“Skill issue.”
It was a bit of a shame to have to undercut Olivia like that. Her… her efforts. What she did for Verity. Now she was face up. Now she… couldn’t even see the stars she’d asked for — they were too far away, too covered up, too blurry amongst her fading vision. No. All there was, was… was what was around her. The deck below. The smoke around. The sky above.
And in the center of it all, Ivan. His gait. His expression. Like he’d won and there was nothing she could-
And- and you know what pissed her off most? The assertion that Keegan’s life was his. The idea that her… that the only person she’d ever felt close to, prior to this, was just a commodity. His kill. His right. It hadn’t mattered that… that her friend had been left, on the deck, his neck snapped, his body broken. It hadn’t mattered that he’d spent his last moments paralyzed, in pain, desperately trying to make sure his death meant something. No. To Ivan, Keegan was a video game person. A person he’d aimed and shot at to get a hundred points. He wasn’t a human. He wasn’t a classmate, a cohort, someone they’d gone to school with these past few years. In Ivan’s eyes, he’d never been.
It would’ve been so, so fucking easy to say something about Akeno. How she wasn’t here. How she’d become a point on Verity’s tally, but… but she wouldn’t, because… because even if she’d killed Sofia, even if she’d stabbed out her eye, Verity… Verity respected her. Akeno… had been more than somebody Verity killed. They hadn’t known each other before this, and they hadn’t ever been on the same side, but, but Verity was sure she cared more about Akeno than Ivan did.
No.
No.
Akeno meant something.
And so did Keegan.
“If you wanted- if you wanted to kill him- you should’ve been a little less shit at throwing him down the stairs."
Whalebones
TV3 Endgame, Part 10 of 10.
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Wham Yubeesling
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Amanda listened to the podcast.
They didn't really know him. They only knew of him. They just knew about the images captured through by cameras, and his voice captured by a microphone. As controversial as he ended up being, Ivan appeared to be a question mark for many within the SOTF-TV scene. Who was he? A scared boy, or a scary man. The scene didn't know, and argued about it.
There were comments that were thrown at the wall on Twitter, or Tumblr, or on YouTube videos. Something about his race, something about his privilege, something about the long term issues of CTE, something about capitalism, something about Cuba, something about smoking too much weed or not enough, something about parents abusing him. It was as if he were a fictional character, installed and set up by a writer to create a narrative, to create something that people could look at it and deconstruct.
It was inane and it didn't really make any sense most of the time, because they didn't know him. He was an asshole on TV.
Even Amanda would admit that. It took her some time to wrangle her own feelings. She is still wrangling those feelings. Because Ivan had never been an asshole to her. He had always been sweet and caring and loving. He was awkward and dorky. He said things that made her heart swell. He told her she was beautiful, even if Amanda thought she was fat and gross and had back rolls. And then seeing him talk to Verity like that?
It was jarring, but then again, what was the focus of the scene? Was it a bully verbally assaulting a young woman, or was it two killers hashing it out? Could it be both? Did that matter? Could the former explain - Hell, even forgive - how he was talking to her? Were his words, in a moment of anger and death and dying, explainable?
But then, why was this the focus of this tragedy?
Now without support from Olivia to stand up, Ivan couldn't kick Verity. He stumbled to a nearby wall, and slumped down. Ivan's adrenaline came down as he did, feeling weak all of a sudden.
"Blah, blah, blah." He rolled his eyes. "You're a sore loser, grasping at straws. You have n-nothing, trying get something. What are you gonna' say next, fatty? 'So I'm not worth being killed now?' o-or 'I'm not worth the time, oink.' You're bleeding like the pig that you are, so do everyone a favor and die. Some of us have things to do."
They didn't really know him. They only knew of him. They just knew about the images captured through by cameras, and his voice captured by a microphone. As controversial as he ended up being, Ivan appeared to be a question mark for many within the SOTF-TV scene. Who was he? A scared boy, or a scary man. The scene didn't know, and argued about it.
There were comments that were thrown at the wall on Twitter, or Tumblr, or on YouTube videos. Something about his race, something about his privilege, something about the long term issues of CTE, something about capitalism, something about Cuba, something about smoking too much weed or not enough, something about parents abusing him. It was as if he were a fictional character, installed and set up by a writer to create a narrative, to create something that people could look at it and deconstruct.
