[Genevieve Cordova, continued from How to Get Famous (And Not Have to Shoot Somebody).]
Genevieve came to roughly an hour later, sprawled out in a shaded corner on the icy ground. Shivering and dazed, she rubbed her eyes to avoid the glare of the mid-morning sun and wondered just how the hell she was still alive.
Wait.
Shit.
Was she dead?
Had she been killed after passing out, by Jewel or some other killer, and not realized? Worse, had she died from exposure?
Genevieve groaned as her sedation began to wear off. Her joints ached worse than the morning after a game and there was a sharp pain in her lower back. She was still alive.
That just raised more questions.
She was still alive. Against all odds, she was still alive. Lucy was dead, Isaiah was dead, Matt was dead, Riley was dead, and everyone else Genevieve had expected to long surpass her was dead. Yet Genevieve was still alive. Genevieve opened her eyes. The spectres were back, intermingled guilt and fear, ever present and growing in number. She hoped the glare of the sun would block them out, for a time.
Fuck them, she thought. They had their chance. I'm here and they're not.
That had to count for something.
It took a moment for Genevieve to get her head back in gear. She had slept awkwardly, and her whole body throbbed with a dull aching pain that took a few moments to fully abate. Genevieve wheezed as she propped herself up on her elbows, each ragged breath filling her lungs with frigid air that chilled her empty stomach. Then she felt the sharp edges of her lunch box dig into her back through the thin canvas of her day pack, and that was enough motivation to get Genevieve back on her feet.
Still, it was only the second worst place she had ever woken up in. South American hotels tended to give one a sense of perspective--
Literal pain in her ass.
Okay.
Fuck that.
Worst place.
“Shit! Ow!” Genevieve exclaimed, shifting from side to side to try and move into a less awkward position.
Genevieve slipped the bag off her shoulders and struggled to her feet, swaying groggily as she knelt back down to empty her day pack.
Okay. Time to ditch the dead weight.
Her day pack was filled with so much crap that Genevieve neither wanted or needed that carrying it around was just going to get her killed. She unzipped the bag and began throwing everything out she didn't need. Powerade? Total garbage. Fact of the day: also made with bull semen. Genevieve tossed the neon blue bottles as far as she could throw them. Condoms? Genevieve laughed as she tossed them over her shoulder.
Finally, with some effort, Genevieve hauled out the Bugs Bunny costume. Was she ever going to wear it? Hell no. Genevieve was going to go out with some dignity. But it had a dumb charm and Genevieve was incredibly sentimental. At the end of the day, though, the thing weighed a ton and she couldn't keep it in her bag.
“I'm sorry,” Genevieve said, throwing it on the ground beside her. “I love you.”
Genevieve pulled the bag over her shoulders and struggled to her feet. Without all the unnecessary crap she had been dragging around, she felt about ten pounds lighter. Actually, she felt like she could run a marathon. Genevieve swung her arms, getting a feel for her balance. She was fully awake now, if a little rough around the edges, and she was eager to get back on her feet.
Time to get shit done. Genevieve was going to find the rest of the Cyan Stingrays and start making a concerted effort to win the game. Unless, of course, she was the last one left.
Genevieve tapped on her collar.
“Hey, uh, mentor, or Cecelia-- oh whatever?” Genevieve asked, brushing herself down. Her clothes were damp. It looked like her body heat had melted the ice around her. “How long was I out for? Also-- am I the last, like, Cyan Stingray left, or are the rest of the team still alive?”
The Devil You Know
[s]open![/s] PM for entry b/c death thread
The Devil You Know
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
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MurderWeasel
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- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
A voice echoes quietly from Genevieve's collar.
"You're not the only one left. The team's doing pretty well. You need to pull yourself together, though. I'm not sure what you've been going for, but it's not looked particularly cautious or strategic. You need to think if you're going to make it out of here."
"You're not the only one left. The team's doing pretty well. You need to pull yourself together, though. I'm not sure what you've been going for, but it's not looked particularly cautious or strategic. You need to think if you're going to make it out of here."
“Did you not see me diffuse the situation with five-time-killer Jewel Evans just now?” Genevieve said incredulously, before again exhaling sharply to calm herself down. Don't be Jhamel. Jhamel was dumb. “I'm cautious and strategic as fuck, okay--”
Genevieve huffed, tightening the straps of her bag and then rubbing her hands together for warmth. She was out in the open again, exposed to icy cold winds and hails of gunfire and whatever else the show could throw at her, and she was eager to leave.
As much as she hated to admit it, the voice on her collar was right. There was nothing strategic or cautious about passing out in the middle of an open-air concert hall and getting into stand-offs with killers.
Stay calm, play it smart. She thought. Find your team and get home scot-free.
“So, uh,” Genevieve said, moving into a shaded spot that looked like good cover. “Are you allowed to tell me where the rest of the team are? I'm not super familiar on how this works.”
Genevieve huffed, tightening the straps of her bag and then rubbing her hands together for warmth. She was out in the open again, exposed to icy cold winds and hails of gunfire and whatever else the show could throw at her, and she was eager to leave.
As much as she hated to admit it, the voice on her collar was right. There was nothing strategic or cautious about passing out in the middle of an open-air concert hall and getting into stand-offs with killers.
Stay calm, play it smart. She thought. Find your team and get home scot-free.
“So, uh,” Genevieve said, moving into a shaded spot that looked like good cover. “Are you allowed to tell me where the rest of the team are? I'm not super familiar on how this works.”
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
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MurderWeasel
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- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
A voice echoes quietly from Genevieve's collar.
