And there it was.
To have Chuck be or to have Chuck not be. That was the question. Whether it was nobler in the mind to stop him from suffering the slings and arrows of whatever Bunny had done to him, or to take arms against that notion and leave him be, end this game without ever having-
…
…
Holy shit.
He’d done it.
Maxwell Lombardi had just beaten this game.
“Actually, I believe I do have a choice.”
We Own The Night
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Wham Yubeesling
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General Goose
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Chuck's arm dropped. He couldn't hold it up forever, and as important as the heart necklace was - certainly, on an intuitive level, more so than a fish, but who was Chuck to judge? - there was only finite strength in his body.
And it looked like Chuck would have to spend that finite strength debating.
"I'm already dead, man."
Chuck sighed.
"It's a box ticking exercise."
He looked at the necklace. What it represented. Kyran. And not just Kyran. Scarlett and Michael and Natali. Their families. Lance, too. Lance's early fantasies - shared, presumably, by so many of their now extinguished classmates - of beating the game, cheating the game, finding a loophole in the design or construction that could spare their lives. Or not even that. The goalposts had changed as the facts had changed. After a certain point, beating the game was not about saving their lives. No. It was some way of spiting the terrorists. Proving them wrong. Disrupting them. Defeating them, in a broader overarching sense even if not enough to save their lives.
And here was Maxwell, thinking he'd found a way to beat the game. And maybe he was right. Maybe they could prove the terrorists wrong after all. Maybe there was a bigger picture here that Chuck was missing.
Fuck that bigger picture.
Chuck frowned. "I can't see my family again, man. None of us can. At least see yours."
And it looked like Chuck would have to spend that finite strength debating.
"I'm already dead, man."
Chuck sighed.
"It's a box ticking exercise."
He looked at the necklace. What it represented. Kyran. And not just Kyran. Scarlett and Michael and Natali. Their families. Lance, too. Lance's early fantasies - shared, presumably, by so many of their now extinguished classmates - of beating the game, cheating the game, finding a loophole in the design or construction that could spare their lives. Or not even that. The goalposts had changed as the facts had changed. After a certain point, beating the game was not about saving their lives. No. It was some way of spiting the terrorists. Proving them wrong. Disrupting them. Defeating them, in a broader overarching sense even if not enough to save their lives.
And here was Maxwell, thinking he'd found a way to beat the game. And maybe he was right. Maybe they could prove the terrorists wrong after all. Maybe there was a bigger picture here that Chuck was missing.
Fuck that bigger picture.
Chuck frowned. "I can't see my family again, man. None of us can. At least see yours."
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Wham Yubeesling
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Chuck’s argument had, for the most part, been fairly easy to internally address. All things that could have been intriguing to listen to had they been said outside the context of the game, no emotional low blows that would have provoked Maxwell into doing anything that wasn’t motivated by logic first and foremost, no. None of that. Just a simple request for Maxwell to kill Chuck and ruin any chance Maxwell had to end this game on his own terms.
Well, until the end. Until Chuck brought up that no-one but him would ever see their poor parents again.
But he supposed that there was at least something interesting there as well. The topic of family. A topic that Maxwell… had barely thought about these past seven days. At all. The fox hunting incident had for sure been on Maxwell’s mind when his instincts sought out to repeat it, and he was sure he probably raged and moaned about how his parents had forced him into this stupid aquarium trip when he’d woken up in the bedroom of the cabin, but other than that, they hadn’t crossed his mind. He had done all he had done barely ever thinking about the two who had raised him, and now it seemed that out of everyone he had been deemed the one allowed to see them once again.
Did that extend to other things, as well? Had he ever thought about wanting to make it back home? Had he been doing all of this forgetting all about the stakes of the game he was trying to beat.
He shook his head. He couldn’t let himself think about this; not now. All he had to do was reply. Push Chuck’s words away.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I… I’ve been a failure, these past seven days.”
Pretend that it was a struggle for him to admit that fact. Maybe give Chuck the same pathos he was trying to make Maxwell feel.
“I’ve… I don’t know. Every time I’ve tried to do something good it... twisted me. Told me who I really was. I wanted to try and do the right thing, try to… I don’t even know what we were trying to do. Hunker down in the cabin? Resist the game somehow?”
He paused. Kept still, standing above Chuck. There was something that didn’t quite feel right, monologuing in this position, but it wasn’t as if there were any podiums to stand on or chairs to sit on. He just had to do this while looming over Chuck, hope he didn't die until he was done soapboxing.
“I met up with Brandon and Daniel and Yaz, and then I tricked them into letting me leave the cabin to explore the island and then abandoned them to try and kill Jasmine. I met up with Felicia and Ramona and Zubin and made them come back to the cabin with me, and then when Saachi attacked I abandoned Felicia just so I could watch Ramona die. I met up with Daniel again, tried to make amends, and then I just… left him. Ran off. Tried to walk in a danger zone, then tried to get Saachi to kill me, and couldn’t even do either of those things. I made it here, and…”
He took a breath. Broke eye contact, for a few moments.
“I tried to stop Bunny. She had taken down Kris, taken down Wendy, and was about to come after you so I stepped in and tried to stop her and… I had to stop. It was turning me into something that wanted to make her hurt and I had to...”
He remembered. The scream The way he felt when Bunny’s hair had caught alight.
He took another breath. Shook his head. Moved on.
“And there’s… something I’ve been trying to tell myself these past few days. That I would somehow… beat this game. Win in a way that made the people running the game lose. I told that to Saachi to try and intimidate her and then afterwards it… took over my mind. Everything I failed at made me feel worse because it meant I was way farther away from achieving anything. Every person like Brandon or Michael who died hurt harder because I knew that they’d died doing something. I told myself after we left the tar pits that I’d do one last good thing — for myself, not for anyone else — just to prove that I could and I’ve… I find myself still here. I find myself still not having done anything.”
He could hear the change in his tone of voice as he kept speaking. How it became… breathier. More desperate. Like he was about to break down at any moment.
For the record, that wasn’t Maxwell trying to win over Chuck. This island had changed him and it’d been such a silly idea to think that he could go back to the way he was.
“But… maybe. Maybe if I get out of here without having killed anybody I could prove to the people watching that it’s possible. Even if it’s against their ‘rules,’ it doesn’t matter because I’ve proved that this game can be broken. That if anyone... put the effort into it, then this game could fall. I know that nothing I’ve done tonight or this week has been internally consistent or morally good at all. I know that I don’t know what I am. I’ve changed my mind and my goals and my entire character at the drop of a hat. I’ve been so many things at once and I can’t say that any of them are people who I wanted to be, but…”
One last breath. One last pause. It took a bit, but eventually he managed the will to look Chuck in the eyes one last time.
“If I let you die, then I beat this game. If I… win without having killed anyone, then maybe I can say that I’ve done my one good act. That these past seven days of me being on this island were worth something.”
Well, until the end. Until Chuck brought up that no-one but him would ever see their poor parents again.
But he supposed that there was at least something interesting there as well. The topic of family. A topic that Maxwell… had barely thought about these past seven days. At all. The fox hunting incident had for sure been on Maxwell’s mind when his instincts sought out to repeat it, and he was sure he probably raged and moaned about how his parents had forced him into this stupid aquarium trip when he’d woken up in the bedroom of the cabin, but other than that, they hadn’t crossed his mind. He had done all he had done barely ever thinking about the two who had raised him, and now it seemed that out of everyone he had been deemed the one allowed to see them once again.
