anything, but if he did, he'd probably say or think somethin' about how he didn't know what his mind'd do when he was going to die and that he wasn't plannin' on findin' out either. Cause that was the main aim of what Buddy'd been trying to do these past few days. Sorta lost track of that durin' the last final moments when he'd done all that shit, but, um…
"And God, he says- he's all like-"
Y'know that saying about how at the last moment a god would come out of the machine and suddenly make everything okay again?
Well, if Buddy were around to see this, if Buddy knew what the sayin' was, he'd drop all that unholy shit he'd done in the past and become a man of faith.
"God looks at the guy, and he goes, 'Man, what are you talking about? I sent you a helicopter and a boat.'"
"Heh. Y'got a sense of humour on yeh, kid."
But he wasn't. Buddy was not on the phone right now. Not because he was dead or anythin' — the opposite, really. He was just filled with so much life and sugar that he was off in a little place called dreamland right about now. He was at the point where he was doin' stuff there rather than just seeing vague shapes and shit in the darkness, but what he was doin'... eh, didn't matter. Buddy had once read a book and that book had told him that you didn't remember dreams unless they were fifteen minutes before you woke up, and that sounded like somethin' relevant to this conversation.
"Least though… when we're back… I can fuckin' put this guy down."
Cause, y'know. Buddy had done things, and there were going to be consequences for those things. Maybe there weren't any blood on his hands, but dude didn't really have a clean soul. Dude wouldn't think that he'd get off scot free, if he knew what was happenin' right now. He didn't, but, well…
Dude was frolickin' in dreamland right now. Dude had no idea what was goin' on in the outside world.
"You know how this happened, by the way? Doesn't look like his head got hit."
And hey, when literally everything he had to worry about was out there?
"Whatever. Guess if he looks like a nuisance he's gonna be a nuisance."
Dude was gonna take the one break he'd actually gotten.
M35 - Buddy Underwood: ESCAPED
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MethodicalSlacker
- Posts: 250
- Joined: Tue Aug 07, 2018 6:26 pm
- Location: Hanging Onto A Buoy For Dear Life
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
- Contact:
taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap
"I'm going to be fucking sick."
"Check his pulse, check his—Jesus Christ, he reeks."
"Is it okay to take this one? How many did he kill? Sick fuck must be covered in the blood of at least twenty—"
"He just blinked."
"Lord."
Henry Thompson, Sruthi Kaur, and Gina Hughes had disembarked from the smaller of the two support helicopters with the instructions to sweep the messy network of houses and dilapidated flats that encompassed the majority of the town and look for any signs of life, bringing them back to the main helicopter unless they actively resisted rescue or cost them significant time in the rescue operation. Their window was only a couple of hours, after all, and they needed to get out of there before the Americans arrived. Originally, they had been part of a team of six, and only separated from the other three when they realized the true span of the Cabeza. After a quick scan of the western districts, the three had made their way to the north, where they presently stood.
Kaur was in charge of the first aid kit, Thompson was to deal with carrying any students that could not walk, and Hughes had the duty of navigation and generally taking point, as well as trying to negotiate with any students that needed convincing that this wasn't a trap of any sort. Despite her duty on point, Gina knew that she was not the most soothing personality to deal with, and had a silent agreement with Sruthi that if things got too difficult, she was free to pass off responsibility to her. Kaur had been serving for about twice as long as Hughes—even if that only meant six years to Hughes' three. She was used to shouldering additional responsibilities. It was hard to tell if she even minded much.
They had needed a more substantial torch to get through some of the more cramped areas between buildings to check for anyone in serious hiding, but for the most part they only needed their own eyes to find the place strangely deserted, in a few ways. Occasionally they would hear the patrolling of other groups nearby, and steer clear of them, leave them to their own devices. If that area was already covered, then the area close by was likely already swept, or about to be searched. Other than that, they had come across nobody else. It was almost time to return to the helicopters, and the team was growing somewhat restless.
It should come as no surprise, then, that they found themselves on the outskirts of the residential district, in an area with a more suburban layout, despite the presence of several buildings that were four to five stories tall. They had been made desperate to find someone, anyone, rather than come back empty handed. They had rounded the corner of a street lined with smaller flats, houses with at the very most two floors. It was only a through-way to get to a taller building not too far away on the route with a higher likelihood of a few hiding students, and Thompson in particular was made impatient by the time it had taken them to traverse the expanse between them and the building.
