...
Why did he leave again?
>Entering chapter 2
>2/?
A figure entered the scene, invisible to any characters but within the line of sight for onlookers.
He never liked people as people, anyways.
Nerves Of The Ocean Shores
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MurderWeasel
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They were leaving.
It was a slow process, a halting one, but the pair turned and set off moving and Leander watched them go. While his respiration was steady, each lungful thick with sea salt and damp vegetation and scattered bark, his finger trembled, bouncing off the trigger, tapping against it so soft it was on the very edge of perception.
The two of them were moving roughly away from Leander's position. It was simple to rest the center of the scope between shoulder blades. Center of mass. Bang, just like that. Maybe a one-two if whoever didn't drop stood around trying to figure what had blown a hole in the other. When they paused again, removing even the motion factor, his lips curled up and he almost laughed. It was too easy.
That was when he took his eye from the scope, blinked some perspective back into his vision, returned to binocular processing, just to take a look around. And good thing, too, because emerging from the treeline in the other direction, also a nice long ways away, was a different figure. Alone.
The AWP pivoted in a long, slow arc, and Leander's face fell into place in a movement already turning second nature. The quirk of his lips cracked into a full grin as the detail resolved itself. It was the boy he'd "shot" back at the river, the one with the gun of his own.
Just a couple hours in, and already the channel was showing reruns.
It was a slow process, a halting one, but the pair turned and set off moving and Leander watched them go. While his respiration was steady, each lungful thick with sea salt and damp vegetation and scattered bark, his finger trembled, bouncing off the trigger, tapping against it so soft it was on the very edge of perception.
The two of them were moving roughly away from Leander's position. It was simple to rest the center of the scope between shoulder blades. Center of mass. Bang, just like that. Maybe a one-two if whoever didn't drop stood around trying to figure what had blown a hole in the other. When they paused again, removing even the motion factor, his lips curled up and he almost laughed. It was too easy.
That was when he took his eye from the scope, blinked some perspective back into his vision, returned to binocular processing, just to take a look around. And good thing, too, because emerging from the treeline in the other direction, also a nice long ways away, was a different figure. Alone.
The AWP pivoted in a long, slow arc, and Leander's face fell into place in a movement already turning second nature. The quirk of his lips cracked into a full grin as the detail resolved itself. It was the boy he'd "shot" back at the river, the one with the gun of his own.
Just a couple hours in, and already the channel was showing reruns.
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Primrosette
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- Location: In Her Dark Abyss
Oh.
Right.
Austin glanced back at Oscar and he touched the side of his face that had the dried blood on it, humming softly. The blood of that boy who had been shot. What had that man's name been? Jack or something...? What did he really want from them? What kind of test was he putting them all through? What kind of experiment was this?
"Ah...."
He paused on his words.
"Hm..."
Paused again.
"I'll sort it out when we're not in the open like this." Austin pointed out at the area around them and he continued to move onward, his steps were moving into a power walk at best. "I kinda forgot since.... It was a shock seeing someone getting shot up close like that honestly."
((Austin Song continued in (Un)Happy Camping))
Right.
Austin glanced back at Oscar and he touched the side of his face that had the dried blood on it, humming softly. The blood of that boy who had been shot. What had that man's name been? Jack or something...? What did he really want from them? What kind of test was he putting them all through? What kind of experiment was this?
"Ah...."
He paused on his words.
"Hm..."
Paused again.
"I'll sort it out when we're not in the open like this." Austin pointed out at the area around them and he continued to move onward, his steps were moving into a power walk at best. "I kinda forgot since.... It was a shock seeing someone getting shot up close like that honestly."
((Austin Song continued in (Un)Happy Camping))
Non-hypothetical observers would and did see the clouded over look on Oscar's face.
"Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense, man."
Oscar followed after Austin.
(Oscar Fatu continued in (Un)Happy Camping)
"Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense, man."
Oscar followed after Austin.
(Oscar Fatu continued in (Un)Happy Camping)
Oh.
They left.
That's fine, too. Better than fine.
Maybe he should leave, too.
But he couldn't.
