Abel sat along one of the log bridges above the river. His feet barely touched the water, though he couldn't be sure if it was getting on his shoes much. He could see his face if he wanted, but he didn't.
He was fine, otherwise. He had a lava lamp.
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His fingers rose and thumbed at the collar, exerting minimal amounts of pressure with a single finger, before backing off. It wasn’t exactly cold- body heat? The running of machinery?
That was what bothered him at first. Not his near-inevitable demise. Simply the uncomfortable feeling of having metal on his skin, on his neck, where he always avoided touch in fear of letting loose that allegedly-embarrassing yelp of his, where he always avoided scarves and turtlenecks, the neck. A comfort of his, usually. He never had a prominent Adam’s apple, and he was grateful for that, but nevertheless despite not being theoretically uncomfortable it was still somehow more of a priority to recognize that he would die awkward and uncomfortable than to recognize that he would die.
Secondly, and more importantly, was the fact that he had a shotgun.
A shotgun. Makaria never really knew what was with guns and Americans. He didn’t even know if Jack was American- accents were never exactly his strong suit, although if pressed he wouldn’t label himself as being uniquely unskilled at it. For the oddest reason, Makaria was grateful- which means the seriousness of the situation has already muddled his ability to access, well, everything, really. A logical fallacy that wasn't exactly wrong or fallacious. Because he shouldn’t be grateful, he should be crying, but he wasn’t, because in this situation where the primary objective is to enact violence upon others a shotgun was one of the most useful items he could think of. If he knew how to operate one, of course, but he had a manual, written in slightly mistranslated Chinese.
Makaria has no expertise on guns, but he has played GTA, so… well, that’s something. Not much, but something. He wasn’t even good at it. The human need for violence is deep-seated and impossible to satiate, even with digital substitutes. Makaria himself couldn't claim he was above it. He wondered if whoever planned this was trying to use this to sate that urge- not the one to participate, but the one to spectate. Like a gladiatorial game, but more clumsy and 21st century. The more isolated, calculated twin of the 2011 San Fernando Massacre, perhaps?
He took a deep, deep inhale and reminded himself of who he was, and what situation he was in, and then he exhaled and started to toy with the gun- load, unload, load. Fire. Feel that pain in his shoulder. How it burned, and how he could almost hear it cracking. It didn’t crack. He was fine, for now, and he would be fine if he pointed this at somebody and pressed the trigger again, in most circumstances.
Alright, alright. So he got that sorted through. His finger rubbed against the collar again, and then the bone of his shoulder. So at least he fired a gun for the first time.
Why him?
No need to ponder that.
Well, he does have a need, but he also should probably… go and find something first. Somebody. He didn’t really know what to do. He wanted to live but he wasn’t really sure about that. He didn’t have anybody to ask. He knew that if somebody tried to kill him he would simply pull the trigger and fire and blow a hole through their head, but… but would he? He wasn’t exactly sure.
Anyways, that was an excess of words to say that Makaria woke up, was uncomfortable, fired a gun somewhere off in the distance, and then started walking to nowhere in particular until he encountered somebody. A… well, he knows they’re white. Oh, and male. Probably. He wasn’t sure. And they had a lava lamp, which Makaria always wanted to have when he was in his pre-pubescent years.
He held the gun. Raised it. Pointed it, halfway, until it reached the boy’s knees, and then lowered it down to the ground again, a look of clear and anguished embarrassment on his face. First blood wasn’t supposed to be on him.
“Sorry, ah,”
No he wasn’t.
“Was startled.”
That was true, though.
The camera caught his struggle in high-definition, a specimen of somebody who was never equipped for life-or-death situations.
Even when he was the one enacting that pressure onto others.
That was what bothered him at first. Not his near-inevitable demise. Simply the uncomfortable feeling of having metal on his skin, on his neck, where he always avoided touch in fear of letting loose that allegedly-embarrassing yelp of his, where he always avoided scarves and turtlenecks, the neck. A comfort of his, usually. He never had a prominent Adam’s apple, and he was grateful for that, but nevertheless despite not being theoretically uncomfortable it was still somehow more of a priority to recognize that he would die awkward and uncomfortable than to recognize that he would die.