"I'm not allowed to tell you directly, no. I'd suggest you find somewhere with better cover to stay out of the cold, perhaps the Cabana area. I won't be able to talk to you again until after the next announcement. Good luck, and remember: think things through carefully. Don't take anything at face value."
"I'm not allowed to tell you directly, no. I'd suggest you find somewhere with better cover to stay out of the cold, perhaps the Cabana area. I won't be able to talk to you again until after the next announcement. Good luck, and remember: think things through carefully. Don't take anything at face value."
((Pia Malone continued from CAVE CAVE DEUS VIDET))
Pia was troubled.
The second announcement had come on as they were leaving the cabana, bringing its usual share of good and bad news. The good news: Whittree was doing alright, as far as numbers went, and it turned out that Riley had taken the bullet after all.
The bad news: Jewel Evans.
Pia had barely known Søren Rosendahl, but she knew enough to know that he was a good guy. Quiet, religious sort. An innocent bystander. And Jewel had picked him off like she was swatting a fly.
It was probably more than a little hypocritical of her to get all bent out of shape over the one victim that she had known, when she felt little more than a twinge at all the other names Jewel had snuffed out. Pia could live with hypocritical.
Because when you got down to it, Paisley was a Søren too, and so were who knew how many of her other classmates that were here. Valerie Fitzroy sure hadn't done anything to deserve that tumble down the stairs, and look where that had gotten her. So Pia had decided, privately, that Jewel was most definitely not on the off-limits list.
The cabaret wasn't far from the cabanas, a good place to break for a bit, eat and talk strategy. If they were lucky, it might have attracted some friendly faces.
As more or less expected, they weren't lucky. Pia paused when she noticed the girl outside with the pile of junk laying on the ground next to her. Unloading dead weight or the spoils from a fight, maybe. Her heart gave another little flutter when the teal bandanna caught her eye.
She'd traded guns with Paisley again before they set out from the cabanas, and the Vektor was just inside her half-unzipped bag, resting on top of the clothes. Pia discreetly slipped her hand in, curled it around the grip of the gun.
"Hey there."
Pia was troubled.
The second announcement had come on as they were leaving the cabana, bringing its usual share of good and bad news. The good news: Whittree was doing alright, as far as numbers went, and it turned out that Riley had taken the bullet after all.
The bad news: Jewel Evans.
Pia had barely known Søren Rosendahl, but she knew enough to know that he was a good guy. Quiet, religious sort. An innocent bystander. And Jewel had picked him off like she was swatting a fly.
It was probably more than a little hypocritical of her to get all bent out of shape over the one victim that she had known, when she felt little more than a twinge at all the other names Jewel had snuffed out. Pia could live with hypocritical.
Because when you got down to it, Paisley was a Søren too, and so were who knew how many of her other classmates that were here. Valerie Fitzroy sure hadn't done anything to deserve that tumble down the stairs, and look where that had gotten her. So Pia had decided, privately, that Jewel was most definitely not on the off-limits list.
The cabaret wasn't far from the cabanas, a good place to break for a bit, eat and talk strategy. If they were lucky, it might have attracted some friendly faces.
As more or less expected, they weren't lucky. Pia paused when she noticed the girl outside with the pile of junk laying on the ground next to her. Unloading dead weight or the spoils from a fight, maybe. Her heart gave another little flutter when the teal bandanna caught her eye.
She'd traded guns with Paisley again before they set out from the cabanas, and the Vektor was just inside her half-unzipped bag, resting on top of the clothes. Pia discreetly slipped her hand in, curled it around the grip of the gun.
"Hey there."
(Paisley Hopkins continued from CAVE CAVE DEUS VIDET.)
... They were going to fail, weren't they?
Just... fall flat on their faces trying to crawl and scratch at the cold-blooded murderer named Jewel Evans.
Pia had two, that meant she needed eight more. Jewel Evans had... god knows how many. She missed the first announcement! This girl, a name she had never heard of before, could have nine kills to her name!
It wasn't going to work. Pia was going to fail and they were going to have to kill each other.
Pia reassured her, in that gruff, forward way she always carried herself in. That managed to stop another panic attack. Paisley wanted to cry though, really hard, and it took every fiber in her being to stop herself. All of her worries disappeared soon after. But Paisley knew they were still there, nibbling at the back of her head like everything else.
It continued nibbling when they arrived at the Cabaret. Pia noticed they were not alone. Hope and dread filled her in equal measures.
Pia gave Paisley Matt's gun again. Having already dissected the weapon and the manual on her own, she was familiar on how to use it. She promised herself she wouldn't. Just in case.
Pia was holding the pistol though. She noticed that almost immediately. Paisley hoped they wouldn't have to use it. She really, really hoped.
She also noticed that there was no spare ammo among the litter. Paisley figured the stranger, whoever they were, had no gun. Then again, they could have just taken the gun with them. Evidence was needed. And by the looks of things, she was going to get it.
Paisley had the good sense to keep the rifle pointed down and away.
She opened her mouth to speak. Then she thought better of it.
... They were going to fail, weren't they?
Just... fall flat on their faces trying to crawl and scratch at the cold-blooded murderer named Jewel Evans.
Pia had two, that meant she needed eight more. Jewel Evans had... god knows how many. She missed the first announcement! This girl, a name she had never heard of before, could have nine kills to her name!
It wasn't going to work. Pia was going to fail and they were going to have to kill each other.