He remembered the videos, adjacent to whispers of legends on the internet. The depravity of people and the money they're willing to view for it. Makaria could still produce a near-photographic description of the video. A girl was standing against a wall. Two people wearing masks were holding her in place. The girl was wearing a pink t-shirt. She was crying. "Let me go," she pleaded, and nobody listened. A third person in a mask held a shotgun. The girl cried harder. She begged to be let go. The person holding the shotgun laughed and then pointed the gun at her stomach. They pulled the trigger. The people in the masks laughed. She was still alive. They shot her again, in the chest this time. The video ended.
It reminded him of himself, right now, with a shotgun and nobody there to save him.
He wondered if the video was real.
They left.
That's fine, too. Better than fine.
Maybe he should leave, too.
But he couldn't.
He remembered the videos, adjacent to whispers of legends on the internet. The depravity of people and the money they're willing to view for it. Makaria could still produce a near-photographic description of the video. A girl was standing against a wall. Two people wearing masks were holding her in place. The girl was wearing a pink t-shirt. She was crying. "Let me go," she pleaded, and nobody listened. A third person in a mask held a shotgun. The girl cried harder. She begged to be let go. The person holding the shotgun laughed and then pointed the gun at her stomach. They pulled the trigger. The people in the masks laughed. She was still alive. They shot her again, in the chest this time. The video ended.
It reminded him of himself, right now, with a shotgun and nobody there to save him.
He wondered if the video was real.
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MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
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Where did the line between fate and superstition lie?
The latter played heavily into a lot of soldiering, at least as far as Leander's father had explained it. There were strange traditions that nobody quite knew the origin of but nobody dared defy. When you were eating your MRE, if you got a pack of charms, you threw that as far as you could. You never, ever ate it. Leander's dad hadn't served in an actual army where they were assigned MREs, but some of the guys he'd worked with had, and they carried the tradition so deeply that it had transmitted and warped. Nobody in his crew had eaten sweets while in the field, ever. They'd haze newbies by feeding them breath mints and then telling them they were doomed to death.
Leander had a pack of BigG in his backpack. He hadn't decided what to do with it yet. Maybe trade it, maybe chew it, maybe throw it away.
This was the same thought process he was experiencing when it came to the boy with the shotgun. Bang. Just like that, a pull of the trigger, and it was lights out. This was the second chance. Was that coincidence, or was Leander being tested somehow? Before, he had hesitated to fire. Now, he could either confirm that decision or rectify it.
The cross hairs lingered. The spare gun would be helpful. But he also thought of the other two, walking away down the beach. They had stood there, talked, and not fought. What would they do when they heard the gunfire?
His aim was steady, but aside from adjusting it as needed, Leander barely moved.
The latter played heavily into a lot of soldiering, at least as far as Leander's father had explained it. There were strange traditions that nobody quite knew the origin of but nobody dared defy. When you were eating your MRE, if you got a pack of charms, you threw that as far as you could. You never, ever ate it. Leander's dad hadn't served in an actual army where they were assigned MREs, but some of the guys he'd worked with had, and they carried the tradition so deeply that it had transmitted and warped. Nobody in his crew had eaten sweets while in the field, ever. They'd haze newbies by feeding them breath mints and then telling them they were doomed to death.
Leander had a pack of BigG in his backpack. He hadn't decided what to do with it yet. Maybe trade it, maybe chew it, maybe throw it away.
This was the same thought process he was experiencing when it came to the boy with the shotgun. Bang. Just like that, a pull of the trigger, and it was lights out. This was the second chance. Was that coincidence, or was Leander being tested somehow? Before, he had hesitated to fire. Now, he could either confirm that decision or rectify it.
The cross hairs lingered. The spare gun would be helpful. But he also thought of the other two, walking away down the beach. They had stood there, talked, and not fought. What would they do when they heard the gunfire?
His aim was steady, but aside from adjusting it as needed, Leander barely moved.
Yeah, but-
They have cameras. They have the news. He was going to end up as a news headline, title bright and bolded, gauche for the sake of advertisement more than sympathy and education.
Makaria was this kind of person who wouldn’t have done much in his life- he’d work a job that might be blue collar, might be on the lower end of white collar. Something mundane, that won’t gather any reactions when you tell people what you do for a living. He’d probably not have children- because he only really felt love in a way that’s incomplete, and he didn’t feel like he’s worthy of anybody’s lifelong devotion, much less in a way that’s familial and romantic and maybe parental. It was kind of odd, really. Because Makaria never really felt truly lovable. He wasn’t lovable as a man, and he’d never be lovable as a person, and he wouldn’t be lovable as himself, plain and simple. He’d resigned himself to that so, so long ago.