It was inane and it didn't really make any sense most of the time, because they didn't know him. He was an asshole on TV.
Even Amanda would admit that. It took her some time to wrangle her own feelings. She is still wrangling those feelings. Because Ivan had never been an asshole to her. He had always been sweet and caring and loving. He was awkward and dorky. He said things that made her heart swell. He told her she was beautiful, even if Amanda thought she was fat and gross and had back rolls. And then seeing him talk to Verity like that?
It was jarring, but then again, what was the focus of the scene? Was it a bully verbally assaulting a young woman, or was it two killers hashing it out? Could it be both? Did that matter? Could the former explain - Hell, even forgive - how he was talking to her? Were his words, in a moment of anger and death and dying, explainable?
But then, why was this the focus of this tragedy?
Now without support from Olivia to stand up, Ivan couldn't kick Verity. He stumbled to a nearby wall, and slumped down. Ivan's adrenaline came down as he did, feeling weak all of a sudden.
"Blah, blah, blah." He rolled his eyes. "You're a sore loser, grasping at straws. You have n-nothing, trying get something. What are you gonna' say next, fatty? 'So I'm not worth being killed now?' o-or 'I'm not worth the time, oink.' You're bleeding like the pig that you are, so do everyone a favor and die. Some of us have things to do."
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Wham Yubeesling
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She’d heard Ivan splutter, try to make a comeback, try and act as if he hadn’t already won. She didn’t feel a need to respond to any of it. It was all noise.
And she’d heard him fall over. Hit a nearby wall. Slump over, without anybody to support him. It was almost too hard not to laugh. Almost too tempting to bend her neck, try and get a glimpse at him flailing on the floor.
She heard the crackle of the fire. The rumble of the waves. And she also heard… other things. Footsteps, in the distance. The whirring of… a helicopter, maybe. Verity knew- she knew that it was just them three, left alive. And she knew… she knew she probably didn’t have much time left, in all honesty. Which meant… they were probably the medics. Maybe even a couple members of production. They were circling around, closing in, like vultures. They were waiting for the kill. Waiting to swoop in. Waiting for this all to end.
…Well, it didn’t look like Ivan was going to get the gun any time soon, so the vultures would have to wait for a while longer. She turned her attention onto Olivia.
“Thanks. For, um, rolling me over.”
And she’d heard him fall over. Hit a nearby wall. Slump over, without anybody to support him. It was almost too hard not to laugh. Almost too tempting to bend her neck, try and get a glimpse at him flailing on the floor.
She heard the crackle of the fire. The rumble of the waves. And she also heard… other things. Footsteps, in the distance. The whirring of… a helicopter, maybe. Verity knew- she knew that it was just them three, left alive. And she knew… she knew she probably didn’t have much time left, in all honesty. Which meant… they were probably the medics. Maybe even a couple members of production. They were circling around, closing in, like vultures. They were waiting for the kill. Waiting to swoop in. Waiting for this all to end.
…Well, it didn’t look like Ivan was going to get the gun any time soon, so the vultures would have to wait for a while longer. She turned her attention onto Olivia.
“Thanks. For, um, rolling me over.”
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carduinal-cyn
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More spite, more vitriol. Was this how two people on the verge of death talked to each other? Olivia had half a mind to shoot them both, and then herself. (Even without the ammunition, which Ivan had. She could pretend she was doing it and that was as good as the real thing at this point, the way it all felt like she was dreaming.)
"...sure," she said, and the words fell out the way they'd done all week, "it's no problem, as long as we call a truce."
It was a halfhearted attempt at peace, she knew. Verity was going to die. Maybe all three of them were. Maybe this was cruel, to let someone else bleed out while they spoke this ersatz, manufactured excuse for conversation. But Olivia wasn't like Fisk and Anthony and Ivan. She wasn't a killer, or a man, or anything at this point, it all happened to her, it all happened to all those others.
Why did she feel so hollow?
"...sure," she said, and the words fell out the way they'd done all week, "it's no problem, as long as we call a truce."
It was a halfhearted attempt at peace, she knew. Verity was going to die. Maybe all three of them were. Maybe this was cruel, to let someone else bleed out while they spoke this ersatz, manufactured excuse for conversation. But Olivia wasn't like Fisk and Anthony and Ivan. She wasn't a killer, or a man, or anything at this point, it all happened to her, it all happened to all those others.
