Ever since he and Fisk linked up, he always had somebody with him.
He’s alone now. Curled up in the back of this car.
Nobody but Seth’s blood was with him. That’s… kinda morbid, actually, but in a really, really funny way. Vasily wasn’t sure why, but he’s always had a liking for fucked up shit, so… He laughed. Just a little bit.
Wouldn’t that make him look even more unhinged, if the audience didn’t know what he’s laughing at? He just killed someone and now he’s laughing. That wouldn’t be good for ratings.
Fuck the ratings. Let ‘em laugh.
He tapped against his collar. Click click.
And then a voice. From himself.
“Hey, Malcolm. Sorry that you have to see me like this, but uh... “
He had so much to ask. So much to talk about.
“What did you think of my… performance? Anything I can do to improve? Anything I’m doing wrong?”
A sigh.
“And before you ask, I don't buy into Fisk's whole lets-get-out-together thing, though I do think he cares about me. About us. I probably shouldn't like him so much, but why the fuck not. And hey, a team’s a team, and I’m prepared for anything to go wrong.”
He really wasn’t, but just pretend, OK? He’s trying.
“They’re my friends. I’d like to keep them for as long as I can before things go wrong. And when that happens, I know I’ll have to let them go, like my other friends. Except Keegan. Well, if the gunshot doesn’t fuck him up too bad- lugging someone severely injured probably isn’t the best idea, but, eh. I mean, I still hope that we’ll stick together ‘till the end.”
He knew that Fisk wasn’t far away. In another car somewhere, or something like that- they both came here, together. He didn't want Fisk to hear that he isn't believing the whole "own teams" thing, didn't wanna hurt his feelings. The whole point of the game is that they're the subjects, the experiments, that they're below the producers. They won't yield to their demands. But he wanted to believe they can. And maybe he could run on that hope for just a little bit longer 'till he crashes down.
'Sleep is the cousin of Death' and other pretentious things you can say
mentorshot-turned-multishot.
''Are ya giving me the silent treatment, or are you just so drunk off your ass that you aren't even gonna do your job?''
Vasily sighed. Of course joining a team that's actively going against the show's going to land him in hot water, even though he knew that it isn't, like, collar-blowable.
''Fine, maybe I was rude. But, like, I'm waiting. Do something. Even if it's just telling me to fuck off.''
He used to love this show. There's always this detached air of apathy about it- all the teenagers fawning over the characters like they're just characters.
Vasily always told himself that he'll put up a good show.
But history's written by the winners, and he needed to win first.
''... I feel like I'm digging myself into a hole too deep,'' he whispered, horrified revelation seeping into his voice, falling into the false comfort of knowing that his 'mentor' won't barge in and comment.
There's going to be a moment where he or his loved ones got picked off. Loved ones. He loved his classmates, yeah, platonically, yeah, it's still hard to process, but he'd always been good at lying to himself, right? It's easy to tell himsrlf that everything will be OK and not that he'd only have Keegan leave with him, at best, out of this little ragtag group.
He didn't want to think of them as obstacles, but that's all they are now, right? He hated his capacity for empathy. He hated the fact that he related to the kids dying on screens, hated the fact that these voices in his brain always used to ask him what if he'll end up on there, this unique sort of paranoia that's not really quite prescent in other parts of his life.
Well, jokes on them. He's prepared for this.
No.
He wasn't.
Nobody could ever be prepared for this.
He stayed curled up in this little car. Blood smeared over everything- his face, his hands, the leather car seats. Cassini was a friend. Seth was someone with a family and friends and pets. They're just gone and it was his fault, because if they weren't chading Cass around Eric probably wouldn't have come and took the kill. They won't ever talk again. They won't ever hug their family or watch their favorite shows or even think anything.
It's something that he's always been terrified of, death. Having his thoughts and memory and personhood stripped away, becoming nothing, losing everything.
He did that to two people, and they hated him for it.