And he was mostly fine with that. Just barely, really, but if he lied to himself really hard he could fool himself into accepting this.
He would not have many people attend his funeral.
Maybe he would find a therapist, if he made it out, and finally talk out the new issues and the old ones that had plagued him silently over the last seventeen years. Maybe he wouldn’t. Because seeing a therapist meant he was ill, and that, to the eyes of his others, meant he was weak, and that he needed pills and medicine to function.
And now he was here. A mantra of survival of the fittest ringing in his skull, shotgun in his hands, contemplating on putting the bullet in himself.
He knew what would happen if he got out- pariahship, rejection, hushed voices and articles and interviews and lawsuits and survivor’s guilt.
And he knew how cruel people can be, unchecked. Nobody is truly incapable of violence. Not when they had a gun thrown into their hands, and a speech drilled into them telling them to kill everybody else to survive.
Not even him.
Especially not him, actually.
[On the camera, a boy paced. Left, and then right, and then left again. He sat down. He got up. He paced again. Fifteen seconds in, he looked directly at the lens. He muttered something. Nobody would ever know what it was. He muttered something again, blurry imitations of words barely audible, lips moving too fast to truly make out anything.
And you wouldn’t ever know that, either.
Thirty seconds in, he sat down and didn’t get up.
He buried his head in his arms and wiped at his eyes. It was impossible to tell whether or not he was crying. It wasn’t necessary to know whether or not he was crying. He looked up at the camera again. His eyes weren’t red or puffy. He put a middle finger up at the viewer, and then sighed and put it down again, frustrated, as if aware of his lack of real agency and inability to do anything that the creators didn’t want him to do. He blinked. Rapidly. And then looked behind him. He blinked, again, and frowned. The twitch in his legs may have signaled his want to get up, but he barely lifts his thigh an inch above the rocks before he sat down again, resigned.]
They have cameras. They have the news. He was going to end up as a news headline, title bright and bolded, gauche for the sake of advertisement more than sympathy and education.
Makaria was this kind of person who wouldn’t have done much in his life- he’d work a job that might be blue collar, might be on the lower end of white collar. Something mundane, that won’t gather any reactions when you tell people what you do for a living. He’d probably not have children- because he only really felt love in a way that’s incomplete, and he didn’t feel like he’s worthy of anybody’s lifelong devotion, much less in a way that’s familial and romantic and maybe parental. It was kind of odd, really. Because Makaria never really felt truly lovable. He wasn’t lovable as a man, and he’d never be lovable as a person, and he wouldn’t be lovable as himself, plain and simple. He’d resigned himself to that so, so long ago.
And he was mostly fine with that. Just barely, really, but if he lied to himself really hard he could fool himself into accepting this.
He would not have many people attend his funeral.
Maybe he would find a therapist, if he made it out, and finally talk out the new issues and the old ones that had plagued him silently over the last seventeen years. Maybe he wouldn’t. Because seeing a therapist meant he was ill, and that, to the eyes of his others, meant he was weak, and that he needed pills and medicine to function.
And now he was here. A mantra of survival of the fittest ringing in his skull, shotgun in his hands, contemplating on putting the bullet in himself.
He knew what would happen if he got out- pariahship, rejection, hushed voices and articles and interviews and lawsuits and survivor’s guilt.
And he knew how cruel people can be, unchecked. Nobody is truly incapable of violence. Not when they had a gun thrown into their hands, and a speech drilled into them telling them to kill everybody else to survive.
Not even him.
Especially not him, actually.
[On the camera, a boy paced. Left, and then right, and then left again. He sat down. He got up. He paced again. Fifteen seconds in, he looked directly at the lens. He muttered something. Nobody would ever know what it was. He muttered something again, blurry imitations of words barely audible, lips moving too fast to truly make out anything.
And you wouldn’t ever know that, either.
Thirty seconds in, he sat down and didn’t get up.