Did that extend to other things, as well? Had he ever thought about wanting to make it back home? Had he been doing all of this forgetting all about the stakes of the game he was trying to beat.
He shook his head. He couldn’t let himself think about this; not now. All he had to do was reply. Push Chuck’s words away.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I… I’ve been a failure, these past seven days.”
Pretend that it was a struggle for him to admit that fact. Maybe give Chuck the same pathos he was trying to make Maxwell feel.
“I’ve… I don’t know. Every time I’ve tried to do something good it... twisted me. Told me who I really was. I wanted to try and do the right thing, try to… I don’t even know what we were trying to do. Hunker down in the cabin? Resist the game somehow?”
He paused. Kept still, standing above Chuck. There was something that didn’t quite feel right, monologuing in this position, but it wasn’t as if there were any podiums to stand on or chairs to sit on. He just had to do this while looming over Chuck, hope he didn't die until he was done soapboxing.
“I met up with Brandon and Daniel and Yaz, and then I tricked them into letting me leave the cabin to explore the island and then abandoned them to try and kill Jasmine. I met up with Felicia and Ramona and Zubin and made them come back to the cabin with me, and then when Saachi attacked I abandoned Felicia just so I could watch Ramona die. I met up with Daniel again, tried to make amends, and then I just… left him. Ran off. Tried to walk in a danger zone, then tried to get Saachi to kill me, and couldn’t even do either of those things. I made it here, and…”
He took a breath. Broke eye contact, for a few moments.
“I tried to stop Bunny. She had taken down Kris, taken down Wendy, and was about to come after you so I stepped in and tried to stop her and… I had to stop. It was turning me into something that wanted to make her hurt and I had to...”
He remembered. The scream The way he felt when Bunny’s hair had caught alight.
He took another breath. Shook his head. Moved on.
“And there’s… something I’ve been trying to tell myself these past few days. That I would somehow… beat this game. Win in a way that made the people running the game lose. I told that to Saachi to try and intimidate her and then afterwards it… took over my mind. Everything I failed at made me feel worse because it meant I was way farther away from achieving anything. Every person like Brandon or Michael who died hurt harder because I knew that they’d died doing something. I told myself after we left the tar pits that I’d do one last good thing — for myself, not for anyone else — just to prove that I could and I’ve… I find myself still here. I find myself still not having done anything.”
He could hear the change in his tone of voice as he kept speaking. How it became… breathier. More desperate. Like he was about to break down at any moment.
For the record, that wasn’t Maxwell trying to win over Chuck. This island had changed him and it’d been such a silly idea to think that he could go back to the way he was.
“But… maybe. Maybe if I get out of here without having killed anybody I could prove to the people watching that it’s possible. Even if it’s against their ‘rules,’ it doesn’t matter because I’ve proved that this game can be broken. That if anyone... put the effort into it, then this game could fall. I know that nothing I’ve done tonight or this week has been internally consistent or morally good at all. I know that I don’t know what I am. I’ve changed my mind and my goals and my entire character at the drop of a hat. I’ve been so many things at once and I can’t say that any of them are people who I wanted to be, but…”
One last breath. One last pause. It took a bit, but eventually he managed the will to look Chuck in the eyes one last time.
“If I let you die, then I beat this game. If I… win without having killed anyone, then maybe I can say that I’ve done my one good act. That these past seven days of me being on this island were worth something.”
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General Goose
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"W-wow."
Chuck blinked. He suddenly no longer felt like he was dying - like a last minute burst of debating adrenaline had been shot through his veins, because the blinkered logic, the selfishness, of what Maxwell was saying was just...utterly impenetrable.
"You're...you're not beating the game. You're not proving any point. You're just...the chance to break the game was earlier. When people were actually alive."
Chuck sighed.
"Now? At this point? All you're doing is just...giving them an extra kill to their body count. You're denying someone his dying wish. You're..."
He exhaled. Breathing still hurt, as distracting as indignant rage might have been from that sensation, there was no getting around that basic physiological fact.
"Nobody cares what you prove about yourself. Nobody cares if you get thrown into the next iteration of this dumb fucking death game - because, surprisingly, you haven't broken the game so there probably will be a new one - with your head held up high." He didn't mean to be an uber-realist, or to deny that internal integrity was completely without merit, that principle should always be sacrificed at the altar of consequentialism. But there was a point where...
Well, it was just being stupid. Obstinate. If Maxwell wanted to admit he was squeamish, or placing his moral comfort over something more important, then Chuck would have been able to work with that honesty. But Maxwell was deluding himself - trying to delude Chuck, too, which was especially aggravating - that this was in some way a victory. A blow to the terrorists. It was nothing of the sort.
"You'll be dead. And these things that you're being asked to take care of, to take home...the messages you'll have to impart....they'll be gone too. Why? Because you're being self-indulgent." He sighed. He didn't mean to get angry. But it was hard not to. Hard not to descend into incadescent rage. Felt his whole face move with the motion, felt that scar itch again.
"I was with Lance at first. He was killed by Jasmine. She'd tried being all...friendly, at first. Well, not friendly. Not hostile, I guess. And she'd said that she was on the run from you." Chuck couldn't remember the details. "There was a fight. How I got the eye scar." It was probably galling just how quickly he'd functionally forgotten that, how a permanent blemish on his face, an immutable reminder of just one of the many traymas he'd gone through, had now just become a thing. Something he rarely saw fit to mention, a kind of discomfort that was as humdrum and mundane as a persistent itch or chafing clothing.
He was thinking about it now. Actually treating it as the unchanging prompting, a visceral mnemonic, of past events that it actually was.
"She'd said she was running from you. I can't remember if I believed her at the time but...yeah, her subsequent actions..." He coughed again. Why the fuck was he using long words? Why the fuck was he allowing this all to end in civil discussion, such a whimpering end to what should have been an explosive finale? "Sorta ruined her credibility. And then, well, guess I forgot all about that. You never acted in a way that gave credence to what she'd said."
He threw his head back.
"You're gonna go home, man. That's the closest thing you can get to breaking the game at this point. Do some good. Live your life. Carry the torch."
And yet, Chuck knew that his impassioned pleas would likely be for nothing. He reached down, bloodied fingers clumsily padding at his side until he found what he was looking for. A trade from Wendy, a trade that had ultimately done little to help either of them. He pulled out the handgun. It'd probably had a pretty interesting story of its own. Seen more and been involved in more than its current owner had. He held it up.
"Just take it. Shoot me."
He held it up, letting the heart necklace drop to the ground as his other hand gave up on its clearly worthless use of energy.
"Or..."
He aimed it at Maxwell. "Come on, man."
Chuck blinked. He suddenly no longer felt like he was dying - like a last minute burst of debating adrenaline had been shot through his veins, because the blinkered logic, the selfishness, of what Maxwell was saying was just...utterly impenetrable.
"You're...you're not beating the game. You're not proving any point. You're just...the chance to break the game was earlier. When people were actually alive."
Chuck sighed.
"Now? At this point? All you're doing is just...giving them an extra kill to their body count. You're denying someone his dying wish. You're..."
He exhaled. Breathing still hurt, as distracting as indignant rage might have been from that sensation, there was no getting around that basic physiological fact.
"Nobody cares what you prove about yourself. Nobody cares if you get thrown into the next iteration of this dumb fucking death game - because, surprisingly, you haven't broken the game so there probably will be a new one - with your head held up high." He didn't mean to be an uber-realist, or to deny that internal integrity was completely without merit, that principle should always be sacrificed at the altar of consequentialism. But there was a point where...