Funnily enough, it was Thompson that spotted the bloodied boy laying on the sidewalk outside one of the more decayed houses in the district, and, instantly and instinctively, rushed over to him to make sure that he was okay. Kaur and Hughes got there in time to see him pull away from the boy, walk over to the middle of the street, and heave up the day's rations onto the ground. Gina grimaced, but turned away. Henry had only enlisted a year and a half ago.
The child was stripped down to his pants, rolled up around his knees and ripped in places to show his bruised skin. His body took on the stench and color of dried blood. His hair was matted, and when Kaur rolled him over to shine a light in his eyes she saw that his nose was twisted almost clean off. A gash tore its way across his cheek almost to his eye. Sruthi assessed that, even though she could tell from what remained that he had not been an unfit child, he had not eaten in the entire day and a half that that he had been at the Cabeza—or at least, eaten very little—and had started to waste away.
It was not clear whose blood he was covered in, but there was too much for it to be entirely his own. Gina tried to think of ways to not be disgusted with what she was seeing. It took a few moments, but Kaur gave the confirmation that he was, in fact alive, and Hughes' countenance grew more grim. Thompson was leaning against a streetlamp a house away, punching himself in the face, trying to get himself back together.
"Kid, are you okay? Can you hear me?" Hughes asked, gingerly putting her gloved left hand on the boy's own, fumbling for words.
"He's not in any state to respond, I think," Kaur said, taking out her first aid kit, unsure where to start with him. His right arm seemed broken, and his right foot was bent at the ankle in such a way that for the moment Kaur had to pinch herself a few times before she could accept what she was seeing. The most immediately apparent wound was that on the boy's cheek, the gash, and she went to apply the cleaning alcohol, cotton swabs, and adhesive strip swiftly.
"We can fix him up when we get to the helicopter, ma'am," Thompson said, making his way back over and wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, "Extraction is our priority, right now."
"Just give me a second to dress his more pressing wounds."
"Kiddo, can you hear me?"
"Alright, I'm ready to carry him."
"Cradle, if you would. He doesn't look like he has a bad enough spine injury, if he has one at all."
"He's responding to a torch in his eyes. He's lucid."
"Maybe we can ask him, then, how he'd like to be carried?"
"He's too hurt for him to have any reliable say in the matter. We need to get him out."
Hughes nodded in agreement, and had opened her mouth to speak, when suddenly—
she found that the hand she had been holding had slipped away from her own—
somehow, when she had been looking at him, wondering how he had even made it this far—
hand slipped away, moved a couple of centimeters to the side, and cupped its fingers.
Hands. Hands lifting him, touching him, touching him all over. It hurt. He had never once felt pain before now. Ever. Not once, not in the neighborhood stray cats he watched starve to death in the alley behind his house, not ever. He had never seen a cat in the alley behind his house. There was no alley behind his house.
[Cybil Price continued from The Eternal Return.]
Either way, hands. He could not deny the hands. They were now. Not before, not after, but finally, only, uniquely now. They opened his eyes and he saw how radiant they were. Three days in the tomb, three days in the womb, and he was being removed. Cut from beneath and fished out with hooks. Hands. Subjective insects under his skin, objective hands on his shoulders. He could not tell if he had gone crazy or if he was only pretending to have gone crazy. Pretending for whom? Himself? The hands could tell where he was. They could, or couldn't, feel the bugs under his skin. He could not tell the voices of the hands around him from the voices that existed in his head, or did not.
He felt the ground disappear from beneath him and screamed in pain. The hands faltered momentarily, but continued to pull him upwards. He could see the sun again.
It was only a couple of minutes until he was being moved. Pulled away. Dragged through the air. There were six of them in total, and he could not tell any of them from one another. They spoke in ways that were not of this world. Two of them alike, one different, but still the same. Cybil felt flashes of light and pain from time to time—a piece of the sky, a corner of a street, the pavement as the hands came dangerously close to letting him fall to the ground. He still smelled the pool. Was he too lucid to imagine the life in brightly lit square cube rooms that awaited him?