Secondly, and more importantly, was the fact that he had a shotgun.
A shotgun. Makaria never really knew what was with guns and Americans. He didn’t even know if Jack was American- accents were never exactly his strong suit, although if pressed he wouldn’t label himself as being uniquely unskilled at it. For the oddest reason, Makaria was grateful- which means the seriousness of the situation has already muddled his ability to access, well, everything, really. A logical fallacy that wasn't exactly wrong or fallacious. Because he shouldn’t be grateful, he should be crying, but he wasn’t, because in this situation where the primary objective is to enact violence upon others a shotgun was one of the most useful items he could think of. If he knew how to operate one, of course, but he had a manual, written in slightly mistranslated Chinese.
Makaria has no expertise on guns, but he has played GTA, so… well, that’s something. Not much, but something. He wasn’t even good at it. The human need for violence is deep-seated and impossible to satiate, even with digital substitutes. Makaria himself couldn't claim he was above it. He wondered if whoever planned this was trying to use this to sate that urge- not the one to participate, but the one to spectate. Like a gladiatorial game, but more clumsy and 21st century. The more isolated, calculated twin of the 2011 San Fernando Massacre, perhaps?
He took a deep, deep inhale and reminded himself of who he was, and what situation he was in, and then he exhaled and started to toy with the gun- load, unload, load. Fire. Feel that pain in his shoulder. How it burned, and how he could almost hear it cracking. It didn’t crack. He was fine, for now, and he would be fine if he pointed this at somebody and pressed the trigger again, in most circumstances.
Alright, alright. So he got that sorted through. His finger rubbed against the collar again, and then the bone of his shoulder. So at least he fired a gun for the first time.
Why him?
No need to ponder that.
Well, he does have a need, but he also should probably… go and find something first. Somebody. He didn’t really know what to do. He wanted to live but he wasn’t really sure about that. He didn’t have anybody to ask. He knew that if somebody tried to kill him he would simply pull the trigger and fire and blow a hole through their head, but… but would he? He wasn’t exactly sure.
Anyways, that was an excess of words to say that Makaria woke up, was uncomfortable, fired a gun somewhere off in the distance, and then started walking to nowhere in particular until he encountered somebody. A… well, he knows they’re white. Oh, and male. Probably. He wasn’t sure. And they had a lava lamp, which Makaria always wanted to have when he was in his pre-pubescent years.
He held the gun. Raised it. Pointed it, halfway, until it reached the boy’s knees, and then lowered it down to the ground again, a look of clear and anguished embarrassment on his face. First blood wasn’t supposed to be on him.
“Sorry, ah,”
No he wasn’t.
“Was startled.”
That was true, though.
The camera caught his struggle in high-definition, a specimen of somebody who was never equipped for life-or-death situations.
Even when he was the one enacting that pressure onto others.
Abel turned around in his perch.
There was someone standing there closer to the riverbank with a shotgun.
Abel didn't move. He just stared with his sunglasses on, flashing his teeth a little at the guy or girl that looked about his age.
"Oh. Okay."
And then he turned around and looked past the shallow waters again. He pounded the bottom of the lava lamp against his palm again. The shallow thump reverberated.
"...Don't. Or do, I guess. Idunno."
There was someone standing there closer to the riverbank with a shotgun.
Abel didn't move. He just stared with his sunglasses on, flashing his teeth a little at the guy or girl that looked about his age.
"Oh. Okay."
And then he turned around and looked past the shallow waters again. He pounded the bottom of the lava lamp against his palm again. The shallow thump reverberated.
"...Don't. Or do, I guess. Idunno."
“I’d prefer not to be the first guy here to shoot.”
Well,
“Well, I mean, aside from that guy… but, like, it was before we got dumped here, I think…”
Probably.
“So is this now the time where I point this at you and go ‘hands up, give me everything you got’ or what?”
He shook his neck, trying to reach that angle where it cracked just right.
“Just, um… just trying to make sure we’re on the same page- no, No. Fuck it. I’m not robbing you. No. I mean, I’ll rob you if you’re, uh, OK with it?”
…
Great start, loser. You’re about to die and the first thing you worry about is what- nerves? Morals? Jesus fuck. Toughen up.
