Looking Like Meat
Content warning; torture, no fucking seriously.
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Applesintime
- Posts: 836
- Joined: Sat Jul 04, 2020 11:57 am
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
Gregory would rather be forgotten than this, but a storm of bile coming out of his mouth and onto the floor prevented him from saying so. Curling up afterwards, Gregory stayed still, motionless. It was funny. He had told the cameras in this very room, a few days ago, that if they just stuck with him they’d get the blood they wanted. He hated that now. Hated them, hated Fisk, hated himself. And now Verity was running like a coward, unwilling to put him down. He wanted to scream at her. Why shoot me if you’re not willing to finish the job? But he couldn’t, and so he didn’t.
Fisk rolled to his knees on the ground, holding the knife with both hands as he rocked on his knees. He was pretty sure he was crying now, either that or the blood from his eyebrow wound leaking in his eye. Had to do this, had to do this. "Giselle, Keegan, Sofia, James, Bacchia, Vasily..."
"Giselle, Keegan, Sofia, James, Bacchia, Vasily..."
"Remember their names... You fucking remember their names." He repeated. They won't forget this. Nobody ever would. He rolls to the front of his knees, and plants his hands on the ground. He wretched, but swallowed. Not here. Something of a wheeze or a laugh or a sob came out of Fisk's mouth. That fucking clown in his head told him he wasn't ruthless? Look here fucker. Am I scary yet? Poster child of sick psychopathic student contestant? Face of fucking SOTF here I am.
He looked up at Gregory, he stood up, shaking. No point in saying sorry. Sorry doesn't cut it. Knives cut.
Knives cut...
After...everything was done, Gregory still wasn't dead yet. Fisk didn't know how. Why was he still alive, why was he still breathing, he thought he'd expire halfway through, this wasn't how it was supposed to be. This was a lot easier in his head, this was the line here. He crossed the line. This was supposed to be Ivan. This was Ivan's punishment but Ivan wasn't here. Ivan was never here, Ivan would never know this happened.
Fisk looked up from the red stained knife to red stained Gregory. He looked into his eyes, and Greg stared back, not like he had a choice at this point. His voice shook.
"I know... I-I know..." He whispered.
"Giselle, Keegan, Sofia, James, Bacchia, Vasily..."
"Remember their names... You fucking remember their names." He repeated. They won't forget this. Nobody ever would. He rolls to the front of his knees, and plants his hands on the ground. He wretched, but swallowed. Not here. Something of a wheeze or a laugh or a sob came out of Fisk's mouth. That fucking clown in his head told him he wasn't ruthless? Look here fucker. Am I scary yet? Poster child of sick psychopathic student contestant? Face of fucking SOTF here I am.
He looked up at Gregory, he stood up, shaking. No point in saying sorry. Sorry doesn't cut it. Knives cut.
Knives cut...
After...everything was done, Gregory still wasn't dead yet. Fisk didn't know how. Why was he still alive, why was he still breathing, he thought he'd expire halfway through, this wasn't how it was supposed to be. This was a lot easier in his head, this was the line here. He crossed the line. This was supposed to be Ivan. This was Ivan's punishment but Ivan wasn't here. Ivan was never here, Ivan would never know this happened.
Fisk looked up from the red stained knife to red stained Gregory. He looked into his eyes, and Greg stared back, not like he had a choice at this point. His voice shook.
"I know... I-I know..." He whispered.
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
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Applesintime
- Posts: 836
- Joined: Sat Jul 04, 2020 11:57 am
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
Gregory stared at him, unblinking, his face a mess of exposed muscle and nerve. You never really know how much you enjoy having a thing like cheeks - Sammy used to tease him about how he looked like a chipmunk sometimes, and now he couldn't do that because Fisk had cut and ripped his face off - until you don't have them anymore. He hoped Fisk had nightmares about this for the rest of his life.
Fisk stood up and walked outside on the balcony. He felt sick. He did that. He did that. He...
Fisk looked down. Caught a glimpse of something- someone. Anger was rising in his chest. Hatred. Every pain he's felt here, every loss, every time he's had to see a friend die, every time he's had to kill to send a message, everything he did to Gregory...
It was because of him. Because of him, everything that Fisk ever knew or cared about was ripped apart in front of him. Because of him even if he won, he'd never live a normal life again. Because of him, he couldn't even die the way he wanted because there was nobody left for him to die for. Because of him, Fisk had degraded himself into nothing more than some junkie failure parody of all his worst traits until there was nothing left of him but that. Because of him, Fisk was no better than the scum and dregs he'd held himself above all those many...days before. In the span of days, Fisk Bateman became nothing more than some emotionally unhinged psychokiller parody of the stereotypical SOTF fanboy who had nothing going for his life except the game.
All because of Ivan.
And here he was, blissfully unaware of the depths of depravity Fisk had dug himself into, all because of Ivan. Fisk turned around, and stepped away from the balcony, back into the captain's quarters.
"Hey Gregory..."
"It's almost over."
"We're going to go get some sunlight now."
Fisk grabbed Gregory, and pulled him up by his hand, and carried him by his arm over his shoulder. He took him to the balcony.
Fisk looked down. Caught a glimpse of something- someone. Anger was rising in his chest. Hatred. Every pain he's felt here, every loss, every time he's had to see a friend die, every time he's had to kill to send a message, everything he did to Gregory...