Pia reassured her, in that gruff, forward way she always carried herself in. That managed to stop another panic attack. Paisley wanted to cry though, really hard, and it took every fiber in her being to stop herself. All of her worries disappeared soon after. But Paisley knew they were still there, nibbling at the back of her head like everything else.
It continued nibbling when they arrived at the Cabaret. Pia noticed they were not alone. Hope and dread filled her in equal measures.
Pia gave Paisley Matt's gun again. Having already dissected the weapon and the manual on her own, she was familiar on how to use it. She promised herself she wouldn't. Just in case.
Pia was holding the pistol though. She noticed that almost immediately. Paisley hoped they wouldn't have to use it. She really, really hoped.
She also noticed that there was no spare ammo among the litter. Paisley figured the stranger, whoever they were, had no gun. Then again, they could have just taken the gun with them. Evidence was needed. And by the looks of things, she was going to get it.
Paisley had the good sense to keep the rifle pointed down and away.
She opened her mouth to speak. Then she thought better of it.
All of a sudden, Genevieve heard a voice.
A live voice, distinct from the tinned wail of her collar, echoing around the empty sound-stage. Her muscles- reflexively- tensed. She reached- instinctively- for her knife.
Survival skills, learned from no one, that had served her well enough.
Genevieve turned her head to face the source. Two girls. Genevieve recognized neither, which was fast becoming a bad omen. The other school were trouble.
Genevieve had been smart enough, and lucky enough, to get away from Jewel unscathed. If she played this calm, maybe she could go for a three-peat.
"Who are you?" Genevieve hollered.
That was as good a foundation as any.
History, Genevieve had found, never repeats itself. But sometimes it rhymes.
A live voice, distinct from the tinned wail of her collar, echoing around the empty sound-stage. Her muscles- reflexively- tensed. She reached- instinctively- for her knife.
Survival skills, learned from no one, that had served her well enough.
Genevieve turned her head to face the source. Two girls. Genevieve recognized neither, which was fast becoming a bad omen. The other school were trouble.
Genevieve had been smart enough, and lucky enough, to get away from Jewel unscathed. If she played this calm, maybe she could go for a three-peat.
"Who are you?" Genevieve hollered.
That was as good a foundation as any.
History, Genevieve had found, never repeats itself. But sometimes it rhymes.
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the former handler Macha.
The other girl - Maybe Red was a good nickname? Bunny? No, wait, Pia already knew a Bunny - was a little jumpy. Not that Pia could really blame her for that, all things considered. The stage was open, exposed, and Red didn't look like she had any kind of long-range weapon.
"I'm Pia. This is Paisley. We're looking for our teams." Pia took a few steps forward and leaned against one of the tables dotting the area, hand still inside her bag. Loose, she had to remind herself. Loose, not tense. No stress.
"You're light blue, right? We ran into somebody from your team. One of my friends, actually."
"I'm Pia. This is Paisley. We're looking for our teams." Pia took a few steps forward and leaned against one of the tables dotting the area, hand still inside her bag. Loose, she had to remind herself. Loose, not tense. No stress.
"You're light blue, right? We ran into somebody from your team. One of my friends, actually."
Paisley didn't move. Why should she? Pia seemed all too happy trying to make things casual. Experience proved that Paisley was a bit lacking in social niceties, so she was all too willing to let Pia take the helm again. Paisley stood there, her gun pointed at the ground, trying her best to be inconspicuous.
The stranger was wearing a dress. Burgundy, from her estimation. What a strange thing to wear. Did the gamerunners give the dress to her, or was she just an eccentric dresser?
It was difficult to deduce anything else, both from her outfit in general and sheer distance. She was not from Whittree though. Most definitely not. Paisley would have recognized her if her fashion sense was as extravagant back home, never mind the fact that she had red hair. But she seemed nice enough? Well... nice enough from a purely 'book's cover' point of view.
Pia told the girl her names. Paisley shuffled from foot to foot. She smiled, preened her hair and waved with the same hand.
"It's nice to meet you."
Simple enough opening.
The other hand still held the rifle.
The stranger was wearing a dress. Burgundy, from her estimation. What a strange thing to wear. Did the gamerunners give the dress to her, or was she just an eccentric dresser?
It was difficult to deduce anything else, both from her outfit in general and sheer distance. She was not from Whittree though. Most definitely not. Paisley would have recognized her if her fashion sense was as extravagant back home, never mind the fact that she had red hair. But she seemed nice enough? Well... nice enough from a purely 'book's cover' point of view.
Pia told the girl her names. Paisley shuffled from foot to foot. She smiled, preened her hair and waved with the same hand.
"It's nice to meet you."
Simple enough opening.
The other hand still held the rifle.
((GMing of Genni approved by Moonlight Drive and staff))
The two girls from the other school at least had the courtesy to introduce themselves before they started shooting.
The girl with the curves and the pink hair-- was it hot or shocking or bubblegum? Genevieve could never tell the difference between them-- was Pia. Genevieve had heard the name used on the announcements before. Then again, she had heard Jewel's name on the announcements before as well. The other girl was Paisley. Genevieve was certain she had never heard that name before.
Shit, Genevieve thought. The Announcements.
Then the specters came back, and with them, a crushing sense of dread. Matt and Riley, killed by Pia Malone.
Matt? Matt stung, but not nearly as painfully as Riley did. It was easy to disassociate with Matt. Genevieve had, after all, avoided seeing him on the island. He was just a name on a list. Riley was a fresh wound, cauterised with salt. Genevieve had spoken to her only a few hours earlier, on the beach.
Pia (and Paisley, probably, by association) had killed Matt and Riley. Now she was here for Genevieve.
