((Santiago Ibarra continued from Ache))
Santiago had much more at his disposal that night than other students. For one, he had a mattress, and thus, sleep. But what kind of sleep was it really? Every scratch woke him up and had him halfway to his bag before he confirmed it was in fact his hair brushing against the wall under the windowsill, or a rodent scratching at the underside of the door. The room even had a strong smell, as he didn't want to take up the trouble of moving the dresser to go to the bathroom, so he ended up using a water bottle as a toilet. Eventually, he opened his eyes and the sun was shining. Some comfort, though. He was still alone, with not but a knife to his name and a reputation all but cancerous, especially if Harland ended up telling everyone what an angry dick he was. Which he wasn't, obviously, he just wanted to survive while that idiot obviously didn't get the picture.
But time spent being angry at Harland was time wasted. Clearing his eyes and getting his bearings back again, he knew that Harland wasn't going to help him now, so all Santiago had to rely on was himself, his knife, and the gun currently pointing at him through the window wait what
Santiago lept into a standing position but it was too late. The person behind the gun already had him in his sights, so Santiago simply stood still like a stunned mullet with his eyes squeezed closed, waiting for the inevitable hot lead rushing through his body.
...only it wasn't happening. Santiago crept an eye open towards the window, and saw the person at the window wasn't moving. Santiago stood there for several minutes, held as a halfhearted hostage, until suddenly the person reached their left hand forward, struggled slightly with the frame, before opening the window. They then, all the while keeping the gun aimed at Santiago, made their way through. Black shoes first, followed by long checkered skirt, then white wide-necked top, then finally, the visage of a non-descript brunette teenager, with the expression of someone who had already seen quite a bit of The Program.
"...Maya?"
((Maya Spooner continued from Four))
Somos Cenizas De Otro Fuego
Phase 3 (25-36 Hours); not open
"What the fuck, Maya?"
She still hadn't said anything. Maya had leveled her gun at Santiago from the moment her shoes touched the grody carpet, as though she was still running things through in her head. Obviously, there were many things running through Santiago's head, like what was she doing here, had she killed anyone, and was he going to end up dead because of his ex-girlfriend?
Because yes, Maya was his ex-girlfriend, as much as he completely refused to admit it in the real world. He'd seen her outside one day, only a week after his last sophmore breakup, and struck up a conversation with her. She didn't talk much, but she was pretty, for someone so tiny and stick-figure like. Eventually she began talking a lot more, mostly about university and how she was getting her art's degree once she left school. A few hours later they were making out. Days after that they tried going to the movies, and it was just as mediocre as every other uneventful date, but still, the next morning they'd woken up in her neighbour's ADU, Santiago having missed soccer practice for the first time in his entire life, and in exactly the same fashion he felt free. No family to worry about that morning, no horrible classmates to live up to, nothing had mattered except the two of them in the back house of her neighbour's yard.
Of course, they'd had to return to the real world and it's stupid bullshit and the constant bullying of his younger siblings because they weren't white enough and aunt Lisette stealing his squirrel money when she thought he wasn't looking, and much in the same vein Maya wasn't opening up any more than she already had. That was as close as he was ever going to get, a tourist in her life, so one day it came time to go home. There was no point buying the hostel room when he still had a place to pay the rent on. One day, he just ghosted her messages, and she seemed to get the picture.
And now, there she stood, a gun to him.
And finally, something to say.
"Give me your stuff."
Santiago blinked, as though she'd suddenly been speaking another language.
"What?"
"Give me your stuff."
Oh, so this is how it was. He was being robbed.
"Really, Maya?"
"Yes."
The sigh emitting from Santiago's throat could have been described by some as beleaguered. He sauntered over to the other side of his bed, and pulled the bag from underneath. Everything he had left was in here, and now it was going to be gone, just like his entire world was gone when he woke up yesterday on the docks. A pattern he sure expected to be repeated soon once someone found him without his stuff.
Making his way back around the bed, an idea formulated inside Santiago's head. He stopped.