Well, it was just being stupid. Obstinate. If Maxwell wanted to admit he was squeamish, or placing his moral comfort over something more important, then Chuck would have been able to work with that honesty. But Maxwell was deluding himself - trying to delude Chuck, too, which was especially aggravating - that this was in some way a victory. A blow to the terrorists. It was nothing of the sort.
"You'll be dead. And these things that you're being asked to take care of, to take home...the messages you'll have to impart....they'll be gone too. Why? Because you're being self-indulgent." He sighed. He didn't mean to get angry. But it was hard not to. Hard not to descend into incadescent rage. Felt his whole face move with the motion, felt that scar itch again.
"I was with Lance at first. He was killed by Jasmine. She'd tried being all...friendly, at first. Well, not friendly. Not hostile, I guess. And she'd said that she was on the run from you." Chuck couldn't remember the details. "There was a fight. How I got the eye scar." It was probably galling just how quickly he'd functionally forgotten that, how a permanent blemish on his face, an immutable reminder of just one of the many traymas he'd gone through, had now just become a thing. Something he rarely saw fit to mention, a kind of discomfort that was as humdrum and mundane as a persistent itch or chafing clothing.
He was thinking about it now. Actually treating it as the unchanging prompting, a visceral mnemonic, of past events that it actually was.
"She'd said she was running from you. I can't remember if I believed her at the time but...yeah, her subsequent actions..." He coughed again. Why the fuck was he using long words? Why the fuck was he allowing this all to end in civil discussion, such a whimpering end to what should have been an explosive finale? "Sorta ruined her credibility. And then, well, guess I forgot all about that. You never acted in a way that gave credence to what she'd said."
He threw his head back.
"You're gonna go home, man. That's the closest thing you can get to breaking the game at this point. Do some good. Live your life. Carry the torch."
And yet, Chuck knew that his impassioned pleas would likely be for nothing. He reached down, bloodied fingers clumsily padding at his side until he found what he was looking for. A trade from Wendy, a trade that had ultimately done little to help either of them. He pulled out the handgun. It'd probably had a pretty interesting story of its own. Seen more and been involved in more than its current owner had. He held it up.
"Just take it. Shoot me."
He held it up, letting the heart necklace drop to the ground as his other hand gave up on its clearly worthless use of energy.
"Or..."
He aimed it at Maxwell. "Come on, man."
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Wham Yubeesling
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“Why should I care?”
Maxwell… had to tell the truth, there was more that had affected him in Chuck’s response than he would like to either admit or let on. He wasn’t even sure what it was — so much had been taken from him that even listening felt like just hearing isolated sentences that he couldn’t quite lace together. Perhaps it was the aftereffects of what Maxwell had said himself. Maybe all Chuck needed was his angry, delirious tone for his ultimate message to reach. Maybe a part of him — however below the surface — actually received Chuck’s message. Heard it loud and clear. Knew precisely how much Maxwell’s explanation lacked to explain anything at all.
Oh well. Maxwell had been a mess of contradictions and disappointments from the moment he had woken up on this island. He wasn’t going to stop being one now.
“Why should I let all these other people determine the way I live my life?” His eyes stayed looking into Chuck’s, yet the action no longer seemed difficult or all that important to do. “I never particularly cared about them, I’m sure they never particularly cared about me, why should that change now that they’re all dead? I know that they have legacies that need protection, and I know that I may or may not be the only one who can carry them on, but even then, to act as if they were anything other than people at a school I never particularly wanted to go to. Yes, I had my friends, and I’m sure after all this is over I shall mourn them in my own way; but to bear the responsibility of everyone here? The people I hated? The people who hated me?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think anyone here would’ve wanted that.”
He exhaled. Took his eyes off, for a second. Looked up and around to try if there was anything else in this background to note.
“I tried being selfless. I tried improving. I tried being someone other than who I am, and it didn’t work. People kept dying. I held myself up to standards I couldn’t keep and it made me feel so much worse than I otherwise would have. It… drove me to a state I don’t ever want to go near again. Made me do things...”
A breath. A brief thought about Jasmine. Bunny. The walk towards the church, earlier today. Saachi.
A refocus on Chuck. A stare that was perhaps more resolute than before.
“So no. I’m done with trying to be something else. I’m done with trying to have this island change me. I’m going to beat this game, and I’m going to do so if only for myself.”
He shrugged.
“Besides, I can’t take your gun if you’re pointing it at me, can I?”
Maxwell… had to tell the truth, there was more that had affected him in Chuck’s response than he would like to either admit or let on. He wasn’t even sure what it was — so much had been taken from him that even listening felt like just hearing isolated sentences that he couldn’t quite lace together. Perhaps it was the aftereffects of what Maxwell had said himself. Maybe all Chuck needed was his angry, delirious tone for his ultimate message to reach. Maybe a part of him — however below the surface — actually received Chuck’s message. Heard it loud and clear. Knew precisely how much Maxwell’s explanation lacked to explain anything at all.
Oh well. Maxwell had been a mess of contradictions and disappointments from the moment he had woken up on this island. He wasn’t going to stop being one now.
“Why should I let all these other people determine the way I live my life?” His eyes stayed looking into Chuck’s, yet the action no longer seemed difficult or all that important to do. “I never particularly cared about them, I’m sure they never particularly cared about me, why should that change now that they’re all dead? I know that they have legacies that need protection, and I know that I may or may not be the only one who can carry them on, but even then, to act as if they were anything other than people at a school I never particularly wanted to go to. Yes, I had my friends, and I’m sure after all this is over I shall mourn them in my own way; but to bear the responsibility of everyone here? The people I hated? The people who hated me?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think anyone here would’ve wanted that.”
He exhaled. Took his eyes off, for a second. Looked up and around to try if there was anything else in this background to note.
“I tried being selfless. I tried improving. I tried being someone other than who I am, and it didn’t work. People kept dying. I held myself up to standards I couldn’t keep and it made me feel so much worse than I otherwise would have. It… drove me to a state I don’t ever want to go near again. Made me do things...”
A breath. A brief thought about Jasmine. Bunny. The walk towards the church, earlier today. Saachi.
A refocus on Chuck. A stare that was perhaps more resolute than before.
“So no. I’m done with trying to be something else. I’m done with trying to have this island change me. I’m going to beat this game, and I’m going to do so if only for myself.”
He shrugged.
“Besides, I can’t take your gun if you’re pointing it at me, can I?”
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General Goose
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He gripped the heart necklace in one hand, and then let it drop from his fingers, onto his knee. Though Chuck's jeans were bloodied and muddied and dirtied, the necklace still managed to stand out against the fabric.
His other hand tilted the gun forward, making it sure Maxwell would be able to take it from his loosened grip if he was so inclined.
But Maxwell didn't.
Chuck wasn't sure which possibility angered or affronted him the most.
Maybe Maxwell genuinely believed the inane bullshit that he was spouting. That somehow this was all about him. That the losses, the suffering, the lost opportunities and forever vanquished potentials of their class had been turned from a sacrifice into a tragedy just based on the arbitrary impulse of one guy who prided the cleanliness of his hands above the virtue of saving a life. That Maxwell was so blinded by his own sanctimonious moralistic mission that he actually thought that him condemning himself to another round of this shitty escapade was in some way beating the game.
Or maybe Maxwell didn't believe it. But maybe he thought that it would somehow be a violation of some internal moral code, some self-aggrandising requirement to be pure and noble and live in blissful isolation from the consequences and legacies of his actions, for him to walk back now. Or maybe he was too scared - of appearing weak, of giving in, of backing down from the stupid hill he'd chosen to metaphorically die on. Maybe the gaze of the cameras and the judgement of the terrorists was getting to Maxwell more than he would want. His story would be of someone principled and idealistic, to the very bitter end, resisting pressure to err from his course - and that, in Maxwell's addled mind, might have helped him.