Why did she feel so hollow?
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Wham Yubeesling
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“Yeah. Sure.”
She could tell, maybe, that she was finally on the road to growing, because none of it really hurt anymore. Not distinctly, at least. She knew, at least… half an hour ago? that- that her shoulder had been hurt. And her eye had been stabbed out. And the arm under her shoulder had been absolutely demolished at this point. And they’d all hurt, individually, and every hurt screamed with its own voice, and then she’d- she’d stabbed herself in the stomach, and maybe also she’d been shot? And it was like- some Naruto shit. The great unification. All the hurt became one. All the voices started to sound the same, started to tune themselves out, as it all faded away.
At least she didn’t have to hear Ivan’s voice with them now. Small- small favours, at least. They counted for something. Especially since there wouldn’t- wouldn’t be many-
“Your-” Verity’s throat jutted “Your name’s Olivia, right?”
She could tell, maybe, that she was finally on the road to growing, because none of it really hurt anymore. Not distinctly, at least. She knew, at least… half an hour ago? that- that her shoulder had been hurt. And her eye had been stabbed out. And the arm under her shoulder had been absolutely demolished at this point. And they’d all hurt, individually, and every hurt screamed with its own voice, and then she’d- she’d stabbed herself in the stomach, and maybe also she’d been shot? And it was like- some Naruto shit. The great unification. All the hurt became one. All the voices started to sound the same, started to tune themselves out, as it all faded away.
At least she didn’t have to hear Ivan’s voice with them now. Small- small favours, at least. They counted for something. Especially since there wouldn’t- wouldn’t be many-
“Your-” Verity’s throat jutted “Your name’s Olivia, right?”
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carduinal-cyn
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"Yeah... from the lacrosse team," she says, and at last it feels like she has identity again. Something to ground herself while smoke fills her lungs and the blood of Verity Stewart puddles around her knees.
Olivia's heart caught in her throat as she caught sight of Verity for the first time since standing her up. That face would burn itself into her nightmares as long as she lived: one eye was nothing but a bloody socket and her stomach was bleeding, and Olivia didn't realize that the human body could bleed so, so much and still be fighting to stay alive— a visceral miracle. She wished she could look away.
"Don't—don't say too much," Olivia mumbles. She was staring at Verity's throat. The way it bulged out when she spoke. Unnatural, yet closer to the cruelty of nature than any human should ever be. They didn't know each other, and they never would. Such was the impersonal, petty, capricious malice of the natural world— not pretty flowers and bike trails but the statement of fact that was the predator's fangs ripping into hide of its prey...
Oh, but Verity had killed, yes she had... Olivia looked into those dying eyes and she saw the faces of the fallen instead.
Words surged through her. Tears surged faster.
"...Please don't go..."
Olivia's heart caught in her throat as she caught sight of Verity for the first time since standing her up. That face would burn itself into her nightmares as long as she lived: one eye was nothing but a bloody socket and her stomach was bleeding, and Olivia didn't realize that the human body could bleed so, so much and still be fighting to stay alive— a visceral miracle. She wished she could look away.
"Don't—don't say too much," Olivia mumbles. She was staring at Verity's throat. The way it bulged out when she spoke. Unnatural, yet closer to the cruelty of nature than any human should ever be. They didn't know each other, and they never would. Such was the impersonal, petty, capricious malice of the natural world— not pretty flowers and bike trails but the statement of fact that was the predator's fangs ripping into hide of its prey...
Oh, but Verity had killed, yes she had... Olivia looked into those dying eyes and she saw the faces of the fallen instead.
Words surged through her. Tears surged faster.
"...Please don't go..."
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Wham Yubeesling
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Olivia was crying. They- they’d never even talked, before this, and Olivia was crying. Verity hadn’t even known her name, and Olivia was crying. They’d- they’d been trying to shoot each other, not even, not even- however long ago that confrontation in the corridors had been. Had- had the confrontation with Anthony since been enough to make Olivia forget about that? Or had it not really been that personal in the first place? This game- this game had turned all her classmates into video game people, so maybe- maybe trying to shoot had been fair game, in her head. Maybe it didn’t really matter, now that Olivia had won. Now that Verity had died.
…Whatever. There wasn’t really much of a point questioning Olivia’s thoughts. Olivia’s feelings. At least somebody would miss her when she went.
