There hadn’t been any time for Verity to react. She’d shot Ashanti, and somehow the eruptions happening around the room became a lot more literal. Flesh and blood was sprayed onto her as the explosion threw her back, flung her onto the floor like a how a wave at the beach had throttled her all the way to shore. She tried to get up, tried to find Fisk, tried to figure out her place in the room, and then suddenly the floor had disappeared.
There was air.
There was air.
There was air.
And then there was glass. And rock. Both her eyes saw white. All her body felt everything at once, and then
.
Valley of the Dolls
I don't need staff permission to post in the Banquet Hall, I _am_ the staff
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Something fell nearby Verity. It did not look like a piece of damaged flooring, nor did it look like some furniture that fell from the hall. It moved too much for that.
((Mary Cheung continued from Neither of Us Will Be Missed))
((Mary Cheung continued from Neither of Us Will Be Missed))
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Verity blinked.
.
.
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Or, well, blinked as well as she could, given the whole 'one eye' thing and all.
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And slowly — once she realized her eye was actually open, that this wasn’t some strange kind of afterlife — Verity sat up. Felt all the glass and wood and plaster that had embedded itself into her back slide out, drop to the… floor? The ground? She looked down, looked around, tried to get a bearing of where she was, how she got here, and it was like… like the aftermath of a war movie? A mythbusters episode? That hurricane party she’d heard about? It was a corridor or a bowel: hard to tell given all the armageddon around. Chairs and tables and assorted splinters covered the floors. Fire burned — though fickle, far away. She looked down, behind her, and saw that her body had woken up on a chandelier. That there was a bloodstain right where her head had laid a moment ago.
She felt something warm, something wet in her hair as she looked up. Saw the hole she’d fallen through. Or how much she could of it, anyway. She saw smoke. A hint of flame. She heard noises. Of burning. Of conflict. They were still fighting up there. They were still so
(hey)
so
(where are we?)
so she got up onto her feet. Stumbled forward. She felt like an infant — her legs didn’t know how to walk, her body could only barely support its own weight — but she still kept on her own two feet. Kept wading her way through the carnage. Didn’t know where she was going, didn’t know who was even left after what’d just happened, but she
(can you hear me?)
she
(why can you hear me?)
She saw a shape. On the ground. It wasn’t part of the banquet hall. It wasn’t part of this ship. Of this game. It was-
It was-
“Shit.”
She took a step. Tried her best to walk towards it. She didn’t bother to get her bag. Didn’t bother to see whether Timothy’s gun had dropped anywhere.
It was pretty clear that Mary Cheung’s story wasn’t long left to go.
“Hey.”
She felt something warm, something wet in her hair as she looked up. Saw the hole she’d fallen through. Or how much she could of it, anyway. She saw smoke. A hint of flame. She heard noises. Of burning. Of conflict. They were still fighting up there. They were still so
(hey)
so
(where are we?)
so she got up onto her feet. Stumbled forward. She felt like an infant — her legs didn’t know how to walk, her body could only barely support its own weight — but she still kept on her own two feet. Kept wading her way through the carnage. Didn’t know where she was going, didn’t know who was even left after what’d just happened, but she
(can you hear me?)
she
(why can you hear me?)
She saw a shape. On the ground. It wasn’t part of the banquet hall. It wasn’t part of this ship. Of this game. It was-
It was-
“Shit.”
She took a step. Tried her best to walk towards it. She didn’t bother to get her bag. Didn’t bother to see whether Timothy’s gun had dropped anywhere.
It was pretty clear that Mary Cheung’s story wasn’t long left to go.
“Hey.”
Mary laid on the ground, breathing in, breathing out. It hurt to do so. She laughed, a small nervous laugh. She wanted to keep screaming, even if her throat now burned, even if her voice cords felt like they would bleed from the strain, even if her ribs felt like they could break from the movement. Her vision stung and burned and spun around in circles. Smoke, probably.
Gosh, it hurt all over.
She tried to sit up. She couldn't. But she had felt flame nipping at her bared flesh. Couldn't get a good look. Her fingers, and oh gosh, the rest of her hand probably, twisted and gnarled from what he did to them.
Her heart ached from the strain.
Mary closed her eyes. Heard her own gasps, felt her own tremors.
Somewhere, in the back of her head, she wondered what the audience saw. If her injuries were gnarly looking. If the scene was brutal. If what remained would be interesting enough to the eye.