At some point knowing the distinction would have mattered. But at this point...nah.
Neither angered him at all really. Because all he cared about was how Maxwell was acting - and the why behind that, well, that was just academic.
"Okay. Fine. Let me die. And then, far from breaking the game, in a few months time you'll be thrown right back into this and, hell, maybe you'll survive yet again and steal a place home from two people!" That was the last impassioned rant that Chuck had the energy to commit to, and it took all his energy to stop it devolving into a coughing fit mid-syllable. He managed to, in the end, keep his flow constant and reach the planned end of his prepared final monologue, despite an increasingly hoarse voice and his irate tone teetering dangerously close to descending into ineffectual whining. Whatever.
He lifted his free hand up, wiping away some spit - or sweat, or blood, or vomit, whatever, Chuck made sure not to look at what he'd been retching up and letting fall unceremoniously from his mouth - and then smearing it into his shirt. He didn't care what Maxwell thought. When he continued talking, his voice was weak. His accent was there in full force. At the same time, his temperament and tonality was so devoid of spirit and energy, instead just coasting by on resigned candour and an indignant fury that Maxwell had chosen this time to start up a debate about idiotic principles, that it was hard to make out the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of Cajun enunciation. It sounded more like a slur, a garbling cacophony of syllables and grunts, no longer judging Maxwell worthy of the effort needed to pretend that he wasn't dying.
Maxwell was so clearly wrong.
And yet Chuck was unable to persuade him otherwise. Did not have the facts, the faculties, on hand to change his course. Maybe Maxwell was beyond that stage, had lost his capacity to reason and empathise due to some mid-island trauma Chuck had not seen. Maybe there was a reason for his unpalatable stubbornness. In which case, Chuck's reasoning was wasted on someone doomed to be unreceptive to it.
"I mean, by your logic, you know what else would beat the game?"
He held his gun up again. This time, flicking the safety off.
"By your fucking logic, we'll be beating the game."
His other hand tilted the gun forward, making it sure Maxwell would be able to take it from his loosened grip if he was so inclined.
But Maxwell didn't.
Chuck wasn't sure which possibility angered or affronted him the most.
Maybe Maxwell genuinely believed the inane bullshit that he was spouting. That somehow this was all about him. That the losses, the suffering, the lost opportunities and forever vanquished potentials of their class had been turned from a sacrifice into a tragedy just based on the arbitrary impulse of one guy who prided the cleanliness of his hands above the virtue of saving a life. That Maxwell was so blinded by his own sanctimonious moralistic mission that he actually thought that him condemning himself to another round of this shitty escapade was in some way beating the game.
Or maybe Maxwell didn't believe it. But maybe he thought that it would somehow be a violation of some internal moral code, some self-aggrandising requirement to be pure and noble and live in blissful isolation from the consequences and legacies of his actions, for him to walk back now. Or maybe he was too scared - of appearing weak, of giving in, of backing down from the stupid hill he'd chosen to metaphorically die on. Maybe the gaze of the cameras and the judgement of the terrorists was getting to Maxwell more than he would want. His story would be of someone principled and idealistic, to the very bitter end, resisting pressure to err from his course - and that, in Maxwell's addled mind, might have helped him.
At some point knowing the distinction would have mattered. But at this point...nah.
Neither angered him at all really. Because all he cared about was how Maxwell was acting - and the why behind that, well, that was just academic.
"Okay. Fine. Let me die. And then, far from breaking the game, in a few months time you'll be thrown right back into this and, hell, maybe you'll survive yet again and steal a place home from two people!" That was the last impassioned rant that Chuck had the energy to commit to, and it took all his energy to stop it devolving into a coughing fit mid-syllable. He managed to, in the end, keep his flow constant and reach the planned end of his prepared final monologue, despite an increasingly hoarse voice and his irate tone teetering dangerously close to descending into ineffectual whining. Whatever.
He lifted his free hand up, wiping away some spit - or sweat, or blood, or vomit, whatever, Chuck made sure not to look at what he'd been retching up and letting fall unceremoniously from his mouth - and then smearing it into his shirt. He didn't care what Maxwell thought. When he continued talking, his voice was weak. His accent was there in full force. At the same time, his temperament and tonality was so devoid of spirit and energy, instead just coasting by on resigned candour and an indignant fury that Maxwell had chosen this time to start up a debate about idiotic principles, that it was hard to make out the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of Cajun enunciation. It sounded more like a slur, a garbling cacophony of syllables and grunts, no longer judging Maxwell worthy of the effort needed to pretend that he wasn't dying.
Maxwell was so clearly wrong.
And yet Chuck was unable to persuade him otherwise. Did not have the facts, the faculties, on hand to change his course. Maybe Maxwell was beyond that stage, had lost his capacity to reason and empathise due to some mid-island trauma Chuck had not seen. Maybe there was a reason for his unpalatable stubbornness. In which case, Chuck's reasoning was wasted on someone doomed to be unreceptive to it.
"I mean, by your logic, you know what else would beat the game?"
He held his gun up again. This time, flicking the safety off.
"By your fucking logic, we'll be beating the game."
-
Wham Yubeesling
- Posts: 1255
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:15 pm
- Location: there is a man standing behind you
- Team Affiliation: Stephanie's Buccaneers
- Contact:
“And I’m sure that if you kill the both of us you’ll certainly make everybody’s sacrifice worth it.”
The fact that Chuck was pointing the gun at Maxwell was… mildly terrifying, he had to admit, but not so much that Maxwell felt debilitated. While the idea that all that had happened these past seven days could be undone by one man’s final act of spite was very much something to consider, ultimately Maxwell knew that Chuck would never go for it. He was too selfless. He was far more concerned about going after his own ideals than doing whatever would give him the greatest profit. Killing Maxwell and then bleeding out, while... actually, Maxwell didn’t really know how that would benefit Chuck in any way, never mind. The point was that Chuck was a good person. Killing Maxwell was — somehow — not a thing a good person would do. Ergo, Chuck would not kill Maxwell.
That provided quite a measure of confidence as Maxwell elected to end this debate.
“Look, I don’t particularly see how arguing about this is going to achieve anything of worth. I’m fairly sure we’re speaking from two radically different viewpoints. You’re… you’re a good person, Chuck. You did far more than a…”
This was supposed to be the part when all those voices in his head came in to undercut him. He waited for them to come. Mock him. Tell Maxwell who he really was.
They didn’t, this time. Maybe that meant something.
“...Than a more idealistic myself ever could. You… started that bonfire, I believe. You gave us all the hope that the boats could come. Save us all. End this game. I… did nothing like that. I let my friends die. I… did what I did to Jasmine and Bunny. I made promises that I couldn’t keep and fell far short of the hero I oh so wished to be. I’m the bad guy.”
He paused. Thought it over for a second.
“Maybe, maybe not. I’ve no clue where I stand on that front. What I do know were that my actions were selfish. I acted according to myself and let others suffer purely because I felt like it. You wish to know why?”
He paused. Didn’t need to think about it much, this time.
“Because that’s who I was before all this. Because that’s who I still am. I tried to change for the better, and you know why I didn’t, in the end? Because that was letting them win. That was letting them change me. The whole point of this game was to show what people become when it became a matter of life and death, and if I make it through this game staying exactly the way I was before, then I beat them.”