He buried his head in his arms and wiped at his eyes. It was impossible to tell whether or not he was crying. It wasn’t necessary to know whether or not he was crying. He looked up at the camera again. His eyes weren’t red or puffy. He put a middle finger up at the viewer, and then sighed and put it down again, frustrated, as if aware of his lack of real agency and inability to do anything that the creators didn’t want him to do. He blinked. Rapidly. And then looked behind him. He blinked, again, and frowned. The twitch in his legs may have signaled his want to get up, but he barely lifts his thigh an inch above the rocks before he sat down again, resigned.]
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MurderWeasel
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- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
The boy paced, and Leander followed. Left, right, left. Sitting down, standing back up. At one point, the guy turned and could have been looking straight at him, making eye contact with the scope he surely did not see. That moment was the closest Leander came to pulling the trigger—in fact, had he not moved his finger to rest on the trigger guard rather than the trigger itself, he almost certainly would have fired. As it was, he squeezed the cool metal hard and held an exhale.
He couldn't say what words the boy was speaking. Couldn't say if they even were words. Perhaps he was gibbering in madness. Perhaps he was speaking a language Leander didn't know. Maybe it was one he did; he wasn't making much effort to read the lips of his target. He did not particularly want to connect on a deeper level, or to understand the humanity at play.
That was part of war. It was something Leander's father had explained to him in a markedly different tone than his usual discussions of fighting and adventure. Sometimes there were bad people who truly deserved to suffer and die, but most of the time there were just people who stood against you because of their beliefs or because they wanted to get paid, and you shot at them because of your beliefs or because someone was paying you too, but in other circumstances you could sit down and share a beer and find much more in common than either of you would have with your employers. But it was very important to set that aside, if you were planning on having another beer at all.
This would have been much easier if there had been a fight to watch. If Leander observed a life being taken while he lurked in his bolthole, he doubted he would think twice about trying his luck against the victor. Even just knowing that others were following the instructions they'd been given would make things simpler. He would've probably fired on the two from before—the two who had by now moved out of his potential range of vision—had he known that someone else might jump at that same opportunity. There was no real risk. But the thought of being the first one to break, the first to draw blood, was very uncomfortable.
Still he almost tried to clip the extended middle finger. Just to see if he could. The cross hairs rested on that top joint, and his own finger moved away from the guard and to the trigger, but retreated before exerting pressure.
Leander clenched his teeth and observed.
He couldn't say what words the boy was speaking. Couldn't say if they even were words. Perhaps he was gibbering in madness. Perhaps he was speaking a language Leander didn't know. Maybe it was one he did; he wasn't making much effort to read the lips of his target. He did not particularly want to connect on a deeper level, or to understand the humanity at play.
That was part of war. It was something Leander's father had explained to him in a markedly different tone than his usual discussions of fighting and adventure. Sometimes there were bad people who truly deserved to suffer and die, but most of the time there were just people who stood against you because of their beliefs or because they wanted to get paid, and you shot at them because of your beliefs or because someone was paying you too, but in other circumstances you could sit down and share a beer and find much more in common than either of you would have with your employers. But it was very important to set that aside, if you were planning on having another beer at all.
This would have been much easier if there had been a fight to watch. If Leander observed a life being taken while he lurked in his bolthole, he doubted he would think twice about trying his luck against the victor. Even just knowing that others were following the instructions they'd been given would make things simpler. He would've probably fired on the two from before—the two who had by now moved out of his potential range of vision—had he known that someone else might jump at that same opportunity. There was no real risk. But the thought of being the first one to break, the first to draw blood, was very uncomfortable.
Still he almost tried to clip the extended middle finger. Just to see if he could. The cross hairs rested on that top joint, and his own finger moved away from the guard and to the trigger, but retreated before exerting pressure.
Leander clenched his teeth and observed.
Makaria clenched his teeth and observed.
And he turned towards the boy observing him. Looked at a spot, five feet away from him, frowned.
Nothing.
It felt like somebody was watching him, but that was because he was on camera, right?
Right?
And he turned towards the boy observing him. Looked at a spot, five feet away from him, frowned.
Nothing.
It felt like somebody was watching him, but that was because he was on camera, right?
Right?
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MurderWeasel
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- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
Why was it so hard to decide?
No, that was not Leander's actual question, now that he thought more about it. Really, what he wanted to know was: why was he deciding what he was deciding?