Maya didn't say anything. Her fingers seemed to grasp onto her gun tighter, except for the trigger. She stepped forward, removing one hand and holding it outright.
"Hand it over."
And Santiago conceded. At least, in his way. By 'hand it over', Maya probably meant to hold up his bag and place it in her hands, not for him to suddenly launch the bag at her head, knocking her backwards. That was what he did, though - as she stumbled, Santiago dashed forward and wrenched the gun from her hands just as she hit the wall and slid down. There he stood, and there she sat, with a gun in his hands and nothing but what Maya asked for in hers.
Of course, Santiago didn't want to be pointing a gun at his ex-girlfriend. In fact, even as little as 12 hours ago he didn't imagine himself pointing a gun at anyone at all. He didn't even imagine he would ever get his hands on a gun. But the reality was irrefutable.
"...okay."
Santiago swallowed. Shit. Was he supposed to kill her now? What the fuck was he supposed to do? It was as though all the moisture in his throat immediately evaporated and suddenly he could barely swallow. Shit. Fuck. Okay, so for one thing he didn't want to kill her, but what was going to happen if he let her go? She'd probably come back with something worse, or maybe even track him down while he was unawares. Was that how he was going to die?
"...so get on with it."
Santiago looked down at Maya's head to see her face staring right back up at him. He wanted her to make this hard for him, to start crying, or to plead, or to remind him of the brief time they spent together. But her face was as unreadable as the nanosecond they met, betraying no emotion. It was as though a robot had replaced a girl.
"...get on with what?"
"You're going to kill me?"
A hand grabbed ahold of his intestine and twisted, and he could barely keep it together. The gun's sights lifted and Santiago held his hands to his head in utter confusion.
"What the shit, man."
He began walking, pacing, little lopsided circles, before sitting on the edge of the bed, right next to his clothes on the frame.
"I'm supposed to kill you?"
Maya turned her head to look at Santiago.
"That's how I've seen it work."
Oh, she's seen it work so far, has she? Was she already a killer? No, of course not, he'd have heard her name on the announcements now blaring over the loudspeakers. Maya hadn't killed anyone, but by the looks of things she'd seen people die. People could have been anywhere between one and...shit, fifty? How many other kids had already died?
"You've seen...so you're just trying to-"
"Yes."
The uncomfortable silence hanging over the room returned, punctuated only by the voice of a world traitor booming through the peninsula.
"Well I don't want to."
Maya didn't have a response to this, blank expression unreadable as always, so Santiago continued.
"I want to just...shit, every fucking hour it's like my mind changes. I dunno what the fuck I want to do. I don't want to die, I don't want to kill, I wanted to keep Harland safe just so I could keep myself busy, and now he's gone who the fuck knows where and I'm just stuck here by myself. Well, not completely by myself. You're here."
She raised an eyebrow, nothing more. He kept speaking.
"So what, are we supposed to hold out for rescue? Just keep living until we make it to the end and just hope everyone else dies of old age and we sit around waiting for one of us to get an aneurysm and decide who wins?"
Maya finally decided to speak up.
"You sound like-"
"Yeah I know what the fuck I sound like, and at this point I don't really care."
He sounded like one of the radical kids at school, the ones who kept bleating out their plans for defying the government. The idiotic kind, the ones that never worked. The fact they were even doing it where they were was ludicrous enough.
"Do you really want to hurt me? I mean, for real. Shoot me, take my stuff. I don't really have that much. Unless you feel like bringing a knife to your next gun fight. Assuming you're gonna get into more gunfights."
She took an age to respond, as though he was being philosophical and not just an asshole. Eventually, she looked back at him, and shook her head.
"Great. Well, you don't want to hurt me, and I don't want to hurt you. So."
Santiago got up, held the gun out in his hand, handle first, to Maya.
"I think that means we're working together now."
"No, it doesn't."
"I think the fuck it does. You owe me."
"I don't-"
"Yes, you do."
Maya looked into Santiago's eyes like she had no idea what he was talking about, but Santiago knew she knew exactly what he was talking about, and was not taking answers to the contrary.