He knew that he was contradicting himself, here — he didn’t see his choice to try and take down Bunny as anything less than a selfless action, for one — but if it meant finally ending this argument, then Chuck didn’t have to know that. Maxwell would deal with it when the time to deal with it came. Now that the amount of time measured in his life was soon to be measured in years rather than hours, he saw no point in taking advantage of that. Finally being able to not have to confront himself. What a dream.
“So that’s why I’m not going to kill you, Chuck, because if I let you die, I win. I come out of this game the same way I came in. I show the people running this game their idea that I can become a better person is bullshit. And if they have their hissy fit, if they try to throw me back into this game, well…”
One last pause. He gave Charles a final little grin.
“Then I’ll beat them again.”
He shrugged. Turned around.
“Simple as that.”
Walked away.
The fact that Chuck was pointing the gun at Maxwell was… mildly terrifying, he had to admit, but not so much that Maxwell felt debilitated. While the idea that all that had happened these past seven days could be undone by one man’s final act of spite was very much something to consider, ultimately Maxwell knew that Chuck would never go for it. He was too selfless. He was far more concerned about going after his own ideals than doing whatever would give him the greatest profit. Killing Maxwell and then bleeding out, while... actually, Maxwell didn’t really know how that would benefit Chuck in any way, never mind. The point was that Chuck was a good person. Killing Maxwell was — somehow — not a thing a good person would do. Ergo, Chuck would not kill Maxwell.
That provided quite a measure of confidence as Maxwell elected to end this debate.
“Look, I don’t particularly see how arguing about this is going to achieve anything of worth. I’m fairly sure we’re speaking from two radically different viewpoints. You’re… you’re a good person, Chuck. You did far more than a…”
This was supposed to be the part when all those voices in his head came in to undercut him. He waited for them to come. Mock him. Tell Maxwell who he really was.
They didn’t, this time. Maybe that meant something.
“...Than a more idealistic myself ever could. You… started that bonfire, I believe. You gave us all the hope that the boats could come. Save us all. End this game. I… did nothing like that. I let my friends die. I… did what I did to Jasmine and Bunny. I made promises that I couldn’t keep and fell far short of the hero I oh so wished to be. I’m the bad guy.”
He paused. Thought it over for a second.
“Maybe, maybe not. I’ve no clue where I stand on that front. What I do know were that my actions were selfish. I acted according to myself and let others suffer purely because I felt like it. You wish to know why?”
He paused. Didn’t need to think about it much, this time.
“Because that’s who I was before all this. Because that’s who I still am. I tried to change for the better, and you know why I didn’t, in the end? Because that was letting them win. That was letting them change me. The whole point of this game was to show what people become when it became a matter of life and death, and if I make it through this game staying exactly the way I was before, then I beat them.”
He knew that he was contradicting himself, here — he didn’t see his choice to try and take down Bunny as anything less than a selfless action, for one — but if it meant finally ending this argument, then Chuck didn’t have to know that. Maxwell would deal with it when the time to deal with it came. Now that the amount of time measured in his life was soon to be measured in years rather than hours, he saw no point in taking advantage of that. Finally being able to not have to confront himself. What a dream.
“So that’s why I’m not going to kill you, Chuck, because if I let you die, I win. I come out of this game the same way I came in. I show the people running this game their idea that I can become a better person is bullshit. And if they have their hissy fit, if they try to throw me back into this game, well…”
One last pause. He gave Charles a final little grin.
“Then I’ll beat them again.”
He shrugged. Turned around.
“Simple as that.”
Walked away.
-
General Goose
- Posts: 318
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 2:51 pm
Yeah.
Maxwell had called his bluff.
Chuck lowered the gun. Sighed. An exaggerated sigh, but exaggerated in its timidity, its quietness. It was a performative yet subtle one, as if to say 'yeah, we all knew it was a dumb bluff'.
What a stupid bluff it was, in hindsight. It had certainly not worked properly on anyone, but if it had? Even a little bit? All it had done was make Chuck look slightly mad. In possession of skewed priorities, far less noble and composed than those other dying people Chuck had been around.
And maybe he was. Maybe he had been desensitised. Maybe his soul had been corrupted, in some ways that he wouldn't have known through introspection alone but were swiftly becoming revealed through the actions that he now seemed to countenance. Chuck sighed. Maybe he had gone mad. Maybe he wasn't a worthy arbiter of morality. Maybe Maxwell's concerns had, at some level beyond conceited pomposity, a genuine tangible real-world impact. Maybe Chuck should have been able to navigate that. To chart a course through that.
Maybe all along Chuck was the wrong person to do that. Maxwell telling Chuck that he was a good person, perhaps more than anything, was what was making Chuck doubt that. He'd always been open to self-criticism, always tried to be open-minded and willing to change, but he'd always fundamentally thought that he was a good person. His openness to self-improvement, to self-criticism, that was what always struck Chuck as one of his stronger characteristics. But this was the first time he found himself seriously doubting that fundamental goodness. The first time Chuck found himself realising that, hey, maybe he was not a good person.
It was petty. An impulse to disagree with Maxwell. That was what motivated it. A spasmodic burst of defiant energy with no constructive purpose. A suddenly discovered contrarian streak that went beyond some utility as devil's advocate and just seemed motivated by a desire to deny Maxwell any sense of satisfaction from this encounter, any notion of validity to his arguments.
Chuck relatively quickly realised that reaction for what it was. Petty, stupid, pathetic. Not worth the energy. He couldn't let his final moments be driven by spite. He would be denied something meaningful, the chance to do one last good deed, but Chuck still believed in there being...well, some narrative structure to his life. The romanticised ideal of having some semblance of internal peace as he moved from one world to the next. A recognition that it was better to conclude his thoughts with prayers and contrition rather than bitterness and loathing.
He was a good person. But so was Lance, so was Kyran, so was Scarlett, so was Michael, so was Wendy, so was…
So many people.
And at least Maxwell had the gall to admit, in his own stupid way, that he wasn't fit to carry on their legacy, to walk in their footsteps.
But why was Maxwell doing all this? Calling Chuck a good person, just to drive home the point of how galling it was to deny that final wish? Was it to soothe his own conscience, in that frustratingly insular way that Maxwell seemed to specialise in? Was it because he thought it was actually helpful to Chuck? To have his good deeds recapped?
Chuck felt a snarl forming. It was irrational, pointless, petty. As big an indictment of his own character as Chuck had the energy left to muster, as damning a verdict as possible on the ultimately disappointing bearer of the family name and proponent of his professed values. "You trying to get the kill by boring me to death?” Chuck tried to say, trying to add a sarcastically hopeful inflection to his voice. It came out as a mere mumble though, barely legible even to the microphone embedded in his collar. There was a microphone embedded there, right? He couldn’t remember. Chuck hadn’t really put the energy into making those words lucid, admittedly. If it was a slurred jumble of incoherent groans, he supposed the thought went, then maybe the venomous intent wouldn’t take on any real or meaningful form in the external world.
He threw his head back, slamming it against the wall, flinching at the forced jolt back into full consciousness and all the pain and agony that was suddenly clear again. He couldn’t hold his head up by his own any more. Needed to rest it against the hard surface behind him. Was it a wall? He couldn’t even remember. Chuck sighed. “Yeah. I actually tried...beating the game. Maximising the people who got to go home, y’know? Seems like the...smartest way to beat it, but that’s just li’l old me with my clearly ludicrous notions.”