It was because of him. Because of him, everything that Fisk ever knew or cared about was ripped apart in front of him. Because of him even if he won, he'd never live a normal life again. Because of him, he couldn't even die the way he wanted because there was nobody left for him to die for. Because of him, Fisk had degraded himself into nothing more than some junkie failure parody of all his worst traits until there was nothing left of him but that. Because of him, Fisk was no better than the scum and dregs he'd held himself above all those many...days before. In the span of days, Fisk Bateman became nothing more than some emotionally unhinged psychokiller parody of the stereotypical SOTF fanboy who had nothing going for his life except the game.
All because of Ivan.
And here he was, blissfully unaware of the depths of depravity Fisk had dug himself into, all because of Ivan. Fisk turned around, and stepped away from the balcony, back into the captain's quarters.
"Hey Gregory..."
"It's almost over."
"We're going to go get some sunlight now."
Fisk grabbed Gregory, and pulled him up by his hand, and carried him by his arm over his shoulder. He took him to the balcony.
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
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Applesintime
- Posts: 836
- Joined: Sat Jul 04, 2020 11:57 am
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
Gregory didn't resist, unmoving. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he had just passed out. He had passed out a lot recently. It was a nice relief from the pain, a promise of what was to come. Unending blackness, maybe. Maybe he would go to Sammy's idea of heaven and he'd get to live forever and ever, but Gregory didn't think so. If there was a god, he was an asshole for letting this happen to him. To everyone.
"Almost over... Almost over..."
Look at him down there... So fucking oblivious. He thinks that little mark on his forehead justifies everything he's done? He started this. Attacked Fisk first. He was just as guilty, but these bastards behind the cameras, the producers, the storyboard writers, they're going to make him the hero. He doesn't even know what he's caused. Just a one track mind, barely capable of comprehending what he's done.
An ant. No, not an ant. Ivan was always like this. He never cared. Never will. "Just look at the sea, Greg." That piece of shit was responsible for everything. The game's pet. Papi Rodriguez set this all up for him. Fisk will tear it down. Every awful thing Fisk has done was for a reason. He was going to kill Gregory for trying to kill him when he trusted him, then he tortured him to send a message to the producers, to the people back home. Now he was going to do one more thing. He was going to give Ivan a message he couldn't ignore.
Actions have consequences, and when people aren't around to suffer for their crimes, someone suffers in their place.
"We'll all go back to the sea eventually."
Eventually, Ivan will be around to suffer his punishment. Fisk didn't torture Gregory in Ivan's place. Gregory exists as a message, for the friends he's lost, and a warning, to Ivan's fate when his luck runs out.
"Sorry you had to do it this way."
Fisk was going to do this all again, once more. There would be one difference however.
"Time to go, now."
Fisk reared back, and took Gregory with him. Then, he ran forward. Fisk stopped. Gregory didn't.
When it was Ivan's turn, Fisk would relish the actions of it all. He'd savor every cut and tear. In the same way his friends will be memorialized through Gregory, Ivan will be forgotten as a concept. He would make that son of a bitch suffer for everything he's caused. He'd tear every piece he could out of Ivan. He'd make him beg, and plead. He will remove every ounce of defiance from him, there will be nothing left.
When Fisk got his hands on Ivan, there would be nothing left.
Look at him down there... So fucking oblivious. He thinks that little mark on his forehead justifies everything he's done? He started this. Attacked Fisk first. He was just as guilty, but these bastards behind the cameras, the producers, the storyboard writers, they're going to make him the hero. He doesn't even know what he's caused. Just a one track mind, barely capable of comprehending what he's done.
An ant. No, not an ant. Ivan was always like this. He never cared. Never will. "Just look at the sea, Greg." That piece of shit was responsible for everything. The game's pet. Papi Rodriguez set this all up for him. Fisk will tear it down. Every awful thing Fisk has done was for a reason. He was going to kill Gregory for trying to kill him when he trusted him, then he tortured him to send a message to the producers, to the people back home. Now he was going to do one more thing. He was going to give Ivan a message he couldn't ignore.
Actions have consequences, and when people aren't around to suffer for their crimes, someone suffers in their place.
"We'll all go back to the sea eventually."
Eventually, Ivan will be around to suffer his punishment. Fisk didn't torture Gregory in Ivan's place. Gregory exists as a message, for the friends he's lost, and a warning, to Ivan's fate when his luck runs out.
"Sorry you had to do it this way."
Fisk was going to do this all again, once more. There would be one difference however.
"Time to go, now."
Fisk reared back, and took Gregory with him. Then, he ran forward. Fisk stopped. Gregory didn't.
When it was Ivan's turn, Fisk would relish the actions of it all. He'd savor every cut and tear. In the same way his friends will be memorialized through Gregory, Ivan will be forgotten as a concept. He would make that son of a bitch suffer for everything he's caused. He'd tear every piece he could out of Ivan. He'd make him beg, and plead. He will remove every ounce of defiance from him, there will be nothing left.
When Fisk got his hands on Ivan, there would be nothing left.