“You feel like a winner yet?”
She coughed, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe, and when the next moment came, when the cloggage cleared up, she couldn’t tell what it was she’d even hacked up. Phlegm? Blood?
It all tasted the same at this rate.
“You feel- like you have your life back? You know what you’re gonna do?”
…Whatever. There wasn’t really much of a point questioning Olivia’s thoughts. Olivia’s feelings. At least somebody would miss her when she went.
“You feel like a winner yet?”
She coughed, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe, and when the next moment came, when the cloggage cleared up, she couldn’t tell what it was she’d even hacked up. Phlegm? Blood?
It all tasted the same at this rate.
“You feel- like you have your life back? You know what you’re gonna do?”
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carduinal-cyn
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"You feel like a winner yet?"
No, Olivia thought, I've never felt more like a loser in my entire life. So many ups and downs, so many escapes instead of fights, so many missed chances to say goodbye. So many chances to look cool on TV, most of which failed. And now she was sitting there crying. Crying, instead of throwing up at the sight of Verity spewing some nondescript sticky gunk from her failing lungs. When she got back home, she'd probably spend the rest of the year trying way too hard to act like she was someone worth talking to. And that would be if, by some miracle, the doctors could fix the bullet hole in her shoulder. So much for lacrosse. So much for the joy of moving and playing and team spirit.
"You feel like you have your life back?"
Nobody gets their life back after a season of SOTF. Not even the winners.
"You know what you're gonna do?"
Sleep. Sleep the longest sleep she could sleep. Longer than the time she'd caught the flu in fourth grade and wound up bedridden for a week. Sleep and maybe she'd remember RJ, Beau, Lucia—
"I'unno."
Olivia kept gently sobbing.
No, Olivia thought, I've never felt more like a loser in my entire life. So many ups and downs, so many escapes instead of fights, so many missed chances to say goodbye. So many chances to look cool on TV, most of which failed. And now she was sitting there crying. Crying, instead of throwing up at the sight of Verity spewing some nondescript sticky gunk from her failing lungs. When she got back home, she'd probably spend the rest of the year trying way too hard to act like she was someone worth talking to. And that would be if, by some miracle, the doctors could fix the bullet hole in her shoulder. So much for lacrosse. So much for the joy of moving and playing and team spirit.
"You feel like you have your life back?"
Nobody gets their life back after a season of SOTF. Not even the winners.
"You know what you're gonna do?"
Sleep. Sleep the longest sleep she could sleep. Longer than the time she'd caught the flu in fourth grade and wound up bedridden for a week. Sleep and maybe she'd remember RJ, Beau, Lucia—
"I'unno."
Olivia kept gently sobbing.
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Wham Yubeesling
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“Me neither.”
And that was the truth, wasn’t it? One of them, anyway. She- she would’ve liked to live, yeah, and maybe there was a part of her thinking about how it could still happen, but then… if it did, then what happened next? If she made it out, then… then where was she going to go? There hadn’t been anything before this. There’d been- there’d been a house she’d never felt at home in. There’d been a school life already in the death spiral, long before she’d come here. There’d been a dream, to maybe write a book one day, but, but she was going to be real, that- that never would’ve gotten published. There would’ve been sights, and places, and memories she could keep on remembering, but… but those wouldn’t be hers. Not anymore. The girl who’d lived in her special place… wasn’t there anymore. Verity was just what remained.
Was it worth it, trying to live? Maybe.
But was it a life worth taking back?
...
...
And- and she didn’t want any of what winning would give her. She didn’t want to be a star. She didn’t want “”””””fans”””””” psychoanalyzing everything she ever did. She didn’t want every single day to be a reminder of this. And she didn’t want the free pass she was going to get for the rest of her life. She- she would’ve wanted to struggle. She would’ve wanted to go through the pain. She wanted to see what was on the other side. She wanted to earn whatever she got. She- she didn’t want to skip to the reward. She didn’t want to get everything she wanted just because she was on TV that one time.
...
No. Verity hadn’t been anything. And- there wouldn’t have been anything to return to. Everything- everything would’ve come back to this, in the end. The past couple days. The time of her life. So- so why let the story keep going? Why not end it at the high point?
Burn bright, burn fast, burn out.
She could live with that.