He, predictably, did not toughen up. He only pointed the gun up- not at his head, but at the knees again.
“Sorry. Not a good start.”
Well,
“Well, I mean, aside from that guy… but, like, it was before we got dumped here, I think…”
Probably.
“So is this now the time where I point this at you and go ‘hands up, give me everything you got’ or what?”
He shook his neck, trying to reach that angle where it cracked just right.
“Just, um… just trying to make sure we’re on the same page- no, No. Fuck it. I’m not robbing you. No. I mean, I’ll rob you if you’re, uh, OK with it?”
…
Great start, loser. You’re about to die and the first thing you worry about is what- nerves? Morals? Jesus fuck. Toughen up.
He, predictably, did not toughen up. He only pointed the gun up- not at his head, but at the knees again.
“Sorry. Not a good start.”
Abel looked back at the other kid with a furrowed brow; if it was visible or not with the sunglasses though, Abel didn't really care.
"...I mean, I'm not feeling very charitable, I guess? Kinda wanna keep my stuff, mate. If you're, uh, okay with it."
"...I mean, I'm not feeling very charitable, I guess? Kinda wanna keep my stuff, mate. If you're, uh, okay with it."
"... OK, then. I'll, uh, I'll go then?"
He pointed the gun down again, at the water.
"Yeah, I'll go if you don't want me around," he muttered, mentally punching himself repeatedly in the face. Physically, he shrugged. Mentally, he punched himself again, in the dick this time.
Physically, again, he adjusted his collar with utmost gentleness. Then he shot himself in the head and dropped dead.
That was mentally. That part was mentally. That was an intrusive thought. That was not what actually happen, obviously.
What did happen was that he pulled out his bag of candy- those garish little circular hard candies that he saw on youtube often, and he popped a piece with a little shiba inu design on it into his mouth and started just crunching on it. While holding a gun. And maintaining precise eye contact with the boy. The crushed pieces stuck to his teeth and dug into his gums- a suitable distraction from his collar, trading one inconvenience for another.
"One final thing- what's your name?" (he knew he shouldn't talk with his mouth full, but he also shouldn't ever have tried robbing someone either, so...)
Names are important. Names are what humanizes us- even if nobody picked their birth name themselves. They're labels- they're what carves a space in your brain. Everything has a name. Everything would eventually have a name. Makaria knew his- Greek goddess of blessed death and a string of letters that sounded coincidentally nice enough for his parents to call him without a single care for the social consequences it would cause.
He pointed the gun down again, at the water.
"Yeah, I'll go if you don't want me around," he muttered, mentally punching himself repeatedly in the face. Physically, he shrugged. Mentally, he punched himself again, in the dick this time.
Physically, again, he adjusted his collar with utmost gentleness. Then he shot himself in the head and dropped dead.
That was mentally. That part was mentally. That was an intrusive thought. That was not what actually happen, obviously.
What did happen was that he pulled out his bag of candy- those garish little circular hard candies that he saw on youtube often, and he popped a piece with a little shiba inu design on it into his mouth and started just crunching on it. While holding a gun. And maintaining precise eye contact with the boy. The crushed pieces stuck to his teeth and dug into his gums- a suitable distraction from his collar, trading one inconvenience for another.
"One final thing- what's your name?" (he knew he shouldn't talk with his mouth full, but he also shouldn't ever have tried robbing someone either, so...)
Names are important. Names are what humanizes us- even if nobody picked their birth name themselves. They're labels- they're what carves a space in your brain. Everything has a name. Everything would eventually have a name. Makaria knew his- Greek goddess of blessed death and a string of letters that sounded coincidentally nice enough for his parents to call him without a single care for the social consequences it would cause.
Abel waved his hand and dismissed the really effective robber bloke.
It was several moments of silence before he responded to the name question, his teeth still flashing.
"...Abel. I guess. What's yours?"
It was several moments of silence before he responded to the name question, his teeth still flashing.
"...Abel. I guess. What's yours?"
...should he lie?
He should lie, right? Dishonesty is the most beneficial route. But Makaria is a master of self-sabotage.