It would be easy to pull the trigger. It would be nothing. This guy was not someone Leander knew. He was not someone Leander cared about, or someone Leander would have known existed were it not for their shared circumstances. Pull the trigger, blow him away, and Leander's life would be not a speck different than how it would've been had the figure centered in his scope never been born. Except, of course, he'd have another gun and more food, a setup that seemed unstoppable. And wasn't that all he could hope for?
The sole value of this boy's entire existence to him was as a vessel for the delivery of more equipment, and that felt almost as unspeakably sad as it was true. And still, Leander did not fire.
All the logic in the world didn't overcome some half-baked internal compass, something that told him murdering someone from out of sight was wrong and more than that wasn't him. If this really was what the man in the room had told them—if it was life or death, everything on the line, a choice to be made between Leander and this nothing stranger—then he was pretty sure he could set what passed for morals aside and take the shot. But so far, he had only been told that was the case. He hadn't seen it. He hadn't felt it.
He didn't want to be the one to start it all. He didn't want it to be his fault.
Should he, perhaps, call out? Stand up, wave, see about turning nothing into someone, traveling together and watching out for each other as long as they could? But just as his emotions kept his logic in check, so did his logic squash that desire.
So, for now, nothing changed. He inhaled and exhaled and sensations besides the gun he held and the sea breeze tugging at him and the world in the cross hairs were set to the side and paused.
No, that was not Leander's actual question, now that he thought more about it. Really, what he wanted to know was: why was he deciding what he was deciding?
It would be easy to pull the trigger. It would be nothing. This guy was not someone Leander knew. He was not someone Leander cared about, or someone Leander would have known existed were it not for their shared circumstances. Pull the trigger, blow him away, and Leander's life would be not a speck different than how it would've been had the figure centered in his scope never been born. Except, of course, he'd have another gun and more food, a setup that seemed unstoppable. And wasn't that all he could hope for?
The sole value of this boy's entire existence to him was as a vessel for the delivery of more equipment, and that felt almost as unspeakably sad as it was true. And still, Leander did not fire.
All the logic in the world didn't overcome some half-baked internal compass, something that told him murdering someone from out of sight was wrong and more than that wasn't him. If this really was what the man in the room had told them—if it was life or death, everything on the line, a choice to be made between Leander and this nothing stranger—then he was pretty sure he could set what passed for morals aside and take the shot. But so far, he had only been told that was the case. He hadn't seen it. He hadn't felt it.
He didn't want to be the one to start it all. He didn't want it to be his fault.
Should he, perhaps, call out? Stand up, wave, see about turning nothing into someone, traveling together and watching out for each other as long as they could? But just as his emotions kept his logic in check, so did his logic squash that desire.
So, for now, nothing changed. He inhaled and exhaled and sensations besides the gun he held and the sea breeze tugging at him and the world in the cross hairs were set to the side and paused.
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MurderWeasel
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When the boy left, Leander didn't bother to follow, either by repositioning himself or turning the scope. If he wasn't going to shoot the guy, what was the point? There was nothing to be gained, nothing to learn. He'd played this scene before.
That was what he thought, at least. Then came the shot.
It jolted him upright, though it was distant enough not to cause auditory discomfort. His finger tightened on the trigger guard, and for a time the world hung in suspension. Leander pulled further back into the bush, making himself unobtrusive, but when no further gunfire erupted after a thirty-count, he started to move in the direction of the noise, keeping low but moving quick.
It was probably nothing. He'd watched the guy shoot nothing before. But just in case it wasn't, he had to know.
Maybe this was the reality check he was looking for.
((Leander Van Vliet continued in I Didn't Really Know Him))
That was what he thought, at least. Then came the shot.
It jolted him upright, though it was distant enough not to cause auditory discomfort. His finger tightened on the trigger guard, and for a time the world hung in suspension. Leander pulled further back into the bush, making himself unobtrusive, but when no further gunfire erupted after a thirty-count, he started to move in the direction of the noise, keeping low but moving quick.
It was probably nothing. He'd watched the guy shoot nothing before. But just in case it wasn't, he had to know.
Maybe this was the reality check he was looking for.
((Leander Van Vliet continued in I Didn't Really Know Him))