“Guess…
“Guess we’ll find out when we get there, huh?”
And that was the truth, wasn’t it? One of them, anyway. She- she would’ve liked to live, yeah, and maybe there was a part of her thinking about how it could still happen, but then… if it did, then what happened next? If she made it out, then… then where was she going to go? There hadn’t been anything before this. There’d been- there’d been a house she’d never felt at home in. There’d been a school life already in the death spiral, long before she’d come here. There’d been a dream, to maybe write a book one day, but, but she was going to be real, that- that never would’ve gotten published. There would’ve been sights, and places, and memories she could keep on remembering, but… but those wouldn’t be hers. Not anymore. The girl who’d lived in her special place… wasn’t there anymore. Verity was just what remained.
Was it worth it, trying to live? Maybe.
But was it a life worth taking back?
...
...
And- and she didn’t want any of what winning would give her. She didn’t want to be a star. She didn’t want “”””””fans”””””” psychoanalyzing everything she ever did. She didn’t want every single day to be a reminder of this. And she didn’t want the free pass she was going to get for the rest of her life. She- she would’ve wanted to struggle. She would’ve wanted to go through the pain. She wanted to see what was on the other side. She wanted to earn whatever she got. She- she didn’t want to skip to the reward. She didn’t want to get everything she wanted just because she was on TV that one time.
...
No. Verity hadn’t been anything. And- there wouldn’t have been anything to return to. Everything- everything would’ve come back to this, in the end. The past couple days. The time of her life. So- so why let the story keep going? Why not end it at the high point?
Burn bright, burn fast, burn out.
She could live with that.
“Guess…
“Guess we’ll find out when we get there, huh?”
Amanda, today, got home to an empty house.
Ivan barked, half-dead and half-alive. "Just fucking- just fucking kill her. I don't have- I'm fucking dying over here."
He spat out some phlegm.
"You wanna' the sole winner? Is t-that it? After everything? You want to throw away two lives for the price of one? For what? The sp-spotlight." He started getting up, his body wracked with pain that he never met before. He walked like a zombie toward Verity, and, in a much more worrying way, Olivia. "Greedy whore."
Ivan barked, half-dead and half-alive. "Just fucking- just fucking kill her. I don't have- I'm fucking dying over here."
He spat out some phlegm.
"You wanna' the sole winner? Is t-that it? After everything? You want to throw away two lives for the price of one? For what? The sp-spotlight." He started getting up, his body wracked with pain that he never met before. He walked like a zombie toward Verity, and, in a much more worrying way, Olivia. "Greedy whore."
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Wham Yubeesling
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Incredible. For a moment, Verity had been okay with dying. For a moment, maybe, she’d actually been happy with the way her life had gone. There were- there were maybe better ways that this all could’ve gone, but… but this was okay. She was light, she was happy, and maybe if she closed her eyes now it’d all fade out. There wouldn’t be anything to worry about anymore. There wouldn’t be… any moment, in hindsight, where her mind would make her regret this. This was okay. She could live with this, for however long she still had. She’d always wondered why so many endgames finished like this. Why the second placer would always just sit and talk and feel serene as they bled out. Like, okay, maybe the first time she’d seen one it was kinda sad, but when every season had The Long Goodbye it… always kinda blended together. It was hard to make one really feel unique.
Now, though, she could… she could vibe with it, maybe. She could see the appeal. Sometimes it was nice to just… close your eyes. Listen to the Earth you were going to become a part of. Breathe and breathe and breathe until the moment it all stopped. It felt good. To let go. To find a little bit of peace, in the end.
But then somebody decided he couldn’t just stay down. This had to be about him as well. Sore winner. As always.
“Fuck off, Ivan.”
Now, though, she could… she could vibe with it, maybe. She could see the appeal. Sometimes it was nice to just… close your eyes. Listen to the Earth you were going to become a part of. Breathe and breathe and breathe until the moment it all stopped. It felt good. To let go. To find a little bit of peace, in the end.
But then somebody decided he couldn’t just stay down. This had to be about him as well. Sore winner. As always.
“Fuck off, Ivan.”
Amanda entered the living room, then the kitchen, then the hallway to her bedroom, then the bathroom of her bedroom. She sat quietly on the bed. The silence was strange. He was usually there, by now. She got up, moving to bedroom that was shared by her friends. The door wasn't locked. She pushed forward.