Mary heard someone's footsteps. It wasn't Anthony.
"... don't rec roof access… big fall…"
Mary chuckled.
Mary coughed.
Mary screamed again.
Gosh, it hurt all over.
She tried to sit up. She couldn't. But she had felt flame nipping at her bared flesh. Couldn't get a good look. Her fingers, and oh gosh, the rest of her hand probably, twisted and gnarled from what he did to them.
Her heart ached from the strain.
Mary closed her eyes. Heard her own gasps, felt her own tremors.
Somewhere, in the back of her head, she wondered what the audience saw. If her injuries were gnarly looking. If the scene was brutal. If what remained would be interesting enough to the eye.
Mary heard someone's footsteps. It wasn't Anthony.
"... don't rec roof access… big fall…"
Mary chuckled.
Mary coughed.
Mary screamed again.
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It was so hard to figure out where to start. With any of this.
Because
Because she’d known Mary. From back before. There was a whole history that came flooding back the moment Verity recognized exactly which corpse was lying below her. They’d met early on in Mangrove Garden, grade nine… somebody’s English class. Mary was the type of person who kept cracking jokes from the back of the class, Verity was the type of person who kept cracking jokes from the back of the class, and for some reason Mary took that kinda personally. Iced her out. Kinda acted like a total bitch. Made it clear there could only be one class clown. There’d been a group project, at some point, which had exacerbated it all, but that was the brunt of the point. Mary was the class clown. The mythic bitch. That was how Verity had known her.
…How Verity maybe even still knew her. She’d fallen from the sky, looked… who knew how fucked up, and there she was, making a joke that didn’t even make no sense. Classic Mary. Just like back at school.
Verity just stared, for a second.
Took a breath.
Took a breath.
Then she moved. Quicker than she thought she could given fucking every bit of pain in her body right now. Tried to swipe the rubble off of Mary. Tried not to look at her wounds. Tried to pretend that she was in any way capable of helping. Of… healing something too far gone.
“What can I do?” Verity said, yanking a bigger piece of rubble out of the way. “How can I help?”
Because
Because she’d known Mary. From back before. There was a whole history that came flooding back the moment Verity recognized exactly which corpse was lying below her. They’d met early on in Mangrove Garden, grade nine… somebody’s English class. Mary was the type of person who kept cracking jokes from the back of the class, Verity was the type of person who kept cracking jokes from the back of the class, and for some reason Mary took that kinda personally. Iced her out. Kinda acted like a total bitch. Made it clear there could only be one class clown. There’d been a group project, at some point, which had exacerbated it all, but that was the brunt of the point. Mary was the class clown. The mythic bitch. That was how Verity had known her.
…How Verity maybe even still knew her. She’d fallen from the sky, looked… who knew how fucked up, and there she was, making a joke that didn’t even make no sense. Classic Mary. Just like back at school.
Verity just stared, for a second.
Took a breath.
Took a breath.
Then she moved. Quicker than she thought she could given fucking every bit of pain in her body right now. Tried to swipe the rubble off of Mary. Tried not to look at her wounds. Tried to pretend that she was in any way capable of helping. Of… healing something too far gone.
“What can I do?” Verity said, yanking a bigger piece of rubble out of the way. “How can I help?”
A few more harsh gasps and shrieks. Another chuckle.
Her voice felt dry in her throat. It sounded… more like a croak, she realized. It was taking a lot to speak.
Mary placed her hand– her mangled hand– onto the gunshot wound. In the dim haze, she saw how much her arms had bleed and bubbled from the explosion, the heat, the fall, everything. It looked and felt like burnt chicken legs. Skin had started peeling back against the twisted bone like layers of red overcooked meat, making it less recognizable as part of the human body. It felt like there was more on her legs, too, and she felt it on her face as well. Her shirt still felt wet from the amount of blood.
She closed her eyes again.
Verity, Verity, that basketcase Verity was here. She should stop calling her a basketcase. She knew she was projecting. They never got along to begin with. Verity was… a lot, honestly. Kinda nuts, and things finally bubbled over when they had to do an English assignment over. That was before Mary started going to a therapist, so she got frustrated over things that were, in hindsight, silly and stupid, and, well–
It ended predictably, and she went out of her way never to talk to Verity again. Just projected.