"Makaria," he said, putting the emphasis on the middle A, rolling his tongue a bit at the R, accent prominent but not entirely glaring. Abel. Huh. The first biblical murder victim- not quite the name that he thought was entirely reasonable nor lucky, but neither is his own name, that of a goddess of death. Somehow, it felt oddly appropriate, although ironic wasn't a word that he'd like to put to it.
Pondering whether or not he should just shoot the boy and pillage his bag without the need for unnecessary small talk, he decided to interpret Abel's hand gesture as a dismissal of his words instead of a dismissal of his presence, and took a few steps away until he was approximately 20 meters away from Abel, tucking the candy bag underneath his armpit.
Was that all the boy had? A lava lamp? He was kind of fucked if anybody with a gun and more confidence than Makaria walked up to him and started to make demands.
Not his business, though. He got lucky.
He should lie, right? Dishonesty is the most beneficial route. But Makaria is a master of self-sabotage.
"Makaria," he said, putting the emphasis on the middle A, rolling his tongue a bit at the R, accent prominent but not entirely glaring. Abel. Huh. The first biblical murder victim- not quite the name that he thought was entirely reasonable nor lucky, but neither is his own name, that of a goddess of death. Somehow, it felt oddly appropriate, although ironic wasn't a word that he'd like to put to it.
Pondering whether or not he should just shoot the boy and pillage his bag without the need for unnecessary small talk, he decided to interpret Abel's hand gesture as a dismissal of his words instead of a dismissal of his presence, and took a few steps away until he was approximately 20 meters away from Abel, tucking the candy bag underneath his armpit.
Was that all the boy had? A lava lamp? He was kind of fucked if anybody with a gun and more confidence than Makaria walked up to him and started to make demands.
Not his business, though. He got lucky.
"...I wonder what that bloke's name was. The one that got shot," Abel said to no one in particular, in between Makaria's candy crunches.
"...Sorry. I'm just having a think."
"...Sorry. I'm just having a think."
"It's fine, I... I wonder, too. You know. A lot of people die every day and we don't know their names, but he... could've been us, so."
He shrugged. By virtue of making the worst first impression known to man, he tried his best to keep himself generally non threatening.
"But it wasn't us. Because we knew to stay quiet and shut up. So...I’m a bit too busy trying to think, like, why they’re doing this? Seems like a big waste of, uh, resources.”
He shrugged. By virtue of making the worst first impression known to man, he tried his best to keep himself generally non threatening.
"But it wasn't us. Because we knew to stay quiet and shut up. So...I’m a bit too busy trying to think, like, why they’re doing this? Seems like a big waste of, uh, resources.”
'Could've been us' was a way of putting it.
Abel set the lava lamp down on the wooden pavement and pushed his sunglasses on top of his head.
"Fuckin' stupid is what it is, throwing us in the middle of the damn bush," he mumbled, loosening his tie by a notch and then another. "I'm surprised they sprang for more than just a few sticks and stones for us to play with, or maybe a brick."
He kicked at the water dancing under the bridge.
"...You gonna go try and rob someone else now or what?"
He didn't look at Makaria, but he frowned.
Abel set the lava lamp down on the wooden pavement and pushed his sunglasses on top of his head.
"Fuckin' stupid is what it is, throwing us in the middle of the damn bush," he mumbled, loosening his tie by a notch and then another. "I'm surprised they sprang for more than just a few sticks and stones for us to play with, or maybe a brick."
He kicked at the water dancing under the bridge.
"...You gonna go try and rob someone else now or what?"
He didn't look at Makaria, but he frowned.
"Eh," he muttered. "I mean, there's gotta be something, because did you see how many guards there were? How much money did it take to make this-" He frowned, pointing at his collar- "because it's probably a lot. Like, it's mostly likely, what, bluetooth? Wifi? It has to be activated from afar. And the island? Is it just abandoned or did they buy it? They have to see us somehow, so let's add some cameras to the mix, and the knockout gas? Whatever they used to transport me from Singapore to bumfuck, nowhere?"
Come to think of it, how much would it have cost?
Too much for someone to just do it for shits and giggles, obviously.
"Am I gonna rob someone else? uh..."
Was he?
The cameras captured Makaria's posture. A bit artificially stiff, matching the mostly fake casual air of his voice. He didn't really know how to hold a conversation when it wasn't useful, but... but this was a conversation that he needed to have. The rubber duck theory. He needed somebody to bounce his ideas off of.
