There And Back Again

[Wham Yubeesling]

Maxwell could tell that the deed had been done.

He could hear the firing of the crossbow. He could hear the impact of it hitting her chest, and even though it was still all too unfamiliar to him, even though he was sure that Ramona was the only person he'd seen die, he could feel the force of Saachi's life snuff out. He could feel the fact that now there was one less person residing in these tar pits.

Honestly, he couldn't really say that things went the way he would have preferred it to, but he digressed. It didn't matter at this point.

He was at her bag, dumped a few short metres away from her final resting place. The gun — Zubin's gun, he could recognize that now — was now in his own bag, and a trident, long and pronged and coloured in gold, was what filled his right hand. He'd seen the weapon awkwardly poking out of Saachi's bag as he had walked away, and he figured — given the state of his leg — that it would help him more than the shotgun would, given his current state. Maybe it wouldn't help as a weapon, but at least with this he would be capable of walking.

He heard Chuck's footsteps move away from the tar pit. Whether they were towards Maxwell or away from Maxwell didn't quite matter. He turned his head back. Looked at Chuck.

"You should have just let her sink," he said. "I think you would have gotten your one either way."

[General Goose]

Saachi was dead.

Chuck swallowed, as he lowered his crossbow, as Saachi sunk beneath the tar, oddly placid and serene, as if she hadn't just been shot with two separate weapons and had all manner of physical trauma inflicted upon her. The crossbow bolt, sticking out in a perpendicular angle from her chest, was the only obvious sign that she was dead, rather than merely relaxing on some weird spa treatment.

When the bolt itself disappeared beneath the viscous substance, Chuck turned away.

It had been such a simple motion. Such a simple, physically easy hand gesture. Just pulling a trigger. That was it all was. And with that, Chuck had blood on his hands. Had a kill to his name.

A kill that meant he could go home.

It had to be the right thing to do. But it damn didn't feel like it.

Maxwell spoke.

"Gotten my one?"

Chuck knew the answer.

[Wham Yubeesling]

"You know what I mean."

Maxwell turned around. Gave Chuck the courtesy of his full attention. It was hard — given the pain still throbbing from his leg, given that he had to drag the trident across the ground so that it worked as it needed to — but he supposed that the gesture was needed. That Chuck would likely appreciate it, as token as it was.

Oh, the sacrifices Maxwell made for the sake of basic social grace.

"Saachi would have been killed by you either way. If you were to be named the fittest right now, you would have satisfied the requirements of the people running this game. They would let you go home."

He paused, for a moment.

"I'm just… curious as to why you put her down. Given what you said during the fight, I would assume you had quite the grudge against her."

[General Goose]

Chuck thought, very briefly, about pretending that he had not given that any consideration. He sighed.

"No, I...couldn't have been sure. Wanted to be certain." Every syllable was laboured, the formerly energetic and cheery young Cajun having traded in his enthusiasm for an almost world-weary posture. Chuck was making no attempt to conceal his accent, thick and hard to decipher over his low volume and heavy breathing. At least he wasn't using the dialect.

Chuck felt as if the past few days had, with no warning, caught up to him. The physical impacts of all these ordeals and ardours, now piling up, almost too numerous for him to actually process any individual ailment in some sick adaptation of Three Stooges Syndrome. His eyes were heavy-lidded now from tiredness. His mouth hung slightly open, gormlessly, a suddenly ragged timbre to his breathing. He felt tired. More tired than before. He hadn't exerted himself that much. Maybe the wrestle with Saachi? No, not that. Just...pulling that trigger. It had taken it out of him. Sapped his energy.

"She could have counted as a drowning. Could have...strangled herself, or something like that, just to spite us. Could have bled out from your bullet."

He paused. Did Maxwell have a kill yet? Chuck didn't think so. In which case, he may have just denied Maxwell his chance to get off the island. Maybe they could have engineered some joint thing. Grab the trident together, and stab her with one shared push...

No. Too late for that now. To contemplate it further was getting into the realm of some twisted murder fantasy.

"I despised her," Chuck admitted. "Killed, helped kill too, a lot of people who were close to me. Plus she was awful in more petty ways too. But hey, we're all just scared kids. I couldn't deny her a final wish."