She found him, face in the rug.
With a rising sense of panic, she moved toward the body of her friend.
"No, you fuck off." Ivan replied, grabbing onto Olivia so he could kick Verity in the ribs with his good leg. His words were punctuated by the cracking of the girl's ribs. "I'm the winner. You're a nobody. Later loser."
She found him, face in the rug.
With a rising sense of panic, she moved toward the body of her friend.
"No, you fuck off." Ivan replied, grabbing onto Olivia so he could kick Verity in the ribs with his good leg. His words were punctuated by the cracking of the girl's ribs. "I'm the winner. You're a nobody. Later loser."
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carduinal-cyn
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There had been a sort of tranquility to Olivia and Verity's final moments. They'd been talking, maybe past each other, in what had to be the strangest, most resigned conversation they would ever take part in. Each line of dialogue, infinitely transient. Each continued moment, a miracle. Violence and bloodshed were gone. Now it was the closest SOTF had to that liminal after-game, all the players lining up and shaking hands with the other in true chivalric fashion. With Fisk and Anthony gone, this season had been shaping up to end just like a lacrosse match. She was going to take Verity's hand until it was cold. She'd owed her that much. They were waiting forever and a day for the crucial moment. Verity would pass peacefully. It was going to be calm for once, without hatred or anger or even competitive spirit.
That was the end Olivia wanted.
You feel like a winner yet?
Ivan Rodriguez certainly did. He swaggered up the way he always did, pushed and shoved and swore. The ending was smothered in his huge meaty fist.
"We're gonna get there," she told Verity, defiant. "You said we'd find out. And we will, whether he likes it or not."
That was the end Olivia wanted.
You feel like a winner yet?
Ivan Rodriguez certainly did. He swaggered up the way he always did, pushed and shoved and swore. The ending was smothered in his huge meaty fist.
"We're gonna get there," she told Verity, defiant. "You said we'd find out. And we will, whether he likes it or not."
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Wham Yubeesling
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So this was it.
This was what her life had been leading to.
Verity knew that she’d told herself that… that she was more than just a story. That she needed to view herself as… as a person, not a character. Not a thing that the cameras captured. She’d told herself, when she’d climbed up that for the final time, that… that she'd do her best to make it. That she’d try to keep herself alive. Not for anybody else, not for some sort of story, but… but for herself. Because she wanted to live. There was no point trying to make sense of anything. There was no point trying to put all the pieces together, try and find herself in the overall picture. She’d done what she’d done because she’d wanted to do it. No reason, no cohesion, no arc. She’d told herself that. She was her. That was all she needed to be.
She’d told herself that. And yet here, in the end, she couldn’t even commit to that, either. Because this was it. This was what her life had been leading to.
This was how her story ended.
Her, bleeding out on the floor. Ivan, walking away, about to close the door on her. Him, the winner. Her, the person he beat.
And that was- that was exactly the same narrative that Ivan had in his head, wasn’t it? That he was the best. That he was the greatest SotF player of all time. That everybody who died here was just his vehicle to prove all that. His crusade, against Fisk, and Keegan, and all Verity’s other friends… they’d done bad things, yes, but that hadn’t been what Ivan had cared about. No. Fisk had dented Ivan’s fucking fragile little ego. He’d proved that Ivan’s dick wasn’t actually the biggest. So Ivan had to prove he hadn’t been owned. Ivan had done every single thing he’d done just to show everybody that he was better. That he was the winner, and Verity, and Fisk, and everybody else, they were losers. They were nothing compared to him.
And- and now that he’d won, now that he’d made it out, that was all the narrative would be. SotF: Season 67. Not the story of Mangrove Garden. Not the story of all the kids forced into this game. No. It’d be all about Ivan. How he’d won. How he’d owned everybody around him. How he was the best contestant of all time. He’d go on every interview. Every podcast. Every article. He’d make it all about himself. He’d choke out everything else. He’d make it about him. Him, and his ego, and how nobody would ever dare cross him. And the audience would eat it up. They wouldn’t even understand, most likely. They’d think he was actually the good guy. They’d think he’d done what he’d done because he was somehow the hero in all this. That- that Verity, and Keegan, and all the others, that they’d deserved their fates.
And Verity knew where that would leave her.
And she knew where that’d leave all the others.