Vasily didn't cry. He swore he didn't. It was just a single drop, from his yawning.
The seat cushions were the softest things he felt ever since he woke up here, and he wanted to fall asleep here.
Vasily sighed. Of course joining a team that's actively going against the show's going to land him in hot water, even though he knew that it isn't, like, collar-blowable.
''Fine, maybe I was rude. But, like, I'm waiting. Do something. Even if it's just telling me to fuck off.''
He used to love this show. There's always this detached air of apathy about it- all the teenagers fawning over the characters like they're just characters.
Vasily always told himself that he'll put up a good show.
But history's written by the winners, and he needed to win first.
''... I feel like I'm digging myself into a hole too deep,'' he whispered, horrified revelation seeping into his voice, falling into the false comfort of knowing that his 'mentor' won't barge in and comment.
There's going to be a moment where he or his loved ones got picked off. Loved ones. He loved his classmates, yeah, platonically, yeah, it's still hard to process, but he'd always been good at lying to himself, right? It's easy to tell himsrlf that everything will be OK and not that he'd only have Keegan leave with him, at best, out of this little ragtag group.
He didn't want to think of them as obstacles, but that's all they are now, right? He hated his capacity for empathy. He hated the fact that he related to the kids dying on screens, hated the fact that these voices in his brain always used to ask him what if he'll end up on there, this unique sort of paranoia that's not really quite prescent in other parts of his life.
Well, jokes on them. He's prepared for this.
No.
He wasn't.
Nobody could ever be prepared for this.
He stayed curled up in this little car. Blood smeared over everything- his face, his hands, the leather car seats. Cassini was a friend. Seth was someone with a family and friends and pets. They're just gone and it was his fault, because if they weren't chading Cass around Eric probably wouldn't have come and took the kill. They won't ever talk again. They won't ever hug their family or watch their favorite shows or even think anything.
It's something that he's always been terrified of, death. Having his thoughts and memory and personhood stripped away, becoming nothing, losing everything.
He did that to two people, and they hated him for it.
Vasily didn't cry. He swore he didn't. It was just a single drop, from his yawning.
The seat cushions were the softest things he felt ever since he woke up here, and he wanted to fall asleep here.
He closed his eyes.
He let himself relax.
He buried his head in the leather.
No.
He couldn't.
He couldn't.
He let himself relax.
He buried his head in the leather.
No.
He couldn't.
He couldn't.
No.
He needed sleep. It's, like, important. He didn't want to feel tired and groggy and unable to concentrate while engaged in a knifefight.
Fuck this. Fuck biology. Fuck this stupid game and the human brain's need for entertainment. Fuck all that blood smeared over him.
If he slept, maybe this would all go away.
Maybe, just maybe, and he knew deep down this is bullshit, he could wake up. Wander the school halls again. Talk to Cass, maybe, and tell her about this crazy dream he had, like, 'hey last night I had a nightmare about SOTF again and you wouldn't believe what I did!'
Yeah, maybe.
Or he could just spend his time preparing for the next inevitable fight.
But he's so tired, and the seat was so comfortable, and he wanted to get away from it all for just a moment before he has to wake up and snap into reality.
He closed his eyes again, and everything just faded pleasantly.
He needed sleep. It's, like, important. He didn't want to feel tired and groggy and unable to concentrate while engaged in a knifefight.
Fuck this. Fuck biology. Fuck this stupid game and the human brain's need for entertainment. Fuck all that blood smeared over him.
If he slept, maybe this would all go away.
Maybe, just maybe, and he knew deep down this is bullshit, he could wake up. Wander the school halls again. Talk to Cass, maybe, and tell her about this crazy dream he had, like, 'hey last night I had a nightmare about SOTF again and you wouldn't believe what I did!'
Yeah, maybe.
Or he could just spend his time preparing for the next inevitable fight.
But he's so tired, and the seat was so comfortable, and he wanted to get away from it all for just a moment before he has to wake up and snap into reality.