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
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Applesintime
- Posts: 836
- Joined: Sat Jul 04, 2020 11:57 am
- Team Affiliation: Ben's Crabs
Fisk’s stomach sank when he saw Gregory smash into the roof of the inner corridors of the cruise ship. Fisk stared, unblinking, the fear rising in his chest that after all of that, Ivan wouldn’t even see what was coming to him. For once however, fate seemed to go his way. The roof was slanted towards the pool, and the corpse slid down, leaving a red smear before falling over and landing in front of the bastard, and the group he was standing with.
That was... more like it.
Fisk still felt sick despite it all, and even if he could see Ivan’s reaction from downstairs, he didn’t really think it would’ve been worth the effort, or the revelations Fisk experienced. He stepped back, hands shaking, elbow deep in blood. It covered his arms, his hands, the bandages wrapped around them, his hair, his face. His blood mixed with Gregory’s and vice versa and now Fisk had to rethink, well, everything.
His mind felt like it was eroding in a pace much faster than before, now it wasn’t a day by day experience, but by the hour, minute even. He could remember why he’d done what he’d done, and the costs of each action, but he began to question himself. He wasn’t as resolute that he was in the right any more. His conscious wasn’t clear, he felt... guilty.
For the first time in his life, Fisk Bateman felt guilt.
Unwrapping and peeling sticky bandages from his hands and arms, they reminded him of peeling Gregory. All this blood was Gregory’s blood. He mumbled something to himself, depending on the channel, subtitles of the dialogue were either [Unintelligable.] or some form of ‘why did ?’ or ‘I didn’t.’ Either way, Fisk couldn’t tell himself, so whatever the sound crew picked up was just speculation.
As Fisk limped his way to the captain’s bathroom (Gregory bit much deeper than Fisk had anticipated) he leaned over the sink. Gregory hadn’t deserved this. He was a traitor and he deserved to die, but he didn’t deserve this. This was meant for Ivan, this was... for his friends. This was so they’d be remembered. This was retaliation against the mentors. This was a warning to Ivan. This was to terrify the people back home, this was...
This was... wrong. All wrong. Fisk puked. This was the desperate gnashings of a trapped animal. This was a call for help. This wasn’t Fisk trying to instill fear in his enemies, in the world, his biggest enemy, this was just Fisk at his weakest. He puked again. This was the reaction of a scared, cornered animal.
Fisk was scared. He was going to die. He was doomed here. Ivan was going to come, and kill him like all the others and there was nothing he could do, no way to fight back, and the production team we’re going to cut and edit it in all the right ways. Ivan the hero was going to slay Fisk the mad beast. The wild animal. Fisk wiped the puke off mouth with his hand.
Taste of iron. Blood. His blood, Gregory’s blood. He wiped again in reaction. His hand was still bloody. Just smearing it on his face now. Fisk looked up.
Bruises, blood, tears. Fisk was crying, Fisk was a mess. He remembered when he almost OD’d. When he saw Vasily’s corpse. The visions, the voices. Blood on his lips, on his nose, in his hair. Makeup running down his face.
White face.
Black eyes
Red hair.
Red nose.
Red lips.
Clown.
Fucking clown
Clown.
Ivan the hero gains revenge on the Clown and his Cult.
Fisk screamed into the mirror, and opened the medicine cabinet before slamming it closed again. Broken mirror shards filled the sink, as Fisk turned the water on. He scrubbed his arms, his face, but couldn’t get the blood off.
Clown.
This wasn’t working, he needed more water. Wasn’t clean. Filthy filthy filthy.
Filthy clown.
He looked at the toilet. Looked clean. Cleaner than him at least. Fisk ducked his head into the bowl, scrubbing at his face and his hands with soap until the water turned pink red. He flushed, scrubbed again, flushed.
He didn’t want people to see him. They didn’t need to see his face until he was clean again. He screamed into the water. Wiped the water out his eyes. Dunked himself into the water again. Opened his eyes, saw a cord going up the bowl, leading to a small black box with a lens.
There was a camera. A camera in the toilet bowl.
The world got a fish eye view of Fisk’s face, stretched out shouting underwater from a toilet bowl...
It’s been an hour since Fisk’s tantrum ended and he decided to use the shower like a normal human being. Fisk sat silently on the couch, sewing his hand closed. He was still shirtless, his pants rolled to his knees, the bite sewn and bandaged. Butterfly tape crossed Fisk’s right eyebrow. His right eye was black, and blood vessels were ruptured in the corner of his eye itself. His right hand was bandaged and taped up, pushing needle and thread through the half closed wound of his left hand.
Verity was across from Fisk and they hadn’t shared a word since she left the room and returned.
That was... more like it.
Fisk still felt sick despite it all, and even if he could see Ivan’s reaction from downstairs, he didn’t really think it would’ve been worth the effort, or the revelations Fisk experienced. He stepped back, hands shaking, elbow deep in blood. It covered his arms, his hands, the bandages wrapped around them, his hair, his face. His blood mixed with Gregory’s and vice versa and now Fisk had to rethink, well, everything.
His mind felt like it was eroding in a pace much faster than before, now it wasn’t a day by day experience, but by the hour, minute even. He could remember why he’d done what he’d done, and the costs of each action, but he began to question himself. He wasn’t as resolute that he was in the right any more. His conscious wasn’t clear, he felt... guilty.
For the first time in his life, Fisk Bateman felt guilt.