Chuck turned to Maxwell. "Need any help with first aid or anything?"

[Wham Yubeesling]

"I… think I can do it myself," Maxwell said. There was… more to Maxwell's answer than just what he said, but he was fairly sure Chuck could be spared the rest of the details. The main point was that Maxwell was pretty sure he was still self-sufficient enough to do things on his own and that he didn't need the help of someone else to do it, as much as the gesture was appreciated. There was more to it than that, there was the question of whether Maxwell's future actions would make Chuck's gesture pointless, but Maxwell didn't see any reason as to why Chuck would need to know that. There was no point in overbearing Chuck, especially given the… weight that killing Saachi had given his words.

He supposed it was best to make a quick comment on that. Move on, afterwards.

"And… I can understand your viewpoint," he said. "Saachi… killed, helped kill people close to me as well. I'm… not as into the idea of at least guaranteeing a kill, I would have sacrificed that just so that she could suffer, but we're different people. Obviously we have different viewpoints, just as Saachi had hers."

He paused. Looked at the tar pit for a second. Looked back.

"What are you going to do from here on out?"

[General Goose]

Chuck nodded as Maxwell refused the offer to help. He couldn't claim to understand why exactly Maxwell refused the offer - it was pretty clear at this point that the erstwhile classmates had adopted rather incompatible outlooks to life on the island.

Luckily those incompatibilities didn't result in the two trying to kill each other. Having to endure some awkward interactions seemed like an almost blessed relief in comparison.

"I can understand your viewpoint too," Chuck replied. Very little that he could say beyond that. No point in debating about it. They were two different people, as Maxwell had so astutely said, and so deserved different viewpoints. Kinda refreshing, really, to find that as this sick game drew to a close, there was no monotony among the survivors. No one viewpoint, no particular brand of social Darwinism, had prevailed.

And then Maxwell asked what Chuck was going to do next. Chuck was going to ask Maxwell the very same question. "I don't know. I used to think I could maybe...beat this? But now, I'm just trying to work out if I'm selfish enough to...survive this."

He shrugged. He kinda hoped he wasn't. Meant he had a better character. But he also hoped he was.

"What about you?"

[Wham Yubeesling]

"I…"

The word hung in the air, for a few moments. If Maxwell said what he was about to say, would he actually act on it? If he made that promise — just like the one he'd made with Felicia, just like the one he'd made with Paris — would he end up keeping it?

It didn't matter.

If he didn't, then he supposed that it could just go on the pile with all the other broken promises.

"I think I'm going to try to beat this game."

He paused. Breathed. Tried to figure out an action complimentary to that statement.

Failed. Moved on.

"Victor — the man on the announcements — said something about forces coming here. About how if they managed to make their way here, all our collars would be blown. It's… not an ideal way to die, but… it's still something I want to do. It's still something I want to try and make happen."

He paused again. Leaned on the trident. Pushed it further into the ground.

He wasn't really sure if Chuck would really be supportive of this, but that didn't matter.

The one thing this island had taught him over these past seven days was that nothing did.

"It's not ideal, but it's better than giving them their winner. It's better than letting them win."

[General Goose]

And there it was.

Chuck had given up already. Had let Danya win, had ceded control of his mind to the rules and norms of the terrorists. But Maxwell hadn't. Chuck found himself confronted with someone who was doing a better job of carrying the torch of the parish group than its sole surviving member.

Wasn't expecting the moral high ground to be claimed by Maxwell Lombardi of all people, but here they were.

Chuck nodded.

"Okay. I'd be up for that."

[Wham Yubeesling]

"I'm… surprised."

He really was. It wasn't as if Maxwell didn't think Chuck was capable of heroic things, but he imagined the plan he'd stated was fairly extreme. He imagined that even the people who called themselves heroic would disapprove, just because of the nature of what the idea was. Just because of the idea that it would make everything that happened here pointless.

That didn't bother him, however.

If anything, he was just happy that he wouldn't have to do this by himself.

"But… that's good. I'm happy to have you on board."

[General Goose]

Chuck wasn't sure if he was telling the truth or not.

Which probably meant he wasn't lying per se. But still. Chuck would have to force himself to commit to this plan. Force himself to stick to it, in his mind. That would be easier said than done, of course.