"You owe me that much."
Maya's face portrayed nothing but reluctance, Santiago could see it. Eventually, she let out a small nod, extended her left hand, and took the gun from him. He smiled.
"Alright. Looks like we're in business."
Santiago and Maya didn't leave the room for the rest of the day, choosing instead to cover the window with a spare sheet and remain in uncomfortable silence. There was the feeling of dread sticking to the back of his mind, like his team was 60 points down at halftime and, sooner or later, the match would be over. But he wasn't going to let anyone get the satisfaction of taking him down further. It may have been a delay to the inevitable, but nobody was going to surrender. The rest of the world had surrendered to America, and Santiago had already surrendered the moment he started using that ridiculous nickname on himself, but this peninsula in the middle of nowhere was where he was going to make his final stand.
What this stand would be, and what it would stand for, well, those were questions best asked to the void.
((Santiago Ibarra continued elsewhere))
((Maya Spooner continued elsewhere))
She still hadn't said anything. Maya had leveled her gun at Santiago from the moment her shoes touched the grody carpet, as though she was still running things through in her head. Obviously, there were many things running through Santiago's head, like what was she doing here, had she killed anyone, and was he going to end up dead because of his ex-girlfriend?
Because yes, Maya was his ex-girlfriend, as much as he completely refused to admit it in the real world. He'd seen her outside one day, only a week after his last sophmore breakup, and struck up a conversation with her. She didn't talk much, but she was pretty, for someone so tiny and stick-figure like. Eventually she began talking a lot more, mostly about university and how she was getting her art's degree once she left school. A few hours later they were making out. Days after that they tried going to the movies, and it was just as mediocre as every other uneventful date, but still, the next morning they'd woken up in her neighbour's ADU, Santiago having missed soccer practice for the first time in his entire life, and in exactly the same fashion he felt free. No family to worry about that morning, no horrible classmates to live up to, nothing had mattered except the two of them in the back house of her neighbour's yard.
Of course, they'd had to return to the real world and it's stupid bullshit and the constant bullying of his younger siblings because they weren't white enough and aunt Lisette stealing his squirrel money when she thought he wasn't looking, and much in the same vein Maya wasn't opening up any more than she already had. That was as close as he was ever going to get, a tourist in her life, so one day it came time to go home. There was no point buying the hostel room when he still had a place to pay the rent on. One day, he just ghosted her messages, and she seemed to get the picture.
And now, there she stood, a gun to him.
And finally, something to say.
"Give me your stuff."
Santiago blinked, as though she'd suddenly been speaking another language.
"What?"
"Give me your stuff."
Oh, so this is how it was. He was being robbed.
"Really, Maya?"
"Yes."
The sigh emitting from Santiago's throat could have been described by some as beleaguered. He sauntered over to the other side of his bed, and pulled the bag from underneath. Everything he had left was in here, and now it was going to be gone, just like his entire world was gone when he woke up yesterday on the docks. A pattern he sure expected to be repeated soon once someone found him without his stuff.
Making his way back around the bed, an idea formulated inside Santiago's head. He stopped.
Maya didn't say anything. Her fingers seemed to grasp onto her gun tighter, except for the trigger. She stepped forward, removing one hand and holding it outright.
"Hand it over."
And Santiago conceded. At least, in his way. By 'hand it over', Maya probably meant to hold up his bag and place it in her hands, not for him to suddenly launch the bag at her head, knocking her backwards. That was what he did, though - as she stumbled, Santiago dashed forward and wrenched the gun from her hands just as she hit the wall and slid down. There he stood, and there she sat, with a gun in his hands and nothing but what Maya asked for in hers.
Of course, Santiago didn't want to be pointing a gun at his ex-girlfriend. In fact, even as little as 12 hours ago he didn't imagine himself pointing a gun at anyone at all. He didn't even imagine he would ever get his hands on a gun. But the reality was irrefutable.
"...okay."
Santiago swallowed. Shit. Was he supposed to kill her now? What the fuck was he supposed to do? It was as though all the moisture in his throat immediately evaporated and suddenly he could barely swallow. Shit. Fuck. Okay, so for one thing he didn't want to kill her, but what was going to happen if he let her go? She'd probably come back with something worse, or maybe even track him down while he was unawares. Was that how he was going to die?
"...so get on with it."
Santiago looked down at Maya's head to see her face staring right back up at him. He wanted her to make this hard for him, to start crying, or to plead, or to remind him of the brief time they spent together. But her face was as unreadable as the nanosecond they met, betraying no emotion. It was as though a robot had replaced a girl.
"...get on with what?"
"You're going to kill me?"
A hand grabbed ahold of his intestine and twisted, and he could barely keep it together. The gun's sights lifted and Santiago held his hands to his head in utter confusion.
"What the shit, man."
He began walking, pacing, little lopsided circles, before sitting on the edge of the bed, right next to his clothes on the frame.
"I'm supposed to kill you?"
Maya turned her head to look at Santiago.
"That's how I've seen it work."
Oh, she's seen it work so far, has she? Was she already a killer? No, of course not, he'd have heard her name on the announcements now blaring over the loudspeakers. Maya hadn't killed anyone, but by the looks of things she'd seen people die. People could have been anywhere between one and...shit, fifty? How many other kids had already died?
"You've seen...so you're just trying to-"
"Yes."
The uncomfortable silence hanging over the room returned, punctuated only by the voice of a world traitor booming through the peninsula.
"Well I don't want to."
Maya didn't have a response to this, blank expression unreadable as always, so Santiago continued.
"I want to just...shit, every fucking hour it's like my mind changes. I dunno what the fuck I want to do. I don't want to die, I don't want to kill, I wanted to keep Harland safe just so I could keep myself busy, and now he's gone who the fuck knows where and I'm just stuck here by myself. Well, not completely by myself. You're here."
She raised an eyebrow, nothing more. He kept speaking.
"So what, are we supposed to hold out for rescue? Just keep living until we make it to the end and just hope everyone else dies of old age and we sit around waiting for one of us to get an aneurysm and decide who wins?"
Maya finally decided to speak up.
"You sound like-"
"Yeah I know what the fuck I sound like, and at this point I don't really care."
He sounded like one of the radical kids at school, the ones who kept bleating out their plans for defying the government. The idiotic kind, the ones that never worked. The fact they were even doing it where they were was ludicrous enough.
"Do you really want to hurt me? I mean, for real. Shoot me, take my stuff. I don't really have that much. Unless you feel like bringing a knife to your next gun fight. Assuming you're gonna get into more gunfights."
She took an age to respond, as though he was being philosophical and not just an asshole. Eventually, she looked back at him, and shook her head.
"Great. Well, you don't want to hurt me, and I don't want to hurt you. So."
Santiago got up, held the gun out in his hand, handle first, to Maya.
"I think that means we're working together now."
"No, it doesn't."
"I think the fuck it does. You owe me."
"I don't-"
"Yes, you do."
Maya looked into Santiago's eyes like she had no idea what he was talking about, but Santiago knew she knew exactly what he was talking about, and was not taking answers to the contrary.
"You owe me that much."
Maya's face portrayed nothing but reluctance, Santiago could see it. Eventually, she let out a small nod, extended her left hand, and took the gun from him. He smiled.
"Alright. Looks like we're in business."
Santiago and Maya didn't leave the room for the rest of the day, choosing instead to cover the window with a spare sheet and remain in uncomfortable silence. There was the feeling of dread sticking to the back of his mind, like his team was 60 points down at halftime and, sooner or later, the match would be over. But he wasn't going to let anyone get the satisfaction of taking him down further. It may have been a delay to the inevitable, but nobody was going to surrender. The rest of the world had surrendered to America, and Santiago had already surrendered the moment he started using that ridiculous nickname on himself, but this peninsula in the middle of nowhere was where he was going to make his final stand.
What this stand would be, and what it would stand for, well, those were questions best asked to the void.
((Santiago Ibarra continued elsewhere))
((Maya Spooner continued elsewhere))