Unwrapping and peeling sticky bandages from his hands and arms, they reminded him of peeling Gregory. All this blood was Gregory’s blood. He mumbled something to himself, depending on the channel, subtitles of the dialogue were either [Unintelligable.] or some form of ‘why did ?’ or ‘I didn’t.’ Either way, Fisk couldn’t tell himself, so whatever the sound crew picked up was just speculation.
As Fisk limped his way to the captain’s bathroom (Gregory bit much deeper than Fisk had anticipated) he leaned over the sink. Gregory hadn’t deserved this. He was a traitor and he deserved to die, but he didn’t deserve this. This was meant for Ivan, this was... for his friends. This was so they’d be remembered. This was retaliation against the mentors. This was a warning to Ivan. This was to terrify the people back home, this was...
This was... wrong. All wrong. Fisk puked. This was the desperate gnashings of a trapped animal. This was a call for help. This wasn’t Fisk trying to instill fear in his enemies, in the world, his biggest enemy, this was just Fisk at his weakest. He puked again. This was the reaction of a scared, cornered animal.
Fisk was scared. He was going to die. He was doomed here. Ivan was going to come, and kill him like all the others and there was nothing he could do, no way to fight back, and the production team we’re going to cut and edit it in all the right ways. Ivan the hero was going to slay Fisk the mad beast. The wild animal. Fisk wiped the puke off mouth with his hand.
Taste of iron. Blood. His blood, Gregory’s blood. He wiped again in reaction. His hand was still bloody. Just smearing it on his face now. Fisk looked up.
Bruises, blood, tears. Fisk was crying, Fisk was a mess. He remembered when he almost OD’d. When he saw Vasily’s corpse. The visions, the voices. Blood on his lips, on his nose, in his hair. Makeup running down his face.
White face.
Black eyes
Red hair.
Red nose.
Red lips.
Clown.
Fucking clown
Clown.
Ivan the hero gains revenge on the Clown and his Cult.
Fisk screamed into the mirror, and opened the medicine cabinet before slamming it closed again. Broken mirror shards filled the sink, as Fisk turned the water on. He scrubbed his arms, his face, but couldn’t get the blood off.
Clown.
This wasn’t working, he needed more water. Wasn’t clean. Filthy filthy filthy.
Filthy clown.
He looked at the toilet. Looked clean. Cleaner than him at least. Fisk ducked his head into the bowl, scrubbing at his face and his hands with soap until the water turned pink red. He flushed, scrubbed again, flushed.
He didn’t want people to see him. They didn’t need to see his face until he was clean again. He screamed into the water. Wiped the water out his eyes. Dunked himself into the water again. Opened his eyes, saw a cord going up the bowl, leading to a small black box with a lens.
There was a camera. A camera in the toilet bowl.
The world got a fish eye view of Fisk’s face, stretched out shouting underwater from a toilet bowl...
It’s been an hour since Fisk’s tantrum ended and he decided to use the shower like a normal human being. Fisk sat silently on the couch, sewing his hand closed. He was still shirtless, his pants rolled to his knees, the bite sewn and bandaged. Butterfly tape crossed Fisk’s right eyebrow. His right eye was black, and blood vessels were ruptured in the corner of his eye itself. His right hand was bandaged and taped up, pushing needle and thread through the half closed wound of his left hand.
Verity was across from Fisk and they hadn’t shared a word since she left the room and returned.
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
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Wham Yubeesling
- Posts: 1257
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- Team Affiliation: Stephanie's Buccaneers
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"Why?"
The question hung in the air. There was no followup.
The question hung in the air. There was no followup.
In through the flesh, out through the flesh. Tighten, repeat. He looked up at Verity. He looked back down at his hand. In through the flesh, out through the flesh, tighten, repeat.
“Where to begin?” Fisk spoke, focusing more on his hand than Verity.
“Gregory betrayed me for one, we could have killed him and hung him up with Stokes, but we didn’t. We gave him a chance, we could’ve used the help. The fact that the consequences to my one kind action did more damage to me than every atrocity I’ve done combined.”
In through the flesh out through the flesh, tighten, repeat.
“Needed to send a message too. To Ben, hell to all the mentors that cheated the game to get us, they might not be here to get punished, but their pets are. To Ivan, because I’m going to do it again when I catch him, and there won’t be a four story drop to end it early for him. To the people who watch this shit, who clamor and grasp and blood and gore until the screams get too unseemly. They wanted their fill, and I gave it to them until they choked.”
In through the flesh out through the flesh, tighten, repeat.
“Then my friends are dead, I’m not getting them back. No matter how these fuckers try to portray them, they can’t hide them, nor me. They have to show this, and they have to show me speaking their names. Producers, mentors, whatever, they can say whatever they want about my friends, but they can’t ignore them, even if it’s only to mention their names during what happened to Greg.”
Fisk cut the thread with scissors, and reached for the gauze.
“Finally, they can’t make up their own meanings about me, about who I am, or the choices I make. I’ve told them upfront, time and time again, what I am, what I aim to do. I’ve taken away their power over me to mold me into what they want. I know what I am, and I know how I’ll be perceived. I’ve done it from my choice, and my choice alone, through better or worse, no matter how I feel about it. Perception is reality, and I’ve altered it.”
Fisk tightened the hand wraps, opening and closing his hands.