"Not sure. I hate talking to people- like, I've never been intimidating and I'm apparently shit at it. So. I think, like, I should switch my tactic up to shutting up and just shooting, but..."
But what?
"But that's kind of even worse, so... not sure."
Why not?
"I don't want a target on my back. And if I make it out, I don't want to be a murderer. And in all honesty, like... the survivor's guilt's gonna overtake me. I don't want to start doing bad shit until I know other people started, but... but to be honest? Pretty sure everybody else's robbing everybody else, so. I don't know. I think I might just camp it out in the middle of nowhere and wait and maybe hope I have enough resources."
Now you've said too much.
Now he knows you're not planning anything.
Now he knows you're an easy target.
The bag of sweets fell onto the ground, onto a bed of dying grass. He cocked the gun pointed at a tree, for no reason at all other than the fact that he's seen fictional depictions of the act before. A... he thought it was a bullet fell out. He put it back into the slot. Then he fired, again, and his shoulder told him to quit doing these completely meaningless things. It blew a hole right into the trunk, wood splintering into tiny fragments embedded in the dirt.
"I think I'll be fine if somebody finds me."
Come to think of it, how much would it have cost?
Too much for someone to just do it for shits and giggles, obviously.
"Am I gonna rob someone else? uh..."
Was he?
The cameras captured Makaria's posture. A bit artificially stiff, matching the mostly fake casual air of his voice. He didn't really know how to hold a conversation when it wasn't useful, but... but this was a conversation that he needed to have. The rubber duck theory. He needed somebody to bounce his ideas off of.
"Not sure. I hate talking to people- like, I've never been intimidating and I'm apparently shit at it. So. I think, like, I should switch my tactic up to shutting up and just shooting, but..."
But what?
"But that's kind of even worse, so... not sure."
Why not?
"I don't want a target on my back. And if I make it out, I don't want to be a murderer. And in all honesty, like... the survivor's guilt's gonna overtake me. I don't want to start doing bad shit until I know other people started, but... but to be honest? Pretty sure everybody else's robbing everybody else, so. I don't know. I think I might just camp it out in the middle of nowhere and wait and maybe hope I have enough resources."
Now you've said too much.
Now he knows you're not planning anything.
Now he knows you're an easy target.
The bag of sweets fell onto the ground, onto a bed of dying grass. He cocked the gun pointed at a tree, for no reason at all other than the fact that he's seen fictional depictions of the act before. A... he thought it was a bullet fell out. He put it back into the slot. Then he fired, again, and his shoulder told him to quit doing these completely meaningless things. It blew a hole right into the trunk, wood splintering into tiny fragments embedded in the dirt.
"I think I'll be fine if somebody finds me."
Abel jumped and glanced over at the hole clean into the tree. His hand clutched the strap of the daypack.
"Right..." He gulped down a ball of saliva. "W-well, I best be off, then. Good luck with... well, that."
On that cue, he opened the daypack and shoved the lava lamp inside. He shut it and pushed himself off the splintery wooden ground.
Before doing anything else, he stopped and reopened the bag, fishing around for something.
"...You like toffee, much?"
"Right..." He gulped down a ball of saliva. "W-well, I best be off, then. Good luck with... well, that."
On that cue, he opened the daypack and shoved the lava lamp inside. He shut it and pushed himself off the splintery wooden ground.
Before doing anything else, he stopped and reopened the bag, fishing around for something.
"...You like toffee, much?"
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3449
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
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The cameras weren't the only ones watching.
Far uphill, a quarter kilometer or more from the pair on the wooden bridge, in a copse of scraggly trees with plentiful underbrush, the barrel of a rifle protruded from the foliage, shifting slowly, minutely, as it tracked their movements. Leander Van Vliet breathed deeply and calmly while he considered what was transpiring. He took in the tentative movements, the way the the wispier boy halfheartedly raised and lowered his own gun, how the two of them seemed to converse before he fired off at some trees in the opposite direction of Leander's perch. It was far too distant to make out the words that passed between the others, but the gunfire rippled its way up to him, albeit robbed of much of its volume.