Shit, Genevieve thought. She's scrubbing out Davison kids.
"Cyan Stingrays," Genevieve corrected. It still sounded dumb as hell. "I'm Genni. Genni Hayward."
She took a step forwards.
Genevieve's fingers curled tight around the handle of her knife. She pulled it from her pocket, brandishing it openly.
Tears started to well at the corners of her eyes.
"Oh, I'm on the same team as your friend?" Genevieve asked, squeezing her eyes shut. She was jittery, shaking with anger. Could she kill Pia? No. Could she try and make Pia feel like total shit? Absolutely. "That's-- that's good news-- great news. I had friends on the island too."
"Emphasis on the past tense," Genevieve added, taking another step forwards. She held her knife out, hands trembling. To threaten, yes, but not to kill. Not yet. "'Cause, y'know, unless-- unless there's another Pia running around-- you killed them."
Alright then. Not only had they missed out on any friendly faces, but they had, in fact, run into probably one of the worst possible people from the other school. A friend. Somebody out for revenge.
Shit.
Pia took in a breath, held it, let it out slowly. “Yeah. No other Pias around.” She didn’t know what to add after that. Apologize? She was sorry, in a way, but any apology she could give Genni meant nothing. Whether she said she was sorry, or that it was an accident, or whatever, Genni’s friends were still dead and it was Pia’s doing.
Hand still in the bag, eyes still on Genni. Not quite loose anymore. Genni was the one who had brought a knife to a gunfight, but she was hurting and angry and Pia had no way of knowing what kind of person she might be outside of this situation. No idea what she’d do now.
The two girls from the other school at least had the courtesy to introduce themselves before they started shooting.
The girl with the curves and the pink hair-- was it hot or shocking or bubblegum? Genevieve could never tell the difference between them-- was Pia. Genevieve had heard the name used on the announcements before. Then again, she had heard Jewel's name on the announcements before as well. The other girl was Paisley. Genevieve was certain she had never heard that name before.
Shit, Genevieve thought. The Announcements.
Then the specters came back, and with them, a crushing sense of dread. Matt and Riley, killed by Pia Malone.
Matt? Matt stung, but not nearly as painfully as Riley did. It was easy to disassociate with Matt. Genevieve had, after all, avoided seeing him on the island. He was just a name on a list. Riley was a fresh wound, cauterised with salt. Genevieve had spoken to her only a few hours earlier, on the beach.
Pia (and Paisley, probably, by association) had killed Matt and Riley. Now she was here for Genevieve.
Shit, Genevieve thought. She's scrubbing out Davison kids.
"Cyan Stingrays," Genevieve corrected. It still sounded dumb as hell. "I'm Genni. Genni Hayward."
She took a step forwards.
Genevieve's fingers curled tight around the handle of her knife. She pulled it from her pocket, brandishing it openly.
Tears started to well at the corners of her eyes.
"Oh, I'm on the same team as your friend?" Genevieve asked, squeezing her eyes shut. She was jittery, shaking with anger. Could she kill Pia? No. Could she try and make Pia feel like total shit? Absolutely. "That's-- that's good news-- great news. I had friends on the island too."
"Emphasis on the past tense," Genevieve added, taking another step forwards. She held her knife out, hands trembling. To threaten, yes, but not to kill. Not yet. "'Cause, y'know, unless-- unless there's another Pia running around-- you killed them."
Alright then. Not only had they missed out on any friendly faces, but they had, in fact, run into probably one of the worst possible people from the other school. A friend. Somebody out for revenge.
Shit.
Pia took in a breath, held it, let it out slowly. “Yeah. No other Pias around.” She didn’t know what to add after that. Apologize? She was sorry, in a way, but any apology she could give Genni meant nothing. Whether she said she was sorry, or that it was an accident, or whatever, Genni’s friends were still dead and it was Pia’s doing.
Hand still in the bag, eyes still on Genni. Not quite loose anymore. Genni was the one who had brought a knife to a gunfight, but she was hurting and angry and Pia had no way of knowing what kind of person she might be outside of this situation. No idea what she’d do now.
The girl was named Genni, and from the expression on her face, the pleasantries started and ended there.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence that only lasted a few seconds. To Paisley, though, they felt like hours.
Genni Hayward did not want to make friends with Pia. Friends did not pull knives on other friends. Strangers did not pull knives on other strangers. Not like this. Pia took something from Genni. Matt? The other girl? Paisley didn't know. Genni used 'them', plural, so it was possible that she was friends with both.
Paisley raised Matt's gun, holding it just as she taught herself. She tried to calm her nerves and, strangely, it worked. For all of five seconds. Then she glanced at Pia and swiftly noticed she had her hand in the bag. Paisley gagged. Pia didn't have her gun out. Why? Three kills. Three. Pia needed ten. As much as Paisley hated to admit it, she knew Pia could do it. The girl with the strange outfit pulled out a knife and she told her that she had friends, had, past tense. She was a threat. Pia killed people for lesser reasons. So why was she hesitating? Why? All Pia had to do was pull out the gun and fire. Why was she risking everything.
This was bad, Paisley thought. Really really bad. What if this girl tried to pull something, and Pia couldn't defend herself? What if Pia died? What would Paisley do then? Paisley didn't want to consider that possibility. Things were scary enough in the beginning, with Pia. She couldn't imagine what it would be like without her.
So who could blame Paisley for overreacting? Her finger jerked the trigger before her mind could even register what she was doing! It wasn't like she wanted to shoot her. It was a warning shot. That's all.