“How do you perceive me?”
“Where to begin?” Fisk spoke, focusing more on his hand than Verity.
“Gregory betrayed me for one, we could have killed him and hung him up with Stokes, but we didn’t. We gave him a chance, we could’ve used the help. The fact that the consequences to my one kind action did more damage to me than every atrocity I’ve done combined.”
In through the flesh out through the flesh, tighten, repeat.
“Needed to send a message too. To Ben, hell to all the mentors that cheated the game to get us, they might not be here to get punished, but their pets are. To Ivan, because I’m going to do it again when I catch him, and there won’t be a four story drop to end it early for him. To the people who watch this shit, who clamor and grasp and blood and gore until the screams get too unseemly. They wanted their fill, and I gave it to them until they choked.”
In through the flesh out through the flesh, tighten, repeat.
“Then my friends are dead, I’m not getting them back. No matter how these fuckers try to portray them, they can’t hide them, nor me. They have to show this, and they have to show me speaking their names. Producers, mentors, whatever, they can say whatever they want about my friends, but they can’t ignore them, even if it’s only to mention their names during what happened to Greg.”
Fisk cut the thread with scissors, and reached for the gauze.
“Finally, they can’t make up their own meanings about me, about who I am, or the choices I make. I’ve told them upfront, time and time again, what I am, what I aim to do. I’ve taken away their power over me to mold me into what they want. I know what I am, and I know how I’ll be perceived. I’ve done it from my choice, and my choice alone, through better or worse, no matter how I feel about it. Perception is reality, and I’ve altered it.”
Fisk tightened the hand wraps, opening and closing his hands.
“How do you perceive me?”
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
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Wham Yubeesling
- Posts: 1257
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:15 pm
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- Team Affiliation: Stephanie's Buccaneers
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"I don't know."
She took a breath. Looked away, for a moment, before...
"I just..."
Before her gaze hit the floor, like what always happened whenever she and FIsk tried to talk.
"I just don't want you to hit the death spiral."
She took a breath. Looked away, for a moment, before...
"I just..."
Before her gaze hit the floor, like what always happened whenever she and FIsk tried to talk.
"I just don't want you to hit the death spiral."
“Unfortunately;”
Fisk reached for his blouse.
“I believe I’m already there.”
He slid his arms through. Began buttoning up.
“In all honesty, what’s left for me outside of here?”
Fisk reached for his blouse.
“I believe I’m already there.”
He slid his arms through. Began buttoning up.
“In all honesty, what’s left for me outside of here?”
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
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Wham Yubeesling
- Posts: 1257
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:15 pm
- Location: there is a man standing behind you
- Team Affiliation: Stephanie's Buccaneers
- Contact:
“There’s…”
There was a hole opening up through her chest. A slow, subconscious realization of just how large and how empty her throat was. A complete inability to try and think of something to say. Because what was left for Fisk out there? It wasn’t a question of whether there was a life beyond this, it was a question of whether Verity even truly knew anything about who Fisk had been before all this. What were his hobbies? What were his parents like? Did he have a better relationship with his than she did hers? Verity didn’t know. All Fisk had been before this was a friend of a friend. The person Keegan was always with when he wasn’t with Verity. Someone who… Verity could never have approached, before this. Someone way too scary to try and be around.
So what was out there for Fisk? What was worth escaping the death spiral? Why did Verity want him to stop doing… any of this?
(because you need him alive so that you can get the team win?)
(because you don’t want to have to see someone die like Gregory did?)
(because you don’t want to feel uncomfortable?)
“There’s…”
She gulped. Found her hands grabbing her shirt, trying to pull it down. What was there? For Fisk? Or Verity? Or the both of them? She’d kept with him because he was her teammate and also one of the only people she still knew left but what even were they together? They were just… people. Not friends. Barely even a team. Fisk would be Fisk and he’d become the centre of the scene with ease while Verity would have no choice but... bottom, basically. Follow what he was doing. Do exactly what she needed to. Drop out, eventually, while he did the rest of the work. While he kept talking his talk. Ranting on about how everything was doomed because Ivan and the mentors and the producers decided they couldn’t let him-
…
…
“There’s our enemies.”
She took a breath out. Got a little bit closer to getting eye contact back.
“Not Ivan. Not just Ivan. The mentors. The producers.”
A long, long, time ago, Verity remembered writing a particular scene. For a SotF RP. It was hard to remember the context, but… her character had been in a partnership with a bad guy. The bad guy had come across people he used to know reacting to him as if he was a bad guy and he realized that that was how other people were going to see him from now on. Her character had found him turned away, in the dark, crying, knew that this was the moment where their words meant everything, and they… they made the choice to keep them a villain. Feed into the narrative they’d created for themselves. That it was the strong versus the weak, and that the weak were the ones who called others monsters for simply trying to survive. She’d gotten… praise for that, if she remembered correctly, but it was a long time ago. She’d… gotten better since then.
Kinda brought back memories, though. She wasn’t really expecting this to be something to be brought up again, but…
But she looked Fisk in the eyes. Fisk the Character. Fisk the Person She Didn’t Really Know. Fisk the Person Set On Being The Monster.
It hadn’t exactly been prompted, or asked, or likely even wanted, but Verity knew, right now, that there was at least a chance to make Fisk a better monster for her.