Chuck grunted. It was like Maxwell was listing everything Chuck had tried to do as if to rub it in that not only had he failed, but he had failed far worse than even the rules of the game itself allowed. Maxwell, Chuck was sure, was speaking with no malignant intent of his own bar his own frustrating pigheadedness, but it was like serving as the second-hand gloating mouthpiece of Danya.
Or maybe Chuck had thought that too soon.
His internal view of Maxwell was oscillating wildly, a dizzying pendulum, between a charitable one and an utterly disdainful one. And then, finally, Maxwell removed that doubt. Confirmed it was pure selfishness. It was his “I did it for me” moment, but without any of the gravitas or emotional weight that Walter White’s had. At least he admitted it. Chuck supposed there was something respectable in that, but ultimately it just gave greater credibility to Chuck’s desire to be snarky.
In a sharp detour from his tired Cajun drawl, Chuck perked up to deliver his next sentence in a mocking English accent as Maxwell turned away. “Hoho, oh, look at me, I’m Maxwell,” he teased. “I just hate killing so much I’m gonna do this game a second time. Oh, I bet Danya just fucking loves me.” Mid-sentence, the accent faded, and the weary Southern accent reasserted itself. “Fucking...bullshit, man.”
He looked down at the heart necklace. It wasn’t going anywhere.
Then Chuck’s mind, in its erratic and feverish mania, came to a point where, without any logic and without any reasoning, he found himself able to accept, for a few moments, Maxwell’s decision. He was able to make peace with it. Chuck knew that it wouldn’t last long. That eventually he’d remember something, his mind would go somewhere, and he’d all of a sudden be enraged again. Furious again. Nah. Better to die with...if not contentment, then at least a reassuring, numb, insular, blind-to-the-outside-world apathy. It was against every single one of Chuck’s broader instincts, and he wasn’t going to let this opportunity slide.
“Whatever,” he said, pulling the hat over his eyes with one hand.
With the other, he pressed the barrel under his chin.
In the end, though, he didn't have the strength left. He didn't need to. The gun dropped to the ground.
Maxwell had called his bluff.
Chuck lowered the gun. Sighed. An exaggerated sigh, but exaggerated in its timidity, its quietness. It was a performative yet subtle one, as if to say 'yeah, we all knew it was a dumb bluff'.
What a stupid bluff it was, in hindsight. It had certainly not worked properly on anyone, but if it had? Even a little bit? All it had done was make Chuck look slightly mad. In possession of skewed priorities, far less noble and composed than those other dying people Chuck had been around.
And maybe he was. Maybe he had been desensitised. Maybe his soul had been corrupted, in some ways that he wouldn't have known through introspection alone but were swiftly becoming revealed through the actions that he now seemed to countenance. Chuck sighed. Maybe he had gone mad. Maybe he wasn't a worthy arbiter of morality. Maybe Maxwell's concerns had, at some level beyond conceited pomposity, a genuine tangible real-world impact. Maybe Chuck should have been able to navigate that. To chart a course through that.
Maybe all along Chuck was the wrong person to do that. Maxwell telling Chuck that he was a good person, perhaps more than anything, was what was making Chuck doubt that. He'd always been open to self-criticism, always tried to be open-minded and willing to change, but he'd always fundamentally thought that he was a good person. His openness to self-improvement, to self-criticism, that was what always struck Chuck as one of his stronger characteristics. But this was the first time he found himself seriously doubting that fundamental goodness. The first time Chuck found himself realising that, hey, maybe he was not a good person.
It was petty. An impulse to disagree with Maxwell. That was what motivated it. A spasmodic burst of defiant energy with no constructive purpose. A suddenly discovered contrarian streak that went beyond some utility as devil's advocate and just seemed motivated by a desire to deny Maxwell any sense of satisfaction from this encounter, any notion of validity to his arguments.
Chuck relatively quickly realised that reaction for what it was. Petty, stupid, pathetic. Not worth the energy. He couldn't let his final moments be driven by spite. He would be denied something meaningful, the chance to do one last good deed, but Chuck still believed in there being...well, some narrative structure to his life. The romanticised ideal of having some semblance of internal peace as he moved from one world to the next. A recognition that it was better to conclude his thoughts with prayers and contrition rather than bitterness and loathing.
He was a good person. But so was Lance, so was Kyran, so was Scarlett, so was Michael, so was Wendy, so was…
So many people.
And at least Maxwell had the gall to admit, in his own stupid way, that he wasn't fit to carry on their legacy, to walk in their footsteps.
But why was Maxwell doing all this? Calling Chuck a good person, just to drive home the point of how galling it was to deny that final wish? Was it to soothe his own conscience, in that frustratingly insular way that Maxwell seemed to specialise in? Was it because he thought it was actually helpful to Chuck? To have his good deeds recapped?
Chuck felt a snarl forming. It was irrational, pointless, petty. As big an indictment of his own character as Chuck had the energy left to muster, as damning a verdict as possible on the ultimately disappointing bearer of the family name and proponent of his professed values. "You trying to get the kill by boring me to death?” Chuck tried to say, trying to add a sarcastically hopeful inflection to his voice. It came out as a mere mumble though, barely legible even to the microphone embedded in his collar. There was a microphone embedded there, right? He couldn’t remember. Chuck hadn’t really put the energy into making those words lucid, admittedly. If it was a slurred jumble of incoherent groans, he supposed the thought went, then maybe the venomous intent wouldn’t take on any real or meaningful form in the external world.
He threw his head back, slamming it against the wall, flinching at the forced jolt back into full consciousness and all the pain and agony that was suddenly clear again. He couldn’t hold his head up by his own any more. Needed to rest it against the hard surface behind him. Was it a wall? He couldn’t even remember. Chuck sighed. “Yeah. I actually tried...beating the game. Maximising the people who got to go home, y’know? Seems like the...smartest way to beat it, but that’s just li’l old me with my clearly ludicrous notions.”
Chuck grunted. It was like Maxwell was listing everything Chuck had tried to do as if to rub it in that not only had he failed, but he had failed far worse than even the rules of the game itself allowed. Maxwell, Chuck was sure, was speaking with no malignant intent of his own bar his own frustrating pigheadedness, but it was like serving as the second-hand gloating mouthpiece of Danya.
Or maybe Chuck had thought that too soon.
His internal view of Maxwell was oscillating wildly, a dizzying pendulum, between a charitable one and an utterly disdainful one. And then, finally, Maxwell removed that doubt. Confirmed it was pure selfishness. It was his “I did it for me” moment, but without any of the gravitas or emotional weight that Walter White’s had. At least he admitted it. Chuck supposed there was something respectable in that, but ultimately it just gave greater credibility to Chuck’s desire to be snarky.
In a sharp detour from his tired Cajun drawl, Chuck perked up to deliver his next sentence in a mocking English accent as Maxwell turned away. “Hoho, oh, look at me, I’m Maxwell,” he teased. “I just hate killing so much I’m gonna do this game a second time. Oh, I bet Danya just fucking loves me.” Mid-sentence, the accent faded, and the weary Southern accent reasserted itself. “Fucking...bullshit, man.”
He looked down at the heart necklace. It wasn’t going anywhere.
Then Chuck’s mind, in its erratic and feverish mania, came to a point where, without any logic and without any reasoning, he found himself able to accept, for a few moments, Maxwell’s decision. He was able to make peace with it. Chuck knew that it wouldn’t last long. That eventually he’d remember something, his mind would go somewhere, and he’d all of a sudden be enraged again. Furious again. Nah. Better to die with...if not contentment, then at least a reassuring, numb, insular, blind-to-the-outside-world apathy. It was against every single one of Chuck’s broader instincts, and he wasn’t going to let this opportunity slide.