He closed his eyes again, and everything just faded pleasantly.
A hand shook Vasily’s shoulder.
“Hey.” He whispered.
“Hey, hey dude, wake up! A lot of fucking people are coming this way, we have to hide, now!”
“Hey.” He whispered.
“Hey, hey dude, wake up! A lot of fucking people are coming this way, we have to hide, now!”
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
He dreamed. Of course he dreamed. And It wasn’t something like Seth’s ghost coming back to haunt him or anything lame and cliche like that.
It was worse, because it was happy.
The dream started like this: It was snowing, somehow, but Vasily distinctively remembered wearing his regular Miami clothes and not feeling cold. He was in front of a pond, and he had bread in his hands, and he was feeding dogs that were paddling in the water. Since it was a dream, he didn’t question why the dogs are in the water.
And, since it was a dream, he didn’t question why Cassini was there, either, still wearing a bright logo T-shirt and rollerskates instead of that costume she got.
Dream-Cass sat besides Dream-Vasily, grabbing a fistful of the bread he had and chucking it into the dog pond. It was almost cute. It was so fucking cute. Even when Seth and Eric and… Fisk in a duck-patterned swimsuit? Even when they showed up and Eric handed him a bag of coke and they all just did coke while feeding the water-dogs, sitting on snow that magically wasn’t melting and laughing while high as the mysterious purple sun shone on them.
It was almost a normal dream- that nonsensical, yet mundane kind. Not the dreams that people write about kids experiencing in SOTF. It wasn’t even a nightmare.
He wished it was a nightmare.
Then, maybe he wouldn’t be struck by regret- of what could have been. Just these five of them doing normal-people things. Maybe not coke, but feeding dogs and shit. All that. Happy people stuff.
He was almost pissed at Fisk, but then he remembered where he was and the fact that he didn’t wake up in his bedroom and he became even more pissed.
“Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Just when I’m gettin’ to the good part of my beauty nap. Yeah, yeah. OK. I’m going. Fuck. We gotta wash this blood off sometime.”
It was worse, because it was happy.
The dream started like this: It was snowing, somehow, but Vasily distinctively remembered wearing his regular Miami clothes and not feeling cold. He was in front of a pond, and he had bread in his hands, and he was feeding dogs that were paddling in the water. Since it was a dream, he didn’t question why the dogs are in the water.
And, since it was a dream, he didn’t question why Cassini was there, either, still wearing a bright logo T-shirt and rollerskates instead of that costume she got.
Dream-Cass sat besides Dream-Vasily, grabbing a fistful of the bread he had and chucking it into the dog pond. It was almost cute. It was so fucking cute. Even when Seth and Eric and… Fisk in a duck-patterned swimsuit? Even when they showed up and Eric handed him a bag of coke and they all just did coke while feeding the water-dogs, sitting on snow that magically wasn’t melting and laughing while high as the mysterious purple sun shone on them.
It was almost a normal dream- that nonsensical, yet mundane kind. Not the dreams that people write about kids experiencing in SOTF. It wasn’t even a nightmare.
He wished it was a nightmare.
Then, maybe he wouldn’t be struck by regret- of what could have been. Just these five of them doing normal-people things. Maybe not coke, but feeding dogs and shit. All that. Happy people stuff.
He was almost pissed at Fisk, but then he remembered where he was and the fact that he didn’t wake up in his bedroom and he became even more pissed.
“Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Just when I’m gettin’ to the good part of my beauty nap. Yeah, yeah. OK. I’m going. Fuck. We gotta wash this blood off sometime.”
“Yeah, we’ll get a shower at the cruise ship, right now we gotta get out, too many people for both of us to deal with.” Fisk grabbed Vasily’s hand.
“Follow me and stay low. We can’t let them see us or shit could get bad.”
((Fisk Bateman continued elsewhere.))
“Follow me and stay low. We can’t let them see us or shit could get bad.”
((Fisk Bateman continued elsewhere.))
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.