Fisk, who’d, who Verity couldn’t really say in good conscience that he’d ever done the right thing, but- but had done it for his friends- and had broke, for every single one who’d died, and- and who’d only gone down the spiral he had because he cared about them that much. James, who- who obviously hadn’t been into this from the start, who’d come up with her, up the stairs, to try and make her feel better after she’d been forced to commit. Sofia, Vasily, Bacchia, who… who Verity had never gotten the chance to know, who she’d… at some points never even liked that much, but, but maybe could’ve been different, in another life. And… and Keegan. Her best friend. The only one she’d ever even had, before- before a couple days ago.
They’d been forgotten.
Unimportant.
Nothing more than video game people. Nothing more than points for Ivan.
Could Verity- could Verity do that for them?
…
…
She tried to get up again. She tried to make her legs move. Tried to get her upper body to sit herself up. It couldn’t. She couldn’t. All she could do was whip her head upwards as Ivan continued to walk away. All she could do was waggle her arms, hit her legs, move around the gun in her pocket and-
-the gun in her pocket.
The fact that her arm was a mangled mess at this point wasn’t enough to stop her from reaching in. Grabbing it. Pulling it out. Holding it, in both of their hands. Ivan hadn’t turned his head around. He hadn’t noticed what she had now. Maybe Olivia did. Maybe… maybe the others did. The footsteps through the smoke. The whirring of the helicopter. The medics. The production crew. The vultures.
She’d make sure they’d have something to feast on.
Slowly, surely, she lifted her gun — her gun, not Timothy’s — and she pointed it to the left of Ivan’s center of mass. She- she’d never actually used this gun, not for her entire time here, and she knew she didn’t know how to aim it like the other gun, but-
But she’d have to. No choice. This was for Fisk, and Keegan, and all the others, and her. They were long gone, by now, but… but that wasn’t going to be forever. They’d live on. On the camera, and on the TV screen.
Ivan might have won the battle.
But she, and the Respects… they were gonna win the war.
She took a breath.
She took a breath.
And, one last time, she let rip.
This was what her life had been leading to.
Verity knew that she’d told herself that… that she was more than just a story. That she needed to view herself as… as a person, not a character. Not a thing that the cameras captured. She’d told herself, when she’d climbed up that for the final time, that… that she'd do her best to make it. That she’d try to keep herself alive. Not for anybody else, not for some sort of story, but… but for herself. Because she wanted to live. There was no point trying to make sense of anything. There was no point trying to put all the pieces together, try and find herself in the overall picture. She’d done what she’d done because she’d wanted to do it. No reason, no cohesion, no arc. She’d told herself that. She was her. That was all she needed to be.
She’d told herself that. And yet here, in the end, she couldn’t even commit to that, either. Because this was it. This was what her life had been leading to.
This was how her story ended.
Her, bleeding out on the floor. Ivan, walking away, about to close the door on her. Him, the winner. Her, the person he beat.
And that was- that was exactly the same narrative that Ivan had in his head, wasn’t it? That he was the best. That he was the greatest SotF player of all time. That everybody who died here was just his vehicle to prove all that. His crusade, against Fisk, and Keegan, and all Verity’s other friends… they’d done bad things, yes, but that hadn’t been what Ivan had cared about. No. Fisk had dented Ivan’s fucking fragile little ego. He’d proved that Ivan’s dick wasn’t actually the biggest. So Ivan had to prove he hadn’t been owned. Ivan had done every single thing he’d done just to show everybody that he was better. That he was the winner, and Verity, and Fisk, and everybody else, they were losers. They were nothing compared to him.
And- and now that he’d won, now that he’d made it out, that was all the narrative would be. SotF: Season 67. Not the story of Mangrove Garden. Not the story of all the kids forced into this game. No. It’d be all about Ivan. How he’d won. How he’d owned everybody around him. How he was the best contestant of all time. He’d go on every interview. Every podcast. Every article. He’d make it all about himself. He’d choke out everything else. He’d make it about him. Him, and his ego, and how nobody would ever dare cross him. And the audience would eat it up. They wouldn’t even understand, most likely. They’d think he was actually the good guy. They’d think he’d done what he’d done because he was somehow the hero in all this. That- that Verity, and Keegan, and all the others, that they’d deserved their fates.
And Verity knew where that would leave her.
And she knew where that’d leave all the others.