Kinda weird to think about that now? Yeah. But, like, maybe Verity still had a bone to pick. Maybe she was here to finish her off, add the finishing touches of Anthony’s work.
It wasn’t hurting as much. Was that good or bad?
Her face felt wet.
“Are you… ending…?” she croaked.
Verity did ask what she wanted. Maybe that was a lead-in to a bullet in her head or something.
Her voice felt dry in her throat. It sounded… more like a croak, she realized. It was taking a lot to speak.
Mary placed her hand– her mangled hand– onto the gunshot wound. In the dim haze, she saw how much her arms had bleed and bubbled from the explosion, the heat, the fall, everything. It looked and felt like burnt chicken legs. Skin had started peeling back against the twisted bone like layers of red overcooked meat, making it less recognizable as part of the human body. It felt like there was more on her legs, too, and she felt it on her face as well. Her shirt still felt wet from the amount of blood.
She closed her eyes again.
Verity, Verity, that basketcase Verity was here. She should stop calling her a basketcase. She knew she was projecting. They never got along to begin with. Verity was… a lot, honestly. Kinda nuts, and things finally bubbled over when they had to do an English assignment over. That was before Mary started going to a therapist, so she got frustrated over things that were, in hindsight, silly and stupid, and, well–
It ended predictably, and she went out of her way never to talk to Verity again. Just projected.
Kinda weird to think about that now? Yeah. But, like, maybe Verity still had a bone to pick. Maybe she was here to finish her off, add the finishing touches of Anthony’s work.
It wasn’t hurting as much. Was that good or bad?
Her face felt wet.
“Are you… ending…?” she croaked.
Verity did ask what she wanted. Maybe that was a lead-in to a bullet in her head or something.
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What?
Nothing Mary was saying was making sense. Verity didn’t know what to do. She threw down her bag onto the ground. Looked through its contents because maybe she hadn’t actually used all the antiseptic on her eye, maybe she actually had placed some medical stuff in there without thinking about it.
But there was nothing. Only clothes. Only bullets. Only scraps of-
…
She took a bit of already torn t-shirt out. A strip she’d tried to make but wasn’t long enough for her eyepatch. She reached for Mary. Grabbed the hand with the fucked up fingers.
“I-I wanna help.”
She pulled Mary’s hand closer towards herself. Put the strip of t-shirt over the fingers. Tried to tie the bandage around. Tried to figure out a way to keep it there.
Tried to ignore the gunshot in Mary’s chest.
“Tell me-” She took a breath. “Tell me what to do. How I- how to help.”
Nothing Mary was saying was making sense. Verity didn’t know what to do. She threw down her bag onto the ground. Looked through its contents because maybe she hadn’t actually used all the antiseptic on her eye, maybe she actually had placed some medical stuff in there without thinking about it.
But there was nothing. Only clothes. Only bullets. Only scraps of-
…
She took a bit of already torn t-shirt out. A strip she’d tried to make but wasn’t long enough for her eyepatch. She reached for Mary. Grabbed the hand with the fucked up fingers.
“I-I wanna help.”
She pulled Mary’s hand closer towards herself. Put the strip of t-shirt over the fingers. Tried to tie the bandage around. Tried to figure out a way to keep it there.
Tried to ignore the gunshot in Mary’s chest.
“Tell me-” She took a breath. “Tell me what to do. How I- how to help.”
She wanted to help?
She really wanted to help?
Mary was vulnerable, the most vulnerable she could be, and Verity’s response wasn’t to put a bullet in her. Despite everything, despite their beef, despite the danger…
And she wanted to help.
Maybe she pities you, Mary. Her and Jewel. Leo and Leah. Even Chris. You’re pathetic, you know that? You read 10 Kills One Life, you’ve talked to Jewel before. And yet, you still do stupid things. You keep talking to the cameras, you went for supplies when it wasn’t that crucial, you fought Anthony. And what? You’re here like this. You’re all broken, and it’s your fault. Everyone pities you. That’s why they deal with you.
Shut up.
It’s true. You know it is.
Her hand– what was left of it– was being patched up maybe. She felt fabric wrapped around it, to cover up the damage. She felt heat and dryness in her throat, in her lungs, on what skin ached with sensation. Her whole body shook. Her vision faded in and out
“Water?” she asked, her voice still a croak.
Water for the throat, maybe water for the flames around.
Mary felt her vision come back. Her chest continued to heave.