“Whatever,” he said, pulling the hat over his eyes with one hand.
With the other, he pressed the barrel under his chin.
In the end, though, he didn't have the strength left. He didn't need to. The gun dropped to the ground.
-
Wham Yubeesling
- Posts: 1255
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:15 pm
- Location: there is a man standing behind you
- Team Affiliation: Stephanie's Buccaneers
- Contact:
He’d made it all the way this time. For once, Maxwell’s many injuries had not prevented him from reaching his intended destination.
Which, specifically, was the place this night had begun. The unerring container — one raindrop in a sea — where he had stood and watched the flames, just a couple of hours ago. They’d flickered out, since then: at some point when he was talking to Wendy or talking to the group or talking to Kris or fighting with Bunny or talking with Chuck the inferno had fizzled out, become a few scattered wildfires that seemed like mere embers in comparison. The smoke still lingered, though. It occupied his senses now more than ever. There was no moon, no stars in this night sky, only a smog that seemed to cordon this island off from the rest of the world. No matter where he tried to turn his head around, sitting at the edge of this shipping container, he couldn’t quite see the sky. Couldn’t quite see the sea, either.
He thought back to his conversation with Kris, at that. Something about a cage. How he’d always remain locked inside it, or whatever. He had to admit, she hadn’t made a lot of sense during that confrontation, but now that there was nothing currently trying to kill him he could… perhaps decipher it, slightly. A part of him would always be stuck on this island. A part of him would always be playing his game. Decades later — if he made it that far — these past seven days a core part of who he was, no matter how he tried to move past it.
There was also a more literal component to what Kris had said: Maxwell highly doubted that the ones who ran this game would let him find peace, after what he’d done. There was… an inkling of a plan to perhaps get past that, but he was making a deliberate choice in not thinking about it for now. Now was the calm between the storms. The one reprieve he’d receive between the past seven days and whatever came after. Maxwell knew that it wouldn’t take long for Chuck to die, so he was taking this in while he could. Breathing in the smog. Trying to see past the smoke in the sky. Taking a little bit of pride in that he was the only person still on this island.
It hadn’t lasted long, of course. Before he knew it, the crackling of the loudspeakers cried out from below him. There was a brief thought in Maxwell’s head telling him how this would be the final time he’d ever hear this noise, but he shook it off. This would not be the last time that noise entered his head.
No. It’d be the first. The beginning of what would eventually be many.
“Congratulations, Boy Number Two,” Victor said. Maxwell couldn’t help but smile. Give the same grin to the empty air as he’d given Chuck. The tone in the announcer’s voice — the way the disappointment from his next sentence was already so evident — had given Maxwell life he hadn’t realized he’d lost. It was almost more satisfying than knowing he’d beaten this game.
“You are the winner of Survival of the Fittest.”
Almost.
“However, I’m afraid that we have a problem,” Victor continued, after a short pause. “You see, while I would have loved to use this inaugural second version to consolidate that we make our winners take a walk of shame to an extraction point, I’m afraid that we simply don’t have the time to watch you hobble around much longer. I’m sure you know this already, but yes, there are boats coming. Some would-be heroes — who, if I may add, were not you — decided to create a fire and send some very dangerous men straight to our location, so we can’t quite afford to hang out here much longer. So, if you’re willing to make this quick…”
And that was when the man’s elbow curled across the front of Maxwell’s throat and then pulled back.
One moment he was sitting at the edge of the shipping container, absentmindedly taking in Victor’s words and the next he was being dragged backwards away from the edge having suddenly lost the ability to breathe. No matter how he tried to suck through his nose and his mouth the air couldn’t reach his lungs, couldn’t abate the growing pain that was turning from a whisper to a mutter to a scream. The shoulder where Jasmine shot him started to hurt again and the part of his leg that Saachi had hit with her cleaver stung more than it had before and everything hurt. Everything screamed. He flailed and moved his arms and moved his legs trying to hit something because no no no he couldn’t die he couldn’t here but nothing was doing anything. There was a brief feeling through the pain that told him that his arm had hit flesh but then there was more pain. Someone had grabbed his arm and sent it to the ground and was twisting and holding it there and no no it hurt his eyes were going red his vision was going black and his body was going numb and no no no it couldn’t end here and-
(so this was what she meant)
(you’re never going to get out of your cage)
(your life will always be trapped inside this game)
(enjoy it while you can)
He struggled for a few more moments. Tried to stop the red and black from completely covering his vision. He tried to move, tried to work through the numb that had crawled through his body, but eventually he stopped. Laid limp. Looked like all the other corpses around him. There wasn’t any dialogue shared between the two men after they’d done what they’d done. They simply looked at each other, nodded, then began to pull Maxwell off the container.
He’d been so close.
Which, specifically, was the place this night had begun. The unerring container — one raindrop in a sea — where he had stood and watched the flames, just a couple of hours ago. They’d flickered out, since then: at some point when he was talking to Wendy or talking to the group or talking to Kris or fighting with Bunny or talking with Chuck the inferno had fizzled out, become a few scattered wildfires that seemed like mere embers in comparison. The smoke still lingered, though. It occupied his senses now more than ever. There was no moon, no stars in this night sky, only a smog that seemed to cordon this island off from the rest of the world. No matter where he tried to turn his head around, sitting at the edge of this shipping container, he couldn’t quite see the sky. Couldn’t quite see the sea, either.
He thought back to his conversation with Kris, at that. Something about a cage. How he’d always remain locked inside it, or whatever. He had to admit, she hadn’t made a lot of sense during that confrontation, but now that there was nothing currently trying to kill him he could… perhaps decipher it, slightly. A part of him would always be stuck on this island. A part of him would always be playing his game. Decades later — if he made it that far — these past seven days a core part of who he was, no matter how he tried to move past it.
There was also a more literal component to what Kris had said: Maxwell highly doubted that the ones who ran this game would let him find peace, after what he’d done. There was… an inkling of a plan to perhaps get past that, but he was making a deliberate choice in not thinking about it for now. Now was the calm between the storms. The one reprieve he’d receive between the past seven days and whatever came after. Maxwell knew that it wouldn’t take long for Chuck to die, so he was taking this in while he could. Breathing in the smog. Trying to see past the smoke in the sky. Taking a little bit of pride in that he was the only person still on this island.
It hadn’t lasted long, of course. Before he knew it, the crackling of the loudspeakers cried out from below him. There was a brief thought in Maxwell’s head telling him how this would be the final time he’d ever hear this noise, but he shook it off. This would not be the last time that noise entered his head.
No. It’d be the first. The beginning of what would eventually be many.
“Congratulations, Boy Number Two,” Victor said. Maxwell couldn’t help but smile. Give the same grin to the empty air as he’d given Chuck. The tone in the announcer’s voice — the way the disappointment from his next sentence was already so evident — had given Maxwell life he hadn’t realized he’d lost. It was almost more satisfying than knowing he’d beaten this game.
“You are the winner of Survival of the Fittest.”
Almost.
“However, I’m afraid that we have a problem,” Victor continued, after a short pause. “You see, while I would have loved to use this inaugural second version to consolidate that we make our winners take a walk of shame to an extraction point, I’m afraid that we simply don’t have the time to watch you hobble around much longer. I’m sure you know this already, but yes, there are boats coming. Some would-be heroes — who, if I may add, were not you — decided to create a fire and send some very dangerous men straight to our location, so we can’t quite afford to hang out here much longer. So, if you’re willing to make this quick…”
And that was when the man’s elbow curled across the front of Maxwell’s throat and then pulled back.