Fisk, who’d, who Verity couldn’t really say in good conscience that he’d ever done the right thing, but- but had done it for his friends- and had broke, for every single one who’d died, and- and who’d only gone down the spiral he had because he cared about them that much. James, who- who obviously hadn’t been into this from the start, who’d come up with her, up the stairs, to try and make her feel better after she’d been forced to commit. Sofia, Vasily, Bacchia, who… who Verity had never gotten the chance to know, who she’d… at some points never even liked that much, but, but maybe could’ve been different, in another life. And… and Keegan. Her best friend. The only one she’d ever even had, before- before a couple days ago.
They’d been forgotten.
Unimportant.
Nothing more than video game people. Nothing more than points for Ivan.
Could Verity- could Verity do that for them?
…
…
She tried to get up again. She tried to make her legs move. Tried to get her upper body to sit herself up. It couldn’t. She couldn’t. All she could do was whip her head upwards as Ivan continued to walk away. All she could do was waggle her arms, hit her legs, move around the gun in her pocket and-
-the gun in her pocket.
The fact that her arm was a mangled mess at this point wasn’t enough to stop her from reaching in. Grabbing it. Pulling it out. Holding it, in both of their hands. Ivan hadn’t turned his head around. He hadn’t noticed what she had now. Maybe Olivia did. Maybe… maybe the others did. The footsteps through the smoke. The whirring of the helicopter. The medics. The production crew. The vultures.
She’d make sure they’d have something to feast on.
Slowly, surely, she lifted her gun — her gun, not Timothy’s — and she pointed it to the left of Ivan’s center of mass. She- she’d never actually used this gun, not for her entire time here, and she knew she didn’t know how to aim it like the other gun, but-
But she’d have to. No choice. This was for Fisk, and Keegan, and all the others, and her. They were long gone, by now, but… but that wasn’t going to be forever. They’d live on. On the camera, and on the TV screen.
Ivan might have won the battle.
But she, and the Respects… they were gonna win the war.
She took a breath.
She took a breath.
And, one last time, she let rip.
Seizures happened with his condition.
The brain had been too damaged, too traumatized, too hurt. Proper function wasn't possible, and if it was with the other myriads of symptoms, would proper function even be enviable? The anger, the violence, the impulses coming to term: they all meant a life of brutal dysfunction. The world wasn't too keen for people with his disorder. To understand his disorder, someone would have to understand the cultural phenomenon of sports and how it was a modern day gladiator game.
Bodies were thrown to the grinder as soon as they hit puberty. They tackled, they hit, they fought. All of this for what? It was painted as a body liberation: the ability to control what your body can, or rather, should be. But was it liberation to gain severe brain trauma at the age of fourteen, and kill yourself at twenty-one? Was it liberation to be crippled by the age of thirty and become homeless as any prospect of employment disappeared the moment you weren't picked at the draft?
Was it liberation or another form of modern slavery?
Parallelly, bodies were a late-stage capitalist commodity in this economy. SOTF-TV knew that.
When they broke, they didn't need to repair them. They simply had to loan a new series of teenagers to throw to grinder to appease a God that would spite them when the economy would falter.
Ivan fell without a word. He was there and then then he wasn't.
The brain had been too damaged, too traumatized, too hurt. Proper function wasn't possible, and if it was with the other myriads of symptoms, would proper function even be enviable? The anger, the violence, the impulses coming to term: they all meant a life of brutal dysfunction. The world wasn't too keen for people with his disorder. To understand his disorder, someone would have to understand the cultural phenomenon of sports and how it was a modern day gladiator game.
Bodies were thrown to the grinder as soon as they hit puberty. They tackled, they hit, they fought. All of this for what? It was painted as a body liberation: the ability to control what your body can, or rather, should be. But was it liberation to gain severe brain trauma at the age of fourteen, and kill yourself at twenty-one? Was it liberation to be crippled by the age of thirty and become homeless as any prospect of employment disappeared the moment you weren't picked at the draft?
Was it liberation or another form of modern slavery?
Parallelly, bodies were a late-stage capitalist commodity in this economy. SOTF-TV knew that.
When they broke, they didn't need to repair them. They simply had to loan a new series of teenagers to throw to grinder to appease a God that would spite them when the economy would falter.
Ivan fell without a word. He was there and then then he wasn't.