“Because they’ve rigged things against you. Against us. They didn’t like us attacking their favourite, they didn’t like us trying to break the teams, so they’ve decided that we can’t make it out of here alive. They keep telling Ivan where we are. They’ve made all the mentors act against us. So that then, when we’re both dead, when we’re no longer capable of telling our own stories, they can bend the narrative against us. That we’re just idiots who lasted way longer than we should’ve. That… getting our friends together, rejecting their mechanics because what we’d had over the past thirteen years meant more than the colours of our bandannas… that that was laughworthy. That we were deluded, in a cult, fated to fail.”
She took a breath. Tried to comprehend what the fuck she was actually saying. It was easy enough to listen to Fisk try to talk about this, it was easy enough to nod along and say things that made him think you were agreeing with him, but saying it, pretending she fully 100% believed it, that was a whole other thing.
“So we have to win this. We have to beat them. We have to prove that… that we could’ve done it. That we were capable of beating everyone else. That we didn’t need any mentors to do it. That we could’ve gotten all the Respects out of this had they not rigged it against us.”
Breath. Swallow. She’d spoken more words in these few days than she had during the previous four years of high school. God knew how many times she’d gone past the point where her throat should’ve gone out.
“So you can’t… so you can’t do this. You can’t become the person who’s gone too far off the deep end. You can’t become the person who has to be taken down. So…”
At least it’d end quicker than all the other monologues. She’d managed to get through… basically everything she needed to somehow. It’d still been a glurge of basically everything she wanted to try and stick, but… at least she could get through this before her mouth started frothing up. Before she lost her voice for the next hour or so.
“So you can’t let them turn you into that. You, and me, we have to try and get through this.”
She looked Fisk in the eyes. For a moment, felt stronger than she ever had before doing this.
“If not for me, then… for you. For us. For everybody… for everybody they took away."
Only for a moment, though. She stopped. Looked away. There was a line.
She didn’t know how far she’d gone. Not until Fisk responded. Not until she got to knew whether… whether she still had a chance. Whether either of them did.
There was a hole opening up through her chest. A slow, subconscious realization of just how large and how empty her throat was. A complete inability to try and think of something to say. Because what was left for Fisk out there? It wasn’t a question of whether there was a life beyond this, it was a question of whether Verity even truly knew anything about who Fisk had been before all this. What were his hobbies? What were his parents like? Did he have a better relationship with his than she did hers? Verity didn’t know. All Fisk had been before this was a friend of a friend. The person Keegan was always with when he wasn’t with Verity. Someone who… Verity could never have approached, before this. Someone way too scary to try and be around.
So what was out there for Fisk? What was worth escaping the death spiral? Why did Verity want him to stop doing… any of this?
(because you need him alive so that you can get the team win?)
(because you don’t want to have to see someone die like Gregory did?)
(because you don’t want to feel uncomfortable?)
“There’s…”
She gulped. Found her hands grabbing her shirt, trying to pull it down. What was there? For Fisk? Or Verity? Or the both of them? She’d kept with him because he was her teammate and also one of the only people she still knew left but what even were they together? They were just… people. Not friends. Barely even a team. Fisk would be Fisk and he’d become the centre of the scene with ease while Verity would have no choice but... bottom, basically. Follow what he was doing. Do exactly what she needed to. Drop out, eventually, while he did the rest of the work. While he kept talking his talk. Ranting on about how everything was doomed because Ivan and the mentors and the producers decided they couldn’t let him-
…
…
“There’s our enemies.”
She took a breath out. Got a little bit closer to getting eye contact back.
“Not Ivan. Not just Ivan. The mentors. The producers.”
A long, long, time ago, Verity remembered writing a particular scene. For a SotF RP. It was hard to remember the context, but… her character had been in a partnership with a bad guy. The bad guy had come across people he used to know reacting to him as if he was a bad guy and he realized that that was how other people were going to see him from now on. Her character had found him turned away, in the dark, crying, knew that this was the moment where their words meant everything, and they… they made the choice to keep them a villain. Feed into the narrative they’d created for themselves. That it was the strong versus the weak, and that the weak were the ones who called others monsters for simply trying to survive. She’d gotten… praise for that, if she remembered correctly, but it was a long time ago. She’d… gotten better since then.
Kinda brought back memories, though. She wasn’t really expecting this to be something to be brought up again, but…
But she looked Fisk in the eyes. Fisk the Character. Fisk the Person She Didn’t Really Know. Fisk the Person Set On Being The Monster.
It hadn’t exactly been prompted, or asked, or likely even wanted, but Verity knew, right now, that there was at least a chance to make Fisk a better monster for her.
“Because they’ve rigged things against you. Against us. They didn’t like us attacking their favourite, they didn’t like us trying to break the teams, so they’ve decided that we can’t make it out of here alive. They keep telling Ivan where we are. They’ve made all the mentors act against us. So that then, when we’re both dead, when we’re no longer capable of telling our own stories, they can bend the narrative against us. That we’re just idiots who lasted way longer than we should’ve. That… getting our friends together, rejecting their mechanics because what we’d had over the past thirteen years meant more than the colours of our bandannas… that that was laughworthy. That we were deluded, in a cult, fated to fail.”