That wasn't a lie. Not really, not fully. Paisley just had a hard time believing it.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence that only lasted a few seconds. To Paisley, though, they felt like hours.
Genni Hayward did not want to make friends with Pia. Friends did not pull knives on other friends. Strangers did not pull knives on other strangers. Not like this. Pia took something from Genni. Matt? The other girl? Paisley didn't know. Genni used 'them', plural, so it was possible that she was friends with both.
Paisley raised Matt's gun, holding it just as she taught herself. She tried to calm her nerves and, strangely, it worked. For all of five seconds. Then she glanced at Pia and swiftly noticed she had her hand in the bag. Paisley gagged. Pia didn't have her gun out. Why? Three kills. Three. Pia needed ten. As much as Paisley hated to admit it, she knew Pia could do it. The girl with the strange outfit pulled out a knife and she told her that she had friends, had, past tense. She was a threat. Pia killed people for lesser reasons. So why was she hesitating? Why? All Pia had to do was pull out the gun and fire. Why was she risking everything.
This was bad, Paisley thought. Really really bad. What if this girl tried to pull something, and Pia couldn't defend herself? What if Pia died? What would Paisley do then? Paisley didn't want to consider that possibility. Things were scary enough in the beginning, with Pia. She couldn't imagine what it would be like without her.
So who could blame Paisley for overreacting? Her finger jerked the trigger before her mind could even register what she was doing! It wasn't like she wanted to shoot her. It was a warning shot. That's all.
That wasn't a lie. Not really, not fully. Paisley just had a hard time believing it.
In truth, Pia had almost completely forgotten about Paisley standing next to her. Stupid. Really stupid. Because she had let herself forget how wrecked Paisley was getting from all of this.
And Paisley, wrecked, jumpy Paisley, was holding the bigger gun. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Doubly stupid because letting herself forget meant she didn’t have an action plan in mind in case Paisley did start to crack. She’d been so focused on Genni, who was barely even a threat to two people with guns. No thoughts for Paisley at all, really.
So without a thought for Paisley, without an action plan, she shut down for a few seconds when the gunshot roared out. Almost pissed herself, honestly. Pia dropped her bag, dropped her gun, and jumped away from the sound on instinct, kicking herself the whole time. What the hell would she have done if the gunshot hadn’t belonged to Paisley?
She would have ended up sprawled out on the floor coughing up blood like Genni was, that’s what.
Genevieve’s view on history was beginning to falter even before she felt the bullet tear through her chest.
Any rhyme or reason to the proceedings-- any chance Genevieve had of escaping the conflict unharmed, as she had with Riley and Louise and Jewel-- had vanished the moment she pulled the knife. It was a stupid, impulsive decision. Unlike her last fifty stupid, impulsive decisions, it was going to kill her. History, Genevieve finally realized, was less like rhyming couplets and more like a slam poetry open mic night. Discordant events, lacking continuity or forethought. Looking for patterns, constructing a narrative.
None of it mattered. None of it ever will.
There was nothing heroic or villainous about fighting for your life. Nothing relatable or tragic about being forced to kill your friends. It was all smoke and mirrors, a carefully constructed marketing empire built on their suffering and their death. Heroes and villains where people should have been. Gimmicks and mentors. Pop-starlets and media whores.
Because broken people making broken choices in the face of a broken system was too bitter a pill to swallow.
It took facing her own death for Genevieve to realize that.
Like all the other ardent fans, she was complicit in it. She encouraged it. Too cowardly to live by the sword, she just settled for watching others do it on TV. Now she was dying by the sword, and she neither deserved redemption or wanted it. She just wanted to kill the bitch who was putting her in the ground.
The whip-crack of the carbine finally registered in her brain. The gunshot echoed so loudly in the empty auditorium that Genevieve’s ears rang. For a moment, Genevieve stood- awestruck- and watched the wine-red stains bloom from the jagged hole in her chest. There was a term for it, but Genevieve struggled to recall it. Burgundy barely showed the stains. Genevieve thought of her family. Her real family. It brought her an iota of comfort.
Genevieve swore, loudly.
Or, at least, she attempted to. The resulting sound was somewhere between choking and gargled hissing. Genevieve struggled for air. She coughed into her open hand, and found flecks of blood on her palm.
Lungshot was the term, Genevieve remembered..
She was choking to death on her own blood.
“Shit--” Genevieve spat. This time, it came out clearly.
Genevieve teetered, her balance failing her. Her whole body felt weak. Her death-grip around her knife loosened, her hands clammy from cold and cold sweat, and the blade clattered to the ground with a dull thud.
Genevieve’s knees finally gave way, and she hit the hard ground.
The initial shock subsided, and pain replaced it. All her anger and hurt-- accumulated rage and regret-- dissipated in an instant. That left her with scared. Genevieve was terrified. For all her talk of ghosts and over-worldly presences, Genevieve never really believed in an afterlife. Genevieve always expected to die with dignity. Now, she was clawing for anything that might keep her alive.
Her knife was on the ground beside her. Out of reach.
That didn’t stop Genevieve from trying to grab it.
“Oh God--” she spluttered, through a throat full of her own blood. She tried, in vain, to pull herself up. If nothing else, to stave of asphyxiation for a few more moments. “Oh God, help-- fuck.”
As soon as Genni fell, Pia took a few steps towards her, purely on instinct again. She caught herself halfway through, lingering dumbly between her own discarded bag and Genni’s prone form. What did she even think she was going to do, try to help? There was nothing to be done and no reason to help Genni. Genni wasn’t on her team or Paisley’s. Genni wasn’t her friend.