“A-anthony… he’s not coming…is he?”
It seemed… final, the way things ended, but for all they knew, he was going to rear his ugly face any second now.
Also, where was Chris?
She really wanted to help?
Mary was vulnerable, the most vulnerable she could be, and Verity’s response wasn’t to put a bullet in her. Despite everything, despite their beef, despite the danger…
And she wanted to help.
Maybe she pities you, Mary. Her and Jewel. Leo and Leah. Even Chris. You’re pathetic, you know that? You read 10 Kills One Life, you’ve talked to Jewel before. And yet, you still do stupid things. You keep talking to the cameras, you went for supplies when it wasn’t that crucial, you fought Anthony. And what? You’re here like this. You’re all broken, and it’s your fault. Everyone pities you. That’s why they deal with you.
Shut up.
It’s true. You know it is.
Her hand– what was left of it– was being patched up maybe. She felt fabric wrapped around it, to cover up the damage. She felt heat and dryness in her throat, in her lungs, on what skin ached with sensation. Her whole body shook. Her vision faded in and out
“Water?” she asked, her voice still a croak.
Water for the throat, maybe water for the flames around.
Mary felt her vision come back. Her chest continued to heave.
“A-anthony… he’s not coming…is he?”
It seemed… final, the way things ended, but for all they knew, he was going to rear his ugly face any second now.
Also, where was Chris?
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“Okay.”
Verity might not have brought antiseptic, might not have brought bandages, but at least she brought water. She might not have been able to do anything about the fucked up fingers, or the bullet wound, but at least she could bring the bottle up to Mary’s mouth, slowly tilt it until the other girl could drink. She knew she had no reason to do this for Mary. She knew she was right about to die. She knew that Mary hadn’t been on her team. Hadn’t given any reason for Verity to like her beyond a single conversation, however many eons ago it’d been now. She knew that the best thing was to just let Mary go, was to not even try any of this in the first place, but
but
she didn’t know. She couldn’t- she couldn’t-
She took a breath.
She took a breath.
“Was Anthony… was Anthony the one who killed you?”
Verity might not have brought antiseptic, might not have brought bandages, but at least she brought water. She might not have been able to do anything about the fucked up fingers, or the bullet wound, but at least she could bring the bottle up to Mary’s mouth, slowly tilt it until the other girl could drink. She knew she had no reason to do this for Mary. She knew she was right about to die. She knew that Mary hadn’t been on her team. Hadn’t given any reason for Verity to like her beyond a single conversation, however many eons ago it’d been now. She knew that the best thing was to just let Mary go, was to not even try any of this in the first place, but
but
she didn’t know. She couldn’t- she couldn’t-
She took a breath.
She took a breath.
“Was Anthony… was Anthony the one who killed you?”
Killed. Past tense.
Mary had eagerly accepted the water, even if it only eased the parched throat a little bit, even if it might not be too important for much longer, even if a bit trickled out from the corner of her mouth.
But she was already being talked about in past-tense. She wasn’t ‘is’, she was a ‘was.’ Not a ‘will be killed’ or ‘is being killed’, but ‘was killed.’ It was weird being talked about as a ‘was’ rather than an ‘is.’
“Y-yeah…” she said after the bottle pried away from her lips, her voice still hoarse. “He shot me and t-tossed me down to…”
Burn. That’s what he wanted you to do. Burn. Burn for Leah, burn for everything else you’ve done.
“--Burn… so, yeah– he’s– he’s nuts…”
Nuts didn’t cut it. Even now, hatred still burned inside her, much like the flames that had bit at her body, much like the flames that continued to burn around them. And after this, he’d still be there. Still doing his thing, still feeling justified in it.
She looked up at the hole she fell from. Sunlight trickled in, masked by the smoke and flames. It hurt to breathe.
“You hate me, don’t you?”
If she did, why was she doing this, rather than letting her be or putting a bullet in her? She was injured herself, and she could easily run for it.
Mary had eagerly accepted the water, even if it only eased the parched throat a little bit, even if it might not be too important for much longer, even if a bit trickled out from the corner of her mouth.
But she was already being talked about in past-tense. She wasn’t ‘is’, she was a ‘was.’ Not a ‘will be killed’ or ‘is being killed’, but ‘was killed.’ It was weird being talked about as a ‘was’ rather than an ‘is.’