But worth a try, right? Chuck was pretty sure it was morally the right thing to do. Pretty sure. Deontologically, definitely. Consequentially, maybe it would prevent further attacks. But still, he would be preventing a family reunion.

Chuck didn't know.

But his instinct said to agree.

"Yup, I'm on board," he repeated, with an asinine redundancy.

[Wham Yubeesling]

"Okay."

Honestly, Maxwell wasn't entirely sure why Chuck had accepted his offer twice, but it was best not to comment on it; Chuck probably had his own reasons for doing so and mocking him for it seemed like quite the dumb idea. If anything, the re-affirmation was motivation for Maxwell to continue on with the conversation, start acting out the plan. Now that he finally had a plan, now that he had another who wished to help act it out, he supposed the next step was to do so. He supposed that if he wanted to do something for once, that if he wanted to finally make up on the promises he'd made, then he actually had to walk the walk. Not just make the empty promises he'd made in the past.

Even if there was a chance that an empty promise would be all this plan was.

Especially given what Maxwell was about to say, do next.

"I… think it's best we go our separate ways though, split up," Maxwell said, looking away from Chuck slightly. "If we do so, we can possibly find other people more easily, possibly convince them to join up with us. It's true that not everyone will be willing to lay down and let the game end, but…"

He paused.

"I think there are people out there who would still be on board," he continued, after a bit. "I think it's best that we find as many as those people as we can."

He looked towards Chuck again. Looked away. Admittedly there was… another reason for why Maxwell wanted to be alone, but he didn't need to know that.

He didn't need to know that Maxwell was going to act selfish again.

"Obviously that might not be the most perfect of plans, though, so… feel free to suggest any you think are better. I'm willing to listen."

[General Goose]

Separate ways. That sounded good. Meant that Chuck could just become the misanthropic hermit he so wanted to be right now. Plus, he wouldn't exactly be judged for not sticking to Maxwell's plan. Well, except by God. And his family. And himself.

Nah, Chuck would end up sticking to the plan anyway. By default, it was the trajectory he was on anyway. If he did nothing, he'd be obliging the plan. All it required was no more killing, no more bloodshed. And that was Chuck's plan anyway.

He wasn't comfortable with how much he was second-guessing this whole thing. But there he was. He'd just killed a classmate. Euthanised a class-mate. Executed a classmate. Second guessing was only natural at this point.

And to think he'd judged someone for mercy killing at the start of this.

Couldn't remember who it was. That'd bug him for a while.

"Separate ways sounds good," Chuck murmured, more an absent musing than active participation in the conversation. And then Maxwell opened the floor up to alternative ideas. Chuck bristled at that. A reminder of all those aborted ideas and half-concepts he'd tried and failed to put into practice.

"I...I've tried beating this. Tried more complex proposals. Guess the way you suggest is...all we have left."

Would have been a lot more effective early on, Chuck had to admit.

[Wham Yubeesling]

"Alright," Maxwell said. "I guess that means goodbye, then."

He turned around, slightly. Looked at the area behind him. It was slightly difficult — given the state of his leg, given how he wanted to move it as little as possible — but he could still do it. Still turn his head. See the great expanse of brush and tar all around him.

He turned back.

"I'm… probably going to stay here, for a bit. Find whatever mass grave Victor said had been made. Do something with it."

He paused. Looked down. Sighed.

"In case this is the last time one of us sees the other… see you on the other side, I guess."

[General Goose]

Chuck picked up his bag. He...actually craved some small talk. He'd had that with most of his companions so far. It had kept him sane. Grounded. Moral, even. But that clearly wasn't the sort of arrangement he could have with Maxwell.

Chuck thought about offering to help with whatever mass grave there was. Decided against that. Sounded like Maxwell wanted the alone time. He wasn't going to deny him that, wasn't going to make an offer for help that would only be awkwardly turned down or reluctantly accepted.

"Adieu, then. Well, au revoir." Chuck smiled, one of those smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Chuck picked up his bag, and with a wave, left Maxwell to his thoughts.

He didn't notice the injury Saachi had inflicted upon him until he'd already walked far away from the tar pits.

((Chuck Soileaux continued in Final Ten Problems.))