But this was what it was like to watch someone die and Pia didn’t like it. Matt had been quick. Riley had bled out all alone, without anyone there to see. Genni was on the ground in front of her, choking on her own blood, and Pia might have been tough but she wasn’t cruel.
“Pais-” She spluttered, her eyes meeting Paisley’s as she glanced from Genni to Paisley and back. She couldn’t find the words, but Paisley had to know what she was trying to say: Finish it. Finish her, goddammit Pais, don’t just leave her laying there to suffer like this when you can end it quickly, what is wrong with you?
Paisley didn’t move. She was in shock or something, because of course she was. Of course she had to get an itchy trigger finger and then be unable or unwilling to follow up on it, because Paisley was a Soren, and that meant Pia had to be Jewel here.
Genni coughed and gagged and Pia couldn’t stand listening to it for any longer than she had to, so instead of turning back for her bag and her gun, she closed the distance between them and reached for Genni’s discarded knife.
Genevieve focused her attention on getting her knife. With no feeling in her arms or her legs, getting back to her feet was almost impossible. If she had the knife in her hands, though-- if she could just reach out that much further and grab it-- she had a hope of taking one of them down with her. Avenge at least some of those dead friends.
Genevieve spasmed on the ground, gargling on blood and saliva. What few ragged breaths she could manage were raspy snorts through her nose. Trying to breathe through her mouth just led to more blood coming up. The more she panicked, the more she choked. The more she choked, the more she panicked. Her face was starting to turn purple. Her mouth tasted of copper. Her nose filled with the pungent, sickly-sweet scent of congealing blood.
Choking was a slow, painful way to die. It gave Genevieve some time to take stock. To think of all the people she needed to apologize to. It was a long list. Genevieve got to the second name before the pain became unbearable.
Last ditch attempt.
Going through the motions one last time. Genevieve stretched her aching arm as far as she could extend it. She had to get the knife. It was her last chance to make sure her time on the island meant something. She had to know it wasn’t just for nothing. She had to know she mattered. Everything she went through-- the ghosts, the lucky breaks, the camera rants and announcement singalongs. It had to matter to someone.
Genevieve fought through the pain. The tips of her fingers brushed against the wooden handle. It had to matter.
It had to.
Pia snatched the knife from her grasp. Her last hope, snuffed out in an instant.
Pia picked up the knife and… hesitated. She’d never stabbed anyone before. Of course, before yesterday, she’d never shot anyone before either, but it was easier to figure out where a bullet would be deadly if it hit. She didn’t want to stab Genni in the head, and wasn’t even sure if you could do that, skulls being tough and all.
Genni was still struggling. She looked and sounded gross by now. Some distant part of Pia hoped that it hadn’t been like this for Riley when she’d been bleeding out all alone in the snow.
In the heart was supposed to be quick, right? Or the neck? She was still hesitating. Maybe she was really just as much in shock as Paisley. She could almost hear the cameras zooming in on her face, capturing her inability to act.
Look at poor little Pia, the audience at home was saying. Guess she can’t walk the talk after all.
Genni convulsed. Her bandanna caught Pia’s eye again.
Sorry, Vahka.
She drove the knife down into Genni’s chest.
Genevieve convulsed on the cold ground, wisps of condensation escaping her lungs amidst flecks of congealing blood and puce phlegm, long past the point of struggling for breath. When she opened her mouth to shout a final, defiant curse at her killers, all that escaped her lips was a gargling choke. Genevieve felt disconnected from her body. Like she was somewhere else, watching herself die. Her face had turned a disgusting shade of purple-- matching her swollen trachea. She was covered in blood, all of it her own. Her eyes felt, and looked, like they were about to bulge out of her skull.
Everything faded into dull gray.
It had to matter. All of this suffering. It had to mean something to someone.
Pia said nothing. She brought the knife down into Genni’s chest. Genevieve’s eyes went wide. Her pupils dilated.
With the last of her strength, Genevieve spat blood in Pia’s face.
“I hope you fucking die--” She mouthed.
Pia said nothing.
CS4 GENEVIEVE CORDOVA: DECEASED
And Paisley, wrecked, jumpy Paisley, was holding the bigger gun. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Doubly stupid because letting herself forget meant she didn’t have an action plan in mind in case Paisley did start to crack. She’d been so focused on Genni, who was barely even a threat to two people with guns. No thoughts for Paisley at all, really.
So without a thought for Paisley, without an action plan, she shut down for a few seconds when the gunshot roared out. Almost pissed herself, honestly. Pia dropped her bag, dropped her gun, and jumped away from the sound on instinct, kicking herself the whole time. What the hell would she have done if the gunshot hadn’t belonged to Paisley?
She would have ended up sprawled out on the floor coughing up blood like Genni was, that’s what.
Genevieve’s view on history was beginning to falter even before she felt the bullet tear through her chest.
Any rhyme or reason to the proceedings-- any chance Genevieve had of escaping the conflict unharmed, as she had with Riley and Louise and Jewel-- had vanished the moment she pulled the knife. It was a stupid, impulsive decision. Unlike her last fifty stupid, impulsive decisions, it was going to kill her. History, Genevieve finally realized, was less like rhyming couplets and more like a slam poetry open mic night. Discordant events, lacking continuity or forethought. Looking for patterns, constructing a narrative.
None of it mattered. None of it ever will.