It was not too long, and it was forever, before he was finally set down on what felt like a bed. The hands left him, and the air around him changed. They departed with sadness in their voices. He could make out words. They wondered if he would be okay. They wondered if it had been worth it to take him. They wondered, they wondered, they wondered. They wondered for want of knowledge. They wondered because they were human.
He was in a metal box with borders everywhere and walls nowhere, and soon, this would all be over. More hands rushed to steady him, but he felt no attachment to these hands because he could see the faces that they belonged to. Human faces, holy hands. He felt himself drifting into sleep, and though they kept his eyes from shutting all the way down, the hands could not stop Cybil Price from retreating deep inside of himself and picking out a spot where he could have some time to finally, ultimately, rest.
And so and so and so, the blades of the helicopter taptaptaptaptaptapped in circles, eventually and always, and Cybil Price was lifted through the skies, away from the self he had killed, and towards safety.
Or else, delivered towards a new beginning.
[M19 - Cybil Price: Escaped]
"I'm going to be fucking sick."
"Check his pulse, check his—Jesus Christ, he reeks."
"Is it okay to take this one? How many did he kill? Sick fuck must be covered in the blood of at least twenty—"
"He just blinked."
"Lord."
Henry Thompson, Sruthi Kaur, and Gina Hughes had disembarked from the smaller of the two support helicopters with the instructions to sweep the messy network of houses and dilapidated flats that encompassed the majority of the town and look for any signs of life, bringing them back to the main helicopter unless they actively resisted rescue or cost them significant time in the rescue operation. Their window was only a couple of hours, after all, and they needed to get out of there before the Americans arrived. Originally, they had been part of a team of six, and only separated from the other three when they realized the true span of the Cabeza. After a quick scan of the western districts, the three had made their way to the north, where they presently stood.
Kaur was in charge of the first aid kit, Thompson was to deal with carrying any students that could not walk, and Hughes had the duty of navigation and generally taking point, as well as trying to negotiate with any students that needed convincing that this wasn't a trap of any sort. Despite her duty on point, Gina knew that she was not the most soothing personality to deal with, and had a silent agreement with Sruthi that if things got too difficult, she was free to pass off responsibility to her. Kaur had been serving for about twice as long as Hughes—even if that only meant six years to Hughes' three. She was used to shouldering additional responsibilities. It was hard to tell if she even minded much.
They had needed a more substantial torch to get through some of the more cramped areas between buildings to check for anyone in serious hiding, but for the most part they only needed their own eyes to find the place strangely deserted, in a few ways. Occasionally they would hear the patrolling of other groups nearby, and steer clear of them, leave them to their own devices. If that area was already covered, then the area close by was likely already swept, or about to be searched. Other than that, they had come across nobody else. It was almost time to return to the helicopters, and the team was growing somewhat restless.
It should come as no surprise, then, that they found themselves on the outskirts of the residential district, in an area with a more suburban layout, despite the presence of several buildings that were four to five stories tall. They had been made desperate to find someone, anyone, rather than come back empty handed. They had rounded the corner of a street lined with smaller flats, houses with at the very most two floors. It was only a through-way to get to a taller building not too far away on the route with a higher likelihood of a few hiding students, and Thompson in particular was made impatient by the time it had taken them to traverse the expanse between them and the building.
Funnily enough, it was Thompson that spotted the bloodied boy laying on the sidewalk outside one of the more decayed houses in the district, and, instantly and instinctively, rushed over to him to make sure that he was okay. Kaur and Hughes got there in time to see him pull away from the boy, walk over to the middle of the street, and heave up the day's rations onto the ground. Gina grimaced, but turned away. Henry had only enlisted a year and a half ago.
The child was stripped down to his pants, rolled up around his knees and ripped in places to show his bruised skin. His body took on the stench and color of dried blood. His hair was matted, and when Kaur rolled him over to shine a light in his eyes she saw that his nose was twisted almost clean off. A gash tore its way across his cheek almost to his eye. Sruthi assessed that, even though she could tell from what remained that he had not been an unfit child, he had not eaten in the entire day and a half that that he had been at the Cabeza—or at least, eaten very little—and had started to waste away.