[Wham Yubeesling]

He watched Chuck leave. Waved back as he saw him pick up his bag and take his steps out of sight. There was… an odd sense. A sense that he would miss Chuck, now that he was gone. A sense as if he had lost Chuck as much as he had lost the others, which was… odd, to say the least. The two had never been all that close, back at P.J Hobbs. Maxwell had known of him, of course — given how he seemed to be everywhere, it would have been impossible — but their relationship had never really been more than that. It had never been comparable to the likes of his relationship with Lyndi, with Felicia, with Paris, with Zubin, with Daniel. He had known Chuck, Chuck had known him, and that was the extent of how close the two were with one another.

So it was odd that he felt that sense of sadness, of proper farewell when Chuck had left.

It was odd that he was now comparable to the likes of Felicia, of Paris, of Jason, of Lyndi.

And it was… odd that Chuck, of all people, could be the last person who'd see Maxwell alive.

He turned himself around again, after Chuck had vanished. Began to walk. Tried to see what mass grave Victor apparently wanted him to see so much.

---

He couldn't find it.

And that was only fitting, wasn't it? That Maxwell — the man who said he'd beat this game, the man who despite what he'd said couldn't make do on anything he had promised — couldn't even do something as simple as finding a grave. All those days he had spent talking with,bonding with Felicia back at P.J Hobbs, that promise he had made to her and Yumi and Ramona the first time he'd been in those tunnels, all of that had amounted to this. Him sitting at the edge of the tar pit where Saachi had fell, him having searched this place top to bottom, him not even having found anything remotely resembling the grave of the person who he had completely, utterly failed.

It was like a motif, at this point.

Because his harping, his constant complaining about how little he had done had become one on its own, had it not? His lamenting on how he had failed to live up to Paris' promise; his lamenting on how he had failed to protect Felicia, Yumi, Ramona; his lamenting on how he had failed to confess his sins to Daniel; the list went on and on. He kept on repeating his woes without even attempting to do anything about them. He served as nothing but an annoyance, someone who claimed they were important, someone who claimed they did things, and yet at the end of the day had only enabled. Had only been a rat, a lowlife, a person who only sought to fulfill their own selfish needs. A person who had only hid behind those who could actually do anything.

…

He had intended to die, when he had walked towards Saachi.

He had intended to attack her. Attempt to kill her. He had known the attempt would be fruitless, he had known that he could not do what however many people had attempted before, but he had at least wanted to try. He had at least wanted to do something to her, to ensure that whoever fought her next would finish the job.

He had at least wanted to do one last good deed, however small it was.

And he couldn't even do that. When Saachi was about to end his life, when he had utterly failed to do anything in return, Chuck came. The true hero had appeared, saved his life, did everything that he had been unable to do while all his attempts at helping had been for nothing. All he'd done for himself was make his body near unrecognizable.

He supposed that it was only fair.

He supposed that he deserved that.

He supposed that as much as he wanted to perform his last good deed, as much as he wanted to prove to this world that he was at least capable of doing the right thing, that doing so would be impossible. That this island, this universe, would not allow it.

He sighed.

Looked down at the tar bubbling below him.

…

He supposed there was one last good thing he could try and do.

---

The wound to his leg had been mended. Closed.

The teeth dangling in his mouth — the loose teeth still strong enough to not just fall out — had been pulled out. Collected. Thrown into the tar with Saachi.

The costume — the piece of dirt that Victor had thought so funny to give to him — had been thrown out, too. Put into Saachi's empty bag which had then been thrown into the tar. Anything of worth that had been in there — rations, supplies, a second goddamn gun — had been put into Maxwell's bag, now located on his back. He was walking, marching, going the way he had seen Chuck go out of these tar pits. The shotgun — Zubin's gun — was in his bag, while the trident was out, dragging against the ground, still working as a makeshift crutch to try and deal with the last vestige of pain in his leg.

He looked back, one last time, at the pit that Saachi had fallen into.

He looked back, one last time, at the pit which he had been sitting above, pondering, able to end his life with the slightest push.

…

He stopped looking. Turned forward again. Took steps, on his own, to wherever his feet took him.

One last good deed. One last attempt to show the world that he was capable of doing the right thing.

He could do that.

He would show them.

((Maxwell Lombardi, continued elsewhere))