There was nothing heroic or villainous about fighting for your life. Nothing relatable or tragic about being forced to kill your friends. It was all smoke and mirrors, a carefully constructed marketing empire built on their suffering and their death. Heroes and villains where people should have been. Gimmicks and mentors. Pop-starlets and media whores.
Because broken people making broken choices in the face of a broken system was too bitter a pill to swallow.
It took facing her own death for Genevieve to realize that.
Like all the other ardent fans, she was complicit in it. She encouraged it. Too cowardly to live by the sword, she just settled for watching others do it on TV. Now she was dying by the sword, and she neither deserved redemption or wanted it. She just wanted to kill the bitch who was putting her in the ground.
The whip-crack of the carbine finally registered in her brain. The gunshot echoed so loudly in the empty auditorium that Genevieve’s ears rang. For a moment, Genevieve stood- awestruck- and watched the wine-red stains bloom from the jagged hole in her chest. There was a term for it, but Genevieve struggled to recall it. Burgundy barely showed the stains. Genevieve thought of her family. Her real family. It brought her an iota of comfort.
Genevieve swore, loudly.
Or, at least, she attempted to. The resulting sound was somewhere between choking and gargled hissing. Genevieve struggled for air. She coughed into her open hand, and found flecks of blood on her palm.
Lungshot was the term, Genevieve remembered..
She was choking to death on her own blood.
“Shit--” Genevieve spat. This time, it came out clearly.
Genevieve teetered, her balance failing her. Her whole body felt weak. Her death-grip around her knife loosened, her hands clammy from cold and cold sweat, and the blade clattered to the ground with a dull thud.
Genevieve’s knees finally gave way, and she hit the hard ground.
The initial shock subsided, and pain replaced it. All her anger and hurt-- accumulated rage and regret-- dissipated in an instant. That left her with scared. Genevieve was terrified. For all her talk of ghosts and over-worldly presences, Genevieve never really believed in an afterlife. Genevieve always expected to die with dignity. Now, she was clawing for anything that might keep her alive.
Her knife was on the ground beside her. Out of reach.
That didn’t stop Genevieve from trying to grab it.
“Oh God--” she spluttered, through a throat full of her own blood. She tried, in vain, to pull herself up. If nothing else, to stave of asphyxiation for a few more moments. “Oh God, help-- fuck.”
As soon as Genni fell, Pia took a few steps towards her, purely on instinct again. She caught herself halfway through, lingering dumbly between her own discarded bag and Genni’s prone form. What did she even think she was going to do, try to help? There was nothing to be done and no reason to help Genni. Genni wasn’t on her team or Paisley’s. Genni wasn’t her friend.
But this was what it was like to watch someone die and Pia didn’t like it. Matt had been quick. Riley had bled out all alone, without anyone there to see. Genni was on the ground in front of her, choking on her own blood, and Pia might have been tough but she wasn’t cruel.
“Pais-” She spluttered, her eyes meeting Paisley’s as she glanced from Genni to Paisley and back. She couldn’t find the words, but Paisley had to know what she was trying to say: Finish it. Finish her, goddammit Pais, don’t just leave her laying there to suffer like this when you can end it quickly, what is wrong with you?
Paisley didn’t move. She was in shock or something, because of course she was. Of course she had to get an itchy trigger finger and then be unable or unwilling to follow up on it, because Paisley was a Soren, and that meant Pia had to be Jewel here.
Genni coughed and gagged and Pia couldn’t stand listening to it for any longer than she had to, so instead of turning back for her bag and her gun, she closed the distance between them and reached for Genni’s discarded knife.
Genevieve focused her attention on getting her knife. With no feeling in her arms or her legs, getting back to her feet was almost impossible. If she had the knife in her hands, though-- if she could just reach out that much further and grab it-- she had a hope of taking one of them down with her. Avenge at least some of those dead friends.
Genevieve spasmed on the ground, gargling on blood and saliva. What few ragged breaths she could manage were raspy snorts through her nose. Trying to breathe through her mouth just led to more blood coming up. The more she panicked, the more she choked. The more she choked, the more she panicked. Her face was starting to turn purple. Her mouth tasted of copper. Her nose filled with the pungent, sickly-sweet scent of congealing blood.
Choking was a slow, painful way to die. It gave Genevieve some time to take stock. To think of all the people she needed to apologize to. It was a long list. Genevieve got to the second name before the pain became unbearable.
Last ditch attempt.
Going through the motions one last time. Genevieve stretched her aching arm as far as she could extend it. She had to get the knife. It was her last chance to make sure her time on the island meant something. She had to know it wasn’t just for nothing. She had to know she mattered. Everything she went through-- the ghosts, the lucky breaks, the camera rants and announcement singalongs. It had to matter to someone.
Genevieve fought through the pain. The tips of her fingers brushed against the wooden handle. It had to matter.
It had to.
Pia snatched the knife from her grasp. Her last hope, snuffed out in an instant.
Pia picked up the knife and… hesitated. She’d never stabbed anyone before. Of course, before yesterday, she’d never shot anyone before either, but it was easier to figure out where a bullet would be deadly if it hit. She didn’t want to stab Genni in the head, and wasn’t even sure if you could do that, skulls being tough and all.
Genni was still struggling. She looked and sounded gross by now. Some distant part of Pia hoped that it hadn’t been like this for Riley when she’d been bleeding out all alone in the snow.
In the heart was supposed to be quick, right? Or the neck? She was still hesitating. Maybe she was really just as much in shock as Paisley. She could almost hear the cameras zooming in on her face, capturing her inability to act.
Look at poor little Pia, the audience at home was saying. Guess she can’t walk the talk after all.