She took a breath. Tried to comprehend what the fuck she was actually saying. It was easy enough to listen to Fisk try to talk about this, it was easy enough to nod along and say things that made him think you were agreeing with him, but saying it, pretending she fully 100% believed it, that was a whole other thing.
“So we have to win this. We have to beat them. We have to prove that… that we could’ve done it. That we were capable of beating everyone else. That we didn’t need any mentors to do it. That we could’ve gotten all the Respects out of this had they not rigged it against us.”
Breath. Swallow. She’d spoken more words in these few days than she had during the previous four years of high school. God knew how many times she’d gone past the point where her throat should’ve gone out.
“So you can’t… so you can’t do this. You can’t become the person who’s gone too far off the deep end. You can’t become the person who has to be taken down. So…”
At least it’d end quicker than all the other monologues. She’d managed to get through… basically everything she needed to somehow. It’d still been a glurge of basically everything she wanted to try and stick, but… at least she could get through this before her mouth started frothing up. Before she lost her voice for the next hour or so.
“So you can’t let them turn you into that. You, and me, we have to try and get through this.”
She looked Fisk in the eyes. For a moment, felt stronger than she ever had before doing this.
“If not for me, then… for you. For us. For everybody… for everybody they took away."
Only for a moment, though. She stopped. Looked away. There was a line.
She didn’t know how far she’d gone. Not until Fisk responded. Not until she got to knew whether… whether she still had a chance. Whether either of them did.
Fisk smiled and nodded. Stared right through Verity’s eyes as she tried to stare into his. Stared through her as she glanced away. Said what she needed to say.
It hurt.
It hurts when you see the true colors of people you thought you could trust. That after all this time, they weren’t coming to an understanding, they weren’t learning to deal with each other despite disagreements, despite differences. They weren’t actually friends, they’d never be friends.
“Glad we could understand each other.” Fisk said. Then he punched Verity across the jaw, and knocked her to the ground. Then he grasped his hands around her throat and squeezed. “You ever, EVER, lie to me again, and I will hurt you. You ever take me for a fool like that, like I’m your fucking tool and you get me, you understand me, that I’m your perfect weapon because of it, I’ll kill you like I did Gregory.”
“You got it?!?”
“YOU FUCKING GOT THAT?!?”
Fisk blinked.
...
Verity was still sitting down in front of him. She wasn’t knocked to the ground. His hands weren’t on her throat. There wasn’t blood dripping out of her mouth. She was still looking away, still waiting for Fisk to reply.
Fisk stood up. “I’m glad we can come to an understanding...” He said, turning around as he fumbled with his belt. He did this because he didn’t want Verity to see the look of betrayal on his face, and two, unbuckling your pants in front of someone sitting down just looked... wrong.
He sighed, tucking his shirt into his pants. “But the question was rhetorical. I know the answer already, there’s nothing for me. I lost either way. I die here on this boat, or I live on with all my bridges burned, and everyone I care about gone.” It was a shit feeling, but it was a feeling he’d come to know for a long, long time, even before the game.
Yeah, Fisk had a habit of overestimating his own intelligence. He made a fool out of him more often than he’d care to admit. It comes with his reputation; however, because of that, people had a reputation of underestimating just how smart he was. They took him for a fool, easy to play. Fisk had practice with that trick however. Maybe he wasn’t good at math, and his grammar could use work, he was one of the ones who mixed up “your” and “you’re” on his papers rather often. What he was good at, was sniffing bullshit. He knew when someone was saying what they thought he wanted to hear. What would get under his skin. What would make him do what they want. That trait, especially in this game was what got him so far, rather than lackluster ‘triggernometry’ or proper adjectives or whatever. Especially with the fact that with the exception of his closest friends, the people Fisk was surrounded by were all fake. NPCs just responding the way they’re supposed to. Every time Fisk gets an inkling that he may be wrong in that regard, someone comes and proves him wrong.
Sure, Fisk wasn’t a Hans Landa, but he was no Calvin Candie either.
“I have no intentions of dying on this boat.” Fisk fastened his pants and belt, before turning back around and taking his seat. “So you needn’t worry about that. I’ve just...”
“I just have to wonder, if it’s really worth it.” If all he had was right in front of him, he knew the answer. Fisk sighed, then began retying his tie. Adjusting, tightening. “I’ve just lost so much, and... I haven’t gained a thing from this, and I’m becoming all too aware of my place in this.”
He slipped on his vest, zipped it back up. “It’s not a question if we’re going to make it to the end, or even how, it’s just... what comes after this?” He slipped on his sport coat.
“It’s just...”
...
“You wouldn’t get it. It doesn’t matter to you.”
He brushed himself off. There wasn’t anything more to be said.
((Fisk Bateman continued elsewhere.))
It hurt.
It hurts when you see the true colors of people you thought you could trust. That after all this time, they weren’t coming to an understanding, they weren’t learning to deal with each other despite disagreements, despite differences. They weren’t actually friends, they’d never be friends.
“Glad we could understand each other.” Fisk said. Then he punched Verity across the jaw, and knocked her to the ground. Then he grasped his hands around her throat and squeezed. “You ever, EVER, lie to me again, and I will hurt you. You ever take me for a fool like that, like I’m your fucking tool and you get me, you understand me, that I’m your perfect weapon because of it, I’ll kill you like I did Gregory.”