“Y-yeah…” she said after the bottle pried away from her lips, her voice still hoarse. “He shot me and t-tossed me down to…”
Burn. That’s what he wanted you to do. Burn. Burn for Leah, burn for everything else you’ve done.
“--Burn… so, yeah– he’s– he’s nuts…”
Nuts didn’t cut it. Even now, hatred still burned inside her, much like the flames that had bit at her body, much like the flames that continued to burn around them. And after this, he’d still be there. Still doing his thing, still feeling justified in it.
She looked up at the hole she fell from. Sunlight trickled in, masked by the smoke and flames. It hurt to breathe.
“You hate me, don’t you?”
If she did, why was she doing this, rather than letting her be or putting a bullet in her? She was injured herself, and she could easily run for it.
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“Does it even matter?”
She retracted the bottle. Thought about putting it back in her bag, for a moment, before shaking her head. Leaving it by her side. Mary might want it again, and… and one way or the other, it wasn’t really like Verity needed it anymore.
“Like, even if I did, back then, it’s…”
She took a breath. Looked away, for a second.
“It’s not like we’re who we used to be anymore. It’s not like we’re going to last past this. It’s not like I can’t try-”
She took a breath.
“Try and help. Try and be… something better for you, in these…”
It was a sentence too hard to complete. The implication would have to be enough.
She retracted the bottle. Thought about putting it back in her bag, for a moment, before shaking her head. Leaving it by her side. Mary might want it again, and… and one way or the other, it wasn’t really like Verity needed it anymore.
“Like, even if I did, back then, it’s…”
She took a breath. Looked away, for a second.
“It’s not like we’re who we used to be anymore. It’s not like we’re going to last past this. It’s not like I can’t try-”
She took a breath.
“Try and help. Try and be… something better for you, in these…”
It was a sentence too hard to complete. The implication would have to be enough.
Didn’t matter. Never mattered.
Kinda hurt?
That she’d be forgotten about so easily, even after she hurt people.
Gosh, she missed the little moments. Coming home from school to see Ozzy and Ivy. Seeing the notifications on her phone. The way she laughed– genuinely laughed– when she found the ability to. The ability to make things like her baking or her work with fabric. The scent of essential oils. They didn’t matter to anyone else, but in a way, they both didn’t matter and did matter.
Mary’s vision continued to fade in and out.
“C-can… you see if Chris is still alive? And that I stay intact enough? Because… b-because… uh, m-maybe… Jewel or someone can explain… but, I talk about this some time ago, but… I did want a thing… done with my body, right? Ha… I said… I wanted to become art after I died… so… maybe it’s a good idea to move me somewhere where I won’t get all messed up even more? So… so… that there’s still material to use.”
She choked on her words.
“A-also, check on Ozzy and Ivy and my parents, if you ever can, and uh… m-make sure Anthony doesn’t win, and…”
So many demands. Just enough strength to pull them out of her body. Her shoulders heaved.
“And… And…”
And what, Mary?
This is your moment to sort out anything and everything, and yet, you’re stuck, making demands that may not stick.
“Do you know any songs…? Or anything funny? Or like…, y’know…?”
Kinda hurt?
That she’d be forgotten about so easily, even after she hurt people.
Gosh, she missed the little moments. Coming home from school to see Ozzy and Ivy. Seeing the notifications on her phone. The way she laughed– genuinely laughed– when she found the ability to. The ability to make things like her baking or her work with fabric. The scent of essential oils. They didn’t matter to anyone else, but in a way, they both didn’t matter and did matter.
Mary’s vision continued to fade in and out.
“C-can… you see if Chris is still alive? And that I stay intact enough? Because… b-because… uh, m-maybe… Jewel or someone can explain… but, I talk about this some time ago, but… I did want a thing… done with my body, right? Ha… I said… I wanted to become art after I died… so… maybe it’s a good idea to move me somewhere where I won’t get all messed up even more? So… so… that there’s still material to use.”
She choked on her words.
“A-also, check on Ozzy and Ivy and my parents, if you ever can, and uh… m-make sure Anthony doesn’t win, and…”
So many demands. Just enough strength to pull them out of her body. Her shoulders heaved.
“And… And…”
And what, Mary?
This is your moment to sort out anything and everything, and yet, you’re stuck, making demands that may not stick.
“Do you know any songs…? Or anything funny? Or like…, y’know…?”