He was wondering, first, what his father had done to offend the organization that had captured him, and, second, if this was really all they had to offer in the way of competition.
Maybe he had an insurmountable leg up. This sort of thing, being whisked off to a foreign land to fight for his life, was more or less what he'd spent the better part of his existence imagining. He knew his way around this kind of situation, conceptually. You're stuck deep in enemy territory, alone. What do you do? And in most of his fantasies, he'd been left to carve crude spears out of discarded wood, not armed with an extremely high-powered sniper rifle.
Should he shoot these guys or something?
Leander hadn't fired the gun yet, but it wasn't like there'd be any consequences if he missed. He was way far away from them. Good odds they never even figured out what direction the attack came from, and he was in cover to boot. He could fade away into the woods and loop back around later and talk to them like he was meeting strangers for the first time, which in a manner of speaking he would be.
The plants were pressed into his belly and limbs. The leaves overhead shaded him from what daylight slipped through the clouds. His elbows ground into the ground, pressing his blazer into the grass and probably staining it, but vanity fell away quickly. His fingers cradled the cool metal, his right index just brushing the trigger. Discipline was for when you cared if you shot something by mistake.
Down on the bridge, one of the boys was proffering something. If they came close together, it'd make better odds to hit one or the other. If he was going that way. Still up in the air.
Leander slowly ran his tongue over the backs of his top row of teeth, one by one as he continued to observe.
Far uphill, a quarter kilometer or more from the pair on the wooden bridge, in a copse of scraggly trees with plentiful underbrush, the barrel of a rifle protruded from the foliage, shifting slowly, minutely, as it tracked their movements. Leander Van Vliet breathed deeply and calmly while he considered what was transpiring. He took in the tentative movements, the way the the wispier boy halfheartedly raised and lowered his own gun, how the two of them seemed to converse before he fired off at some trees in the opposite direction of Leander's perch. It was far too distant to make out the words that passed between the others, but the gunfire rippled its way up to him, albeit robbed of much of its volume.
He was wondering, first, what his father had done to offend the organization that had captured him, and, second, if this was really all they had to offer in the way of competition.
Maybe he had an insurmountable leg up. This sort of thing, being whisked off to a foreign land to fight for his life, was more or less what he'd spent the better part of his existence imagining. He knew his way around this kind of situation, conceptually. You're stuck deep in enemy territory, alone. What do you do? And in most of his fantasies, he'd been left to carve crude spears out of discarded wood, not armed with an extremely high-powered sniper rifle.
Should he shoot these guys or something?
Leander hadn't fired the gun yet, but it wasn't like there'd be any consequences if he missed. He was way far away from them. Good odds they never even figured out what direction the attack came from, and he was in cover to boot. He could fade away into the woods and loop back around later and talk to them like he was meeting strangers for the first time, which in a manner of speaking he would be.
The plants were pressed into his belly and limbs. The leaves overhead shaded him from what daylight slipped through the clouds. His elbows ground into the ground, pressing his blazer into the grass and probably staining it, but vanity fell away quickly. His fingers cradled the cool metal, his right index just brushing the trigger. Discipline was for when you cared if you shot something by mistake.
Down on the bridge, one of the boys was proffering something. If they came close together, it'd make better odds to hit one or the other. If he was going that way. Still up in the air.
Leander slowly ran his tongue over the backs of his top row of teeth, one by one as he continued to observe.
''Meh,'' he shrugged, nonchalaunt.
''But I wouldn't, um, turn down free food. Or a trade.''
Maybe he should stop playing the social game.
'' 'less you poisoned it. But I'll take it anyways.''
His footsteps moved about half a meter closer as he observed the expression on Abel's face. The most adventurous part of him bemoaned the lack of sight to his pupils, shielded by the sunglasses. If this were a game, about the current minute or two is where he would quicksave. You know. Just in case.
''But I wouldn't, um, turn down free food. Or a trade.''
Maybe he should stop playing the social game.
'' 'less you poisoned it. But I'll take it anyways.''
His footsteps moved about half a meter closer as he observed the expression on Abel's face. The most adventurous part of him bemoaned the lack of sight to his pupils, shielded by the sunglasses. If this were a game, about the current minute or two is where he would quicksave. You know. Just in case.