“You got it?!?”
“YOU FUCKING GOT THAT?!?”
Fisk blinked.
...
Verity was still sitting down in front of him. She wasn’t knocked to the ground. His hands weren’t on her throat. There wasn’t blood dripping out of her mouth. She was still looking away, still waiting for Fisk to reply.
Fisk stood up. “I’m glad we can come to an understanding...” He said, turning around as he fumbled with his belt. He did this because he didn’t want Verity to see the look of betrayal on his face, and two, unbuckling your pants in front of someone sitting down just looked... wrong.
He sighed, tucking his shirt into his pants. “But the question was rhetorical. I know the answer already, there’s nothing for me. I lost either way. I die here on this boat, or I live on with all my bridges burned, and everyone I care about gone.” It was a shit feeling, but it was a feeling he’d come to know for a long, long time, even before the game.
Yeah, Fisk had a habit of overestimating his own intelligence. He made a fool out of him more often than he’d care to admit. It comes with his reputation; however, because of that, people had a reputation of underestimating just how smart he was. They took him for a fool, easy to play. Fisk had practice with that trick however. Maybe he wasn’t good at math, and his grammar could use work, he was one of the ones who mixed up “your” and “you’re” on his papers rather often. What he was good at, was sniffing bullshit. He knew when someone was saying what they thought he wanted to hear. What would get under his skin. What would make him do what they want. That trait, especially in this game was what got him so far, rather than lackluster ‘triggernometry’ or proper adjectives or whatever. Especially with the fact that with the exception of his closest friends, the people Fisk was surrounded by were all fake. NPCs just responding the way they’re supposed to. Every time Fisk gets an inkling that he may be wrong in that regard, someone comes and proves him wrong.
Sure, Fisk wasn’t a Hans Landa, but he was no Calvin Candie either.
“I have no intentions of dying on this boat.” Fisk fastened his pants and belt, before turning back around and taking his seat. “So you needn’t worry about that. I’ve just...”
“I just have to wonder, if it’s really worth it.” If all he had was right in front of him, he knew the answer. Fisk sighed, then began retying his tie. Adjusting, tightening. “I’ve just lost so much, and... I haven’t gained a thing from this, and I’m becoming all too aware of my place in this.”
He slipped on his vest, zipped it back up. “It’s not a question if we’re going to make it to the end, or even how, it’s just... what comes after this?” He slipped on his sport coat.
“It’s just...”
...
“You wouldn’t get it. It doesn’t matter to you.”
He brushed himself off. There wasn’t anything more to be said.
((Fisk Bateman continued elsewhere.))
Catche thinks my squirrel is Fisk so here's my daily reminder that he is not.
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Wham Yubeesling
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No, Verity got it. Loud and clear. Because…
Because it was like what she had gone through, back before the game had even officially started. She’d freaked out, she’d killed Timothy, and she’d realized why she’d even been put here in the first place. To freak out. To kill. To start the game, get it going, then drop out when she no longer belonged in the narrative. When she’d killed Timothy, when she’d went into that room in the corridors and found she had two guns, she knew what she was, and that by doing what she’d done, there was no longer any way out of this for her. That she was in the death spiral. That there was nothing for her beyond this. That she’d burn bright and burn out because that was all that was left for her. Her story was no longer one that could win.
That was what she’d thought, back then. And, if Verity did in fact get it, that was what Fisk was thinking right now. She’d tried to convince him to break out, but…
But evidentially, she’d failed. He was still focused on self-destruction. On burning one way or the other.
So what did that mean for Verity? If she were to keep following this thread, keep marching to the beat to his drum, where would she end up? Had she still been in her own spiral, all this time? Had she even actually done anything to try and escape it?
What type of ending did she even have left?
Was there even anything beyond this, for her?
…
…
…
The two just sat there, for the next hour. Neither of them talked. She just looked up towards the ceiling and tried not to think of Gregory and tried not to think of Fisk and tried not to think about herself. Where she fitted, between all of this.
((Verity Stewart, continued elsewhere))
Because it was like what she had gone through, back before the game had even officially started. She’d freaked out, she’d killed Timothy, and she’d realized why she’d even been put here in the first place. To freak out. To kill. To start the game, get it going, then drop out when she no longer belonged in the narrative. When she’d killed Timothy, when she’d went into that room in the corridors and found she had two guns, she knew what she was, and that by doing what she’d done, there was no longer any way out of this for her. That she was in the death spiral. That there was nothing for her beyond this. That she’d burn bright and burn out because that was all that was left for her. Her story was no longer one that could win.
That was what she’d thought, back then. And, if Verity did in fact get it, that was what Fisk was thinking right now. She’d tried to convince him to break out, but…
But evidentially, she’d failed. He was still focused on self-destruction. On burning one way or the other.
So what did that mean for Verity? If she were to keep following this thread, keep marching to the beat to his drum, where would she end up? Had she still been in her own spiral, all this time? Had she even actually done anything to try and escape it?
What type of ending did she even have left?
Was there even anything beyond this, for her?
…
…
…
The two just sat there, for the next hour. Neither of them talked. She just looked up towards the ceiling and tried not to think of Gregory and tried not to think of Fisk and tried not to think about herself. Where she fitted, between all of this.
((Verity Stewart, continued elsewhere))