Genni convulsed. Her bandanna caught Pia’s eye again.
Sorry, Vahka.
She drove the knife down into Genni’s chest.
Genevieve convulsed on the cold ground, wisps of condensation escaping her lungs amidst flecks of congealing blood and puce phlegm, long past the point of struggling for breath. When she opened her mouth to shout a final, defiant curse at her killers, all that escaped her lips was a gargling choke. Genevieve felt disconnected from her body. Like she was somewhere else, watching herself die. Her face had turned a disgusting shade of purple-- matching her swollen trachea. She was covered in blood, all of it her own. Her eyes felt, and looked, like they were about to bulge out of her skull.
Everything faded into dull gray.
It had to matter. All of this suffering. It had to mean something to someone.
Pia said nothing. She brought the knife down into Genni’s chest. Genevieve’s eyes went wide. Her pupils dilated.
With the last of her strength, Genevieve spat blood in Pia’s face.
“I hope you fucking die--” She mouthed.
Pia said nothing.
CS4 GENEVIEVE CORDOVA: DECEASED
Pia stayed kneeling by Genni until the cold really started to get to her. It was a good excuse for why her hand was shaking when she pulled the knife free from Genni's chest, at least.
The rapid white puffs of her breath had steadied, but she still wobbled as she stood back up. Something trickled down her cheek, and her fingers came away red when she wiped it off.
Oh. Right. Genni's last stand.
"Ugh."
She dropped the knife next to Genni's body. She didn't want it. She didn't want to kill anyone else up close, ever again If anything, all of this mess had just given her a renewed appreciation for guns.
And god, what a mess it was.
"Pais..." Pia's fingers might have been turning numb, but the emotional numbness that shock had thrown her into was fading fast. And now?
Now she was pissed.
She rounded on Paisley. "What the hell was that?"
The rapid white puffs of her breath had steadied, but she still wobbled as she stood back up. Something trickled down her cheek, and her fingers came away red when she wiped it off.
Oh. Right. Genni's last stand.
"Ugh."
She dropped the knife next to Genni's body. She didn't want it. She didn't want to kill anyone else up close, ever again If anything, all of this mess had just given her a renewed appreciation for guns.
And god, what a mess it was.
"Pais..." Pia's fingers might have been turning numb, but the emotional numbness that shock had thrown her into was fading fast. And now?
Now she was pissed.
She rounded on Paisley. "What the hell was that?"
Paisley stared at the body for what felt like ages. The blood flowed and it hurt her eyes. Lungshot was an understatement. More like Lungtear. Paisley wanted to stop looking. She couldn't, for the life of her. She only managed to wrench her face away from the body was when Pia spoke.
When Paisley turned, Pia was looking at her. She asked 'what the hell was that'. Pia, the one with the blood on her face, asked Paisley 'what the hell was that'.
"... Wha - What are you looking at me for?"
There was an ounce of vitriol in her voice, unintended but earnest. She stared at Pia as the silence between them built up. Paisley squinted, crossing her arms under her chest. She turned her head.
"It was only a warning shot. I didn't mean to hit her. It was an accident."
For someone who just shot someone by accident, she did not look very broken up. Too busy with the sudden accusation to worry about what just happened.
She wanted to vomit. She wanted to cry. She wished Tucker was here. When the silence grew too much to bear, Paisley turned back, gritted her teeth and threw her hands up.
"Hey, you're the one looking for ten kills! I was just - I-I don't -"
She couldn't talk anymore. She just looked away from Pia and dabbed her eyes with her sleeve.
When Paisley turned, Pia was looking at her. She asked 'what the hell was that'. Pia, the one with the blood on her face, asked Paisley 'what the hell was that'.
"... Wha - What are you looking at me for?"
There was an ounce of vitriol in her voice, unintended but earnest. She stared at Pia as the silence between them built up. Paisley squinted, crossing her arms under her chest. She turned her head.
"It was only a warning shot. I didn't mean to hit her. It was an accident."
For someone who just shot someone by accident, she did not look very broken up. Too busy with the sudden accusation to worry about what just happened.
She wanted to vomit. She wanted to cry. She wished Tucker was here. When the silence grew too much to bear, Paisley turned back, gritted her teeth and threw her hands up.
"Hey, you're the one looking for ten kills! I was just - I-I don't -"
She couldn't talk anymore. She just looked away from Pia and dabbed her eyes with her sleeve.
"We didn't need a warning shot! It was her with a knife against the two of us with guns!" Forget the fiasco from a few minutes ago, what the hell was this now? Paisley was shrinking away from Pia, acting like all of it was her fault, like Pia had been the one to wig out and cause the problem in the first place and not the one who had picked up after her.
"What's the ten got to do with any of this? This isn't about that. This is about you flaking out on me! You shot her, but you can't do it again to finish things? What the hell would you have done if she'd had friends around with better weapons than her, huh? You gonna stand there and let both of us get shot for it!?" Pia's voice was getting steadily louder as she spoke, her anger and frustration and horror at what had just happened boiling over as she unloaded it all on Paisley.
"I can't just go around cleaning up your messes, you know that right?"
"What's the ten got to do with any of this? This isn't about that. This is about you flaking out on me! You shot her, but you can't do it again to finish things? What the hell would you have done if she'd had friends around with better weapons than her, huh? You gonna stand there and let both of us get shot for it!?" Pia's voice was getting steadily louder as she spoke, her anger and frustration and horror at what had just happened boiling over as she unloaded it all on Paisley.
"I can't just go around cleaning up your messes, you know that right?"