It was not clear whose blood he was covered in, but there was too much for it to be entirely his own. Gina tried to think of ways to not be disgusted with what she was seeing. It took a few moments, but Kaur gave the confirmation that he was, in fact alive, and Hughes' countenance grew more grim. Thompson was leaning against a streetlamp a house away, punching himself in the face, trying to get himself back together.
"Kid, are you okay? Can you hear me?" Hughes asked, gingerly putting her gloved left hand on the boy's own, fumbling for words.
"He's not in any state to respond, I think," Kaur said, taking out her first aid kit, unsure where to start with him. His right arm seemed broken, and his right foot was bent at the ankle in such a way that for the moment Kaur had to pinch herself a few times before she could accept what she was seeing. The most immediately apparent wound was that on the boy's cheek, the gash, and she went to apply the cleaning alcohol, cotton swabs, and adhesive strip swiftly.
"We can fix him up when we get to the helicopter, ma'am," Thompson said, making his way back over and wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, "Extraction is our priority, right now."
"Just give me a second to dress his more pressing wounds."
"Kiddo, can you hear me?"
"Alright, I'm ready to carry him."
"Cradle, if you would. He doesn't look like he has a bad enough spine injury, if he has one at all."
"He's responding to a torch in his eyes. He's lucid."
"Maybe we can ask him, then, how he'd like to be carried?"
"He's too hurt for him to have any reliable say in the matter. We need to get him out."
Hughes nodded in agreement, and had opened her mouth to speak, when suddenly—
she found that the hand she had been holding had slipped away from her own—
somehow, when she had been looking at him, wondering how he had even made it this far—
hand slipped away, moved a couple of centimeters to the side, and cupped its fingers.
Hands. Hands lifting him, touching him, touching him all over. It hurt. He had never once felt pain before now. Ever. Not once, not in the neighborhood stray cats he watched starve to death in the alley behind his house, not ever. He had never seen a cat in the alley behind his house. There was no alley behind his house.
[Cybil Price continued from The Eternal Return.]
Either way, hands. He could not deny the hands. They were now. Not before, not after, but finally, only, uniquely now. They opened his eyes and he saw how radiant they were. Three days in the tomb, three days in the womb, and he was being removed. Cut from beneath and fished out with hooks. Hands. Subjective insects under his skin, objective hands on his shoulders. He could not tell if he had gone crazy or if he was only pretending to have gone crazy. Pretending for whom? Himself? The hands could tell where he was. They could, or couldn't, feel the bugs under his skin. He could not tell the voices of the hands around him from the voices that existed in his head, or did not.
He felt the ground disappear from beneath him and screamed in pain. The hands faltered momentarily, but continued to pull him upwards. He could see the sun again.
It was only a couple of minutes until he was being moved. Pulled away. Dragged through the air. There were six of them in total, and he could not tell any of them from one another. They spoke in ways that were not of this world. Two of them alike, one different, but still the same. Cybil felt flashes of light and pain from time to time—a piece of the sky, a corner of a street, the pavement as the hands came dangerously close to letting him fall to the ground. He still smelled the pool. Was he too lucid to imagine the life in brightly lit square cube rooms that awaited him?
It was not too long, and it was forever, before he was finally set down on what felt like a bed. The hands left him, and the air around him changed. They departed with sadness in their voices. He could make out words. They wondered if he would be okay. They wondered if it had been worth it to take him. They wondered, they wondered, they wondered. They wondered for want of knowledge. They wondered because they were human.
He was in a metal box with borders everywhere and walls nowhere, and soon, this would all be over. More hands rushed to steady him, but he felt no attachment to these hands because he could see the faces that they belonged to. Human faces, holy hands. He felt himself drifting into sleep, and though they kept his eyes from shutting all the way down, the hands could not stop Cybil Price from retreating deep inside of himself and picking out a spot where he could have some time to finally, ultimately, rest.
And so and so and so, the blades of the helicopter taptaptaptaptaptapped in circles, eventually and always, and Cybil Price was lifted through the skies, away from the self he had killed, and towards safety.
Or else, delivered towards a new beginning.
[M19 - Cybil Price: Escaped]
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