One moment he was sitting at the edge of the shipping container, absentmindedly taking in Victor’s words and the next he was being dragged backwards away from the edge having suddenly lost the ability to breathe. No matter how he tried to suck through his nose and his mouth the air couldn’t reach his lungs, couldn’t abate the growing pain that was turning from a whisper to a mutter to a scream. The shoulder where Jasmine shot him started to hurt again and the part of his leg that Saachi had hit with her cleaver stung more than it had before and everything hurt. Everything screamed. He flailed and moved his arms and moved his legs trying to hit something because no no no he couldn’t die he couldn’t here but nothing was doing anything. There was a brief feeling through the pain that told him that his arm had hit flesh but then there was more pain. Someone had grabbed his arm and sent it to the ground and was twisting and holding it there and no no it hurt his eyes were going red his vision was going black and his body was going numb and no no no it couldn’t end here and-
(so this was what she meant)
(you’re never going to get out of your cage)
(your life will always be trapped inside this game)
(enjoy it while you can)
He struggled for a few more moments. Tried to stop the red and black from completely covering his vision. He tried to move, tried to work through the numb that had crawled through his body, but eventually he stopped. Laid limp. Looked like all the other corpses around him. There wasn’t any dialogue shared between the two men after they’d done what they’d done. They simply looked at each other, nodded, then began to pull Maxwell off the container.
He’d been so close.
Jaxon Jeremiah knew that sticking to the back of the platoon was a bad idea the moment the men at the front reached land and immediately froze up.
It was only a couple of seconds before Jaxon saw the corpse for himself, but those couple seconds were enough to call the butterflies back in. Make the distance between the back of the pack and the front feel like fucking light years. When finally he saw that girl with blue hair and a beaten in face, it was like all the creepy crawlies found a way out through his windpipe, because… fuck, Grossi had won the bet. There were dead people here, and — if the fact she was still bleeding was any indication — they’d all bit the dust fairly recently. A gaze around to try and maybe get the sight out of his mind revealed more. Cameras, all around them, vrring and moving and-
...Still filming. Shit. Grossi was more than right. This was the second round of Survival of the Fittest, and the game was still going on.
“Okay, listen up, men!” Jeremiah called out, as he stepped to where the corpse was and turned around. Captain Grossi was… not off the boat yet, so it fell to him as Commander to do what was needed. Maybe the right thing was to wait for him — go ‘clean’ instead of quick — but… shit. There was a chance that there were people still alive here. Time was of the essence. “You five, stay here, watch the sea. Everyone else, spread out. Try to find people. If they’re kids, take them back to the boat. If they’re not, be careful. Report anything you find into the coms.”
There was a slight sense that Jaxon had forgotten to include something obvious in his set of orders, but if he did, his men didn’t ask any questions. The others moved out in squads of two or three, though Jaxon, the last, remained by himself. He followed in the wake of a pair for a time, but then his attention was drawn by an expanse to the side and he split off, investigating on his own. Slowly. Carefully. He weaved through what felt like a maze of shipping crates, making extra sure that nothing or nobody was going to get the jump on him. Maybe he should’ve waited for Grossi or one of the others to come out of the boat and provide him backup, but… fuck. Kinda hard to fully think straight when what you think was just a regular checkup turned out to be the return of Survival of the goddamn Fittest.
But he moved. Tried his best to investigate this dock place. Heard stuff on the comms about other corpses the team found — one boy with a shattered knee and blown off head whose body looked a couple days old, another boy shot to shit who looked as if he’d only passed a couple minutes ago — and tried to ignore how it felt to be too late for them. Kept looking for the others. Hoped and prayed that at least one was still alive. Moved around one of the crates because Jaxon was pretty sure he saw light just then and-
“Hey. Hey! Get!”
Rushed towards what he was pretty sure was another corpse. Shooed away the seagulls that were trying to eat it. Saw the… girl? person? burned to a crisp, and the dead fish that was a couple feet away from her. He picked up the fish. Looked at it, for a bit, then looked-
At the other corpses in the near distance, also burned out. He took a couple steps — fish still in hand — and then moved to more of a run. Made it to where the other two were. Saw the flame that did the job still burning off to his side.
It was too much. There were way too many things going on in Jaxon Jeremiah’s head and it was too hard to properly get a grasp on even one of them. He just… looked at the bodies, looked at the fire, and then looked at the headless fish, still in his hands.
“What the fuck?”
It was all he could really say.
((Survival of the Fittest: Second Chances V2, concluded elsewhere))
It was only a couple of seconds before Jaxon saw the corpse for himself, but those couple seconds were enough to call the butterflies back in. Make the distance between the back of the pack and the front feel like fucking light years. When finally he saw that girl with blue hair and a beaten in face, it was like all the creepy crawlies found a way out through his windpipe, because… fuck, Grossi had won the bet. There were dead people here, and — if the fact she was still bleeding was any indication — they’d all bit the dust fairly recently. A gaze around to try and maybe get the sight out of his mind revealed more. Cameras, all around them, vrring and moving and-
...Still filming. Shit. Grossi was more than right. This was the second round of Survival of the Fittest, and the game was still going on.
“Okay, listen up, men!” Jeremiah called out, as he stepped to where the corpse was and turned around. Captain Grossi was… not off the boat yet, so it fell to him as Commander to do what was needed. Maybe the right thing was to wait for him — go ‘clean’ instead of quick — but… shit. There was a chance that there were people still alive here. Time was of the essence. “You five, stay here, watch the sea. Everyone else, spread out. Try to find people. If they’re kids, take them back to the boat. If they’re not, be careful. Report anything you find into the coms.”
There was a slight sense that Jaxon had forgotten to include something obvious in his set of orders, but if he did, his men didn’t ask any questions. The others moved out in squads of two or three, though Jaxon, the last, remained by himself. He followed in the wake of a pair for a time, but then his attention was drawn by an expanse to the side and he split off, investigating on his own. Slowly. Carefully. He weaved through what felt like a maze of shipping crates, making extra sure that nothing or nobody was going to get the jump on him. Maybe he should’ve waited for Grossi or one of the others to come out of the boat and provide him backup, but… fuck. Kinda hard to fully think straight when what you think was just a regular checkup turned out to be the return of Survival of the goddamn Fittest.
But he moved. Tried his best to investigate this dock place. Heard stuff on the comms about other corpses the team found — one boy with a shattered knee and blown off head whose body looked a couple days old, another boy shot to shit who looked as if he’d only passed a couple minutes ago — and tried to ignore how it felt to be too late for them. Kept looking for the others. Hoped and prayed that at least one was still alive. Moved around one of the crates because Jaxon was pretty sure he saw light just then and-
“Hey. Hey! Get!”
Rushed towards what he was pretty sure was another corpse. Shooed away the seagulls that were trying to eat it. Saw the… girl? person? burned to a crisp, and the dead fish that was a couple feet away from her. He picked up the fish. Looked at it, for a bit, then looked-
At the other corpses in the near distance, also burned out. He took a couple steps — fish still in hand — and then moved to more of a run. Made it to where the other two were. Saw the flame that did the job still burning off to his side.
It was too much. There were way too many things going on in Jaxon Jeremiah’s head and it was too hard to properly get a grasp on even one of them. He just… looked at the bodies, looked at the fire, and then looked at the headless fish, still in his hands.
“What the fuck?”
It was all he could really say.
((Survival of the Fittest: Second Chances V2